Life is funny. A cosmic joke where you never quite know if you're the punchline or just a of the setup. I met the love of my life when I was seventeen, a junior at Westlake High with nothing but uncrushed dreams and a heart too big for my chest.
Lana Blake.
Even her name felt like poetry on my tongue. She was sunshine in human form, blonde hair that caught the light like a halo, a laugh that made the world stop spinning, and eyes that saw right through my bullshit. We were inseparable for those two golden years. First love, first real kiss, first everything.
"Fuck me harder! Oh god, yes, RIGHT THERE!"
I adjust the volume on the TV, my hand never stopping its rhythm. On screen, Lana, professional name "Lana Lust" is arched back against some muscled guy, her expression pure ecstasy. It's surreal watching the girl who once blushed when I held her hand now taking a pounding like a champion, begging for more.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
After graduation, I got an acceptance letter to my first choice out-of-state college. My ticket out of our small town, the future my parents had sacrificed everything for. Lana got offered a modeling gig. Not the high fashion kind, the kind that made my stomach twist with jealousy even back then.
"We could try long distance," she'd suggested, those beautiful eyes already mourning what we both knew would die a slow death.
"I don't want us to resent each other," I'd said, playing the mature card while secretly terrified she'd find someone better. "Maybe when I'm done with school..."
"Oh my GOD! I'm cumming! I'm CUMMING!"
My hand speeds up involuntarily as on-screen Lana shudders through an orgasm that looks anything but fake. I know her real ones. This is real. That knowledge is both the knife and the wound.
The truth is, I'd hoped she'd wait for me. Not officially, I wasn't that selfish, but in that secret place in my heart where fairy tales still made sense. I'd imagined coming home after four years, finding her still there, maybe working at the local salon or taking community college classes. We'd pick up where we left off, older and wiser but still us.
Instead, I lost touch with her. Social media updates became less frequent, then stopped altogether. I dated other girls, smart, ambitious women who made sense on paper. None of them were Lana.
Then life threw its punchline at me. Four years of busting my ass for a computer science degree, only to graduate into an industry imploding under the weight of its own innovation. Artificial intelligence. The buzzword that became my career's death sentence. It turns out that all those coding jobs I'd been eyeing were now being handled by programs that could write themselves. The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd helped build the very systems that would make me obsolete.
"Take it all, baby! You want this cock? Tell me how much you fucking want it!"
"I need it so bad! Please don't stop! Harder!"
I bite my lip, adjusting my grip as I watch Lana's latest scene. Her co-star has her bent over some gaudy couch, her face contorted in pleasure that makes my chest ache. I know that expression. Used to be mine alone.
Three months of desperate job hunting later, I packed up my studio apartment in Seattle and drove back to my parents' place. Twenty-three years old with a useless degree and nothing to show for it but student debt. The prodigal son returns, not with wisdom but with failure.
It was a Tuesday when the universe decided to play another card. Cereal aisle, Kroger's, 2 PM. I was debating between Cheerios and something that would probably give me cancer when I heard her voice.
"Adam? Oh my god, Adam!"
And there she was. Lana Blake, somehow more beautiful than my memories. Her hair was shorter now, falling just past her shoulders, and she was dressed in simple jeans and a sweater that couldn't hide the figure that had made her famous in certain circles of the internet.
"Holy shit," I managed, a box of Captain Crunch frozen in my hand. "Lana."
She threw herself into my arms with such force I nearly toppled into a display of Pop-Tarts. She smelled like vanilla and something uniquely her, a scent that bypassed my brain and went straight to my heart.
"You're back! When did you get back? Are you staying?" The questions tumbled out between breathless laughs.
"Yeah, I... the tech industry kind of collapsed on itself. AI revolution and all that." I tried to sound casual, like moving back in with my parents at twenty-three was all part of some master plan.
"Fuck! Yes! Give me that big dick! I'm your dirty little slut!"
My palm slips around my shaft as I remember what happened next in that Kroger's aisle, the memory so vivid it blurs with the pornographic scene playing before me.
"I've missed you every single day," she'd said, right there between the cereal and the granola bars. Her eyes welled up, mascara threatening to run even back then. "I've tried to move on, date other guys, but they're not you, Adam. None of them are you."
In that grocery store, she'd grabbed my hands, not caring who saw. "Please tell me you're single. Please tell me I haven't missed my chance."
"I'm single," I'd admitted, feeling suddenly self-conscious about my wrinkled t-shirt and the box of discount cereal in my cart.
"Then take me back," she'd whispered, her voice breaking. "I know it's crazy and impulsive, and we're different people now, but I never stopped loving you. I tried, God knows I tried, but you're it for me, Adam."
My heart had practically exploded. Here was my high school dream girl, the one who got away, begging me to be with her again. It felt like cosmic justice, like maybe the universe wasn't just playing a cruel joke on me after all.
"Yes," I'd said without hesitation. "Of course, yes."
That's when her expression shifted. Relief, yes, but also something else. Fear.
"There's just one thing you should know," she'd said, pulling me toward the less-trafficked baking aisle. "I'm not exactly working as a model anymore. Or, well, I am, but not the kind I told you about back then."
"Yes! Yes! Fuck me like you own me! I'm all yours!"
"I do adult films," she continued, voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm a porn actress. A successful one, actually." Her eyes had searched mine, looking for disgust or judgment.
I stood there frozen, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Porn. Lana, my Lana, was a pornstar.
I sat in front of her, completely stunned. This was beyond even my wildest thoughts of what was possible.
"Adam?" Her voice cracked. Tears welled up in those ocean-blue eyes, threatening to spill over. "Say something. Please."
"Fill me up! I want to feel you explode inside me!"
"Please, Adam," she whispered, gripping my forearm. "I know it's a lot to process. I know it's weird, but I swear I'm still me. The real me. The one who loved you more than anything." A tear escaped, tracking mascara down her cheek. "I want you back so badly it physically hurts. Just... one chance. That's all I'm asking for."
Something in my chest constricted painfully. Those tears—they were real. The same ones I'd wiped away when her dog died senior year, when she didn't get into her dream school, when we said goodbye at the airport.
"Lana, I..."
"Deeper! Oh god!"
She must have seen the hesitation in my eyes because she stepped closer, not caring about the curious glances from an elderly couple browsing cake mixes.
"We can figure it out," she promised desperately. "Whatever boundaries you need. I just... I can't lose you again when the universe just gave us this second chance."
How do you say no to the only person who ever made your soul feel complete? How do you walk away from those eyes, that voice, that history? You don't. You fucking can't. Even at that moment, I knew she was my one and only.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "Let's... let's try."
The relief that washed over her face was like watching the sun break through storm clouds. She threw her arms around my neck, burying her face against my chest.
"Thank you," she whispered against my shirt. "I promise you won't regret it."
That was six months ago. Now I'm living with a pornstar, my pornstar girlfriend, in her surprisingly modest two-bedroom house on the outskirts of town. The same town I'd been so desperate to escape now feels like exactly where I'm supposed to be.
"I'm coming! Fill me up!" On-screen, Lana screams as her co-star grunts and shudders.
The sight of another man finishing inside my girlfriend sends me over the edge. I grip myself harder, my body tensing as my own release hits with blissful intensity. A strangled moan escapes my throat as I watch Lana's face contort in that familiar way, eyes crossing, lips parted.
"Fuck!" I gasp, riding the wave of pleasure. The guilt and disgust slowly take over while I reach for the tissues.
The shrill beeping of the oven timer cuts through my post-orgasm depression like a knife.
"Shit, shit, shit!" I scramble up, hastily wiping myself off and yanking my sweatpants back up. I sprint toward the kitchen, nearly slipping on the hardwood floor in my sock feet. The lasagna, Lana's favorite, can't burn. Not tonight.
I grab the oven mitts and rescue the perfectly golden dish. I set it on the cooling rack and check the time. Lana will be home in thirty minutes, just enough time to shower off my guilt and set the table.
It's still surreal sometimes, this life I've fallen into. When we moved in together, I'd planned to find a job right away, even something like a convenient store clerk. Just to contribute something beyond just my presence. But Lana had other ideas.
"Adam, be honest, did you ever actually like coding?" she'd asked one night as we lay in bed, her head on my chest.
"I liked the idea of it," I admitted. "The stability, the paycheck."
She'd propped herself up on one elbow, those blue eyes serious in the dim light. "What if you didn't have to worry about that? What if you could just... take some time off?"
That conversation changed everything. Within a week, she'd paid off my student loans, all $96,000 of them, like it was nothing more than ordering takeout.
"Consider it an investment in our future," she'd said, kissing away my protests.
So here I am, practically a house husband at twenty-four despite us not being married. I cook meals I learned from YouTube tutorials, keep our modest home spotless, and handle the minutiae of daily life so Lana can focus on her career. I even write a little fan fiction on the side. Lana loves to be my beta reader.
The arrangement works. She makes more in a single scene than I could in months at an entry-level tech job. Why fight it? Still, I'd be lying if I said it didn't sting sometimes, watching her leave for work some mornings, knowing exactly what she's doing but not knowing who she'll be doing it with.
I step into the shower, letting hot water wash away the evidence of my afternoon activities. That's the dirty little secret of our perfect arrangement. When Lana is away, I'm at home watching her previous work, getting off to the sight of my girlfriend being ravished by strangers.
"Please don't watch my videos," she'd begged the first month we were together. "It'll just hurt you, and that's not me. That's just work."
I'd agreed, of course. What kind of masochist would I be otherwise?
But curiosity is a powerful thing. One night while she was away on a two-day shoot, I found myself typing her professional name into a search engine. The results were overwhelming. Hundreds of videos, millions of views.
The first video I clicked was titled "Lana Lust Takes BBC For The First Time." I nearly threw up watching the opening minutes. The jealousy was physical like someone had reached into my chest and was squeezing my heart with brutal force.
But something strange happened as I kept watching. The nausea faded, replaced by a confusing, electrifying heat. Each video became easier to watch than the last. My disgust transformed into a dark fascination that I couldn't explain even to myself.
That's the thing no one tells you about love, sometimes it takes forms you never expected, twists into shapes you don't recognize. What started as torture evolved into my shameful secret pleasure. I'd wait until Lana was out, then lock the door and lose myself in her professional performances. I told myself it was just to feel connected to her when she was away, but the truth was darker, more complicated.
These days, I find myself searching for her more intense scenes, like the gangbang ones where she takes three or four men at once, her body writhing between them as she moans and screams. Sometimes I watch her scenes with other women, studying how they touch her, how they make her toes curl.
It's fucked up, I know. But I've stopped fighting it. This strange voyeuristic pleasure has become part of our relationship, even if she doesn't know it.
When I finish cumming I usually come back to my senses for a while. That's when the horror of it all briefly sets in. It's not easy.
I turn off the shower and grab a towel, my skin still flushed from both the hot water and my earlier activities. I hear the front door open just as I'm drying off.
"Adam? I'm home early!"
I quickly wrap the towel around my waist and run a hand through my damp hair. When I step out of the bathroom, there she is, my pornstar girlfriend, looking nothing like her on-screen persona. She's wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, a small shopping bag dangling from her wrist. No makeup, no stilettos, no seductive pout. Just Lana, my Lana.
She's perfect even like this.
Her face lights up when she sees me, those blue eyes widening with a joy so genuine it makes my chest ache. She practically sprints across our living room, throwing herself into my arms with such enthusiasm that my towel nearly comes undone.
"Adam, I missed you so much," she whispers against my neck, planting soft kisses on my still-damp skin. Her lips find mine, and the kiss is sweet, innocent, almost nothing like what I'd been watching earlier.
She pulls back, her nose wrinkling slightly as she inhales. "You're so clean, Adam." There's something almost reverent in her voice like my shower-fresh scent is the most incredible thing she's encountered all day.
I chuckle as she continues sniffing me, her nose trailing along my collarbone. At first, I think it's just her being affectionate, maybe even a little turned on by my damp, freshly-showered state. But then her head suddenly perks up, exactly like our neighbor's golden retriever when it hears the word "treat," a smile spreading wide across her face.
"Did you cook lasagna?" she asks, her voice rising with each word, blue eyes wide with hope and excitement.
I can't help but smile at her childlike enthusiasm. "Yes."
Before I can say another word, she's gone, sprinting toward the kitchen like an Olympic athlete, leaving me standing there in just my towel. I follow behind at a more reasonable pace, adjusting my towel to make sure I don't end up giving an unexpected show.
By the time I reach the kitchen, she's standing over the cooling rack, hands clasped under her chin, staring at the lasagna like it's a religious artifact.
"Oh my God, it looks so good," she breathes, and I swear I can see tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
"Go sit down," I tell her, gently nudging her toward the dining room. "I'll serve you some."
She turns to me. Her lower lip trembles slightly.
"Adam," she says, her voice cracking with emotion, "I really, really love you."
"I love you too, Lana," I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.