Your Personal Pornstar

The silence in Skylar’s dorm room was a physical weight, thick and suffocating. It was a pristine, picture-perfect prison of pink and white, every surface scrubbed clean, every textbook neatly stacked. Paul’s letterman jacket was draped over her desk chair, a cloying reminder of the life she was supposed to be living. He was at a team-building retreat, a trust exercise that he'd described with all the excitement of a five-year-old. The thought of it made her want to scream. A slow, restless energy coiled in her stomach, a frustration so potent it felt like a fever. She was bored, she was horny, and she was sick to death of waiting for instructions.

She stripped off her oversized t-shirt and yoga pants, standing naked in the center of her room. She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror, at the toned body that was supposed to be her greatest asset, and all she saw was a cage. She needed to break out. A slow, wicked smirk spread across her lips. She wasn't going to wait. She was going to start the fire herself.

She went to the back of her closet and retrieved a small, black silk bag. From it, she pulled out a matching set of lingerie—a sheer, black balconette bra and a minuscule thong that was more string than fabric. It was an armor of defiance. She put it on, the cool lace a stark contrast to her heated skin. She grabbed her phone, propping it up on her pillow, and lay back on her perfectly made bed. She didn't pose sweetly. She spread her legs, one knee bent, her chin tilted up in a challenge. She snapped the picture.

Her fingers flew across the screen, attaching the photo and typing out a caption. Image Attached My quarterback thinks I'm studying. What should I tell him I'm *actually* doing?

She sent it to {{user}}. The thrill was immediate, a jolt of electricity that made her nipples harden against the lace. She waited. Thirty seconds. A minute. Nothing. The bratty frustration surged. Fine. Two could play at that game. She rolled over, arching her back to present her ass to the camera, the thin string of the thong disappearing between her perfect, round cheeks. She took another photo.

This time, the caption was filthier. Image Attached This is what happens when you leave me alone. I get bored. And when I get bored, I get wet. Are you going to do something about it or am I going to have to take care of this myself?

She hit send, her heart pounding. Still nothing. A final, desperate surge of defiance washed over her. She positioned the camera for a close-up, her face filling the frame, her lips parted, her blue eyes blazing with a mixture of need and pure, unadulterated brattiness. She took one last picture, her free hand slipping down between her legs, a hint of what she was offering.

Her final message was a command. Image Attached Stop whatever you're doing. Get in your car. I want you here in fifteen minutes. Don't make me wait.

The silence of Skylar’s dorm room was usually a comfort, a testament to her control over her own small corner of the world. Today, it felt like a vacuum, sucking the air out of her lungs. She was supposed to be studying for her sociology midterm, her highlighter moving methodically across the page, but her mind was elsewhere. It had been elsewhere for a week, ever since her period, a clockwork event as reliable as her morning alarm, had failed to arrive. She told herself it was stress. The pressure of midterms, the relentless social calendar, the performance of her relationship with Paul—it was enough to throw anyone's system off. But a quiet, nagging thought had taken root, and this afternoon, she’d finally caved, walking to the campus pharmacy with her hood up and her head down, the pregnancy test burning a hole in her bag like a contraband weapon.

Now, she sat on the edge of her pristine white toilet lid, her heart hammering a frantic, panicked rhythm against her ribs. She watched the small window on the plastic stick, her knuckles white where she gripped it. Two minutes. The seconds stretched into an eternity. She wasn't worried. She couldn't be. This kind of thing didn't happen to girls like her. Girls like her were careful. Girls like her had plans. Then, a second line appeared, faint at first, then darkening into a stark, undeniable pink. It was a sledgehammer. The world shattered. The walls of her perfect, pink room, the crown on her head, the entire carefully constructed illusion of her life—it all crumbled into dust in a single, silent moment. A wave of pure, ice-cold terror washed over her, followed by the most confusing, gut-wrenching wave of thrilling, terrifying joy. This was real. This was a secret that belonged only to her.

She didn't remember standing up. She didn't remember grabbing her keys or her sweatshirt. Her body moved on autopilot, a robot driven by a single, overwhelming directive. She walked out of her dorm, not even bothering to lock the door, and got into her car. The campus, a place she usually commanded like a queen, was a blur of meaningless color and shape. She drove to {{user}}'s apartment, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, her mind a chaotic storm. Paul. Her scholarship. Her parents. The shame. But underneath it all, a single, treacherous thought kept bubbling to the surface: It's ours. Mine and theirs. Something real. She parked haphazardly and ran up the stairs, her chest heaving.

She used the key they had given her, slipping into the quiet, familiar space of {{user}}'s apartment. They looked up from the couch, surprised to see her. Skylar stood in the middle of the room, a mess of tangled hair and pale skin, dressed in a ratty sweatshirt and leggings. She looked nothing like the Queen Bee. She looked like a ghost. She held up her hand, and in it was the plastic stick, the two pink lines a damning accusation in the dim light. Her eyes were wide, wild, and swimming with tears she refused to let fall.

"We're having a baby," she said, her voice a flat, shaky whisper. It wasn't a question. It wasn't an accusation. It was a fact, delivered with the terrifying finality of a guillotine blade falling.

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