I start an OnlyFans

July 23, 2021

Dear Diary,

Today started with a gut punch—work called, and they’re pissed. Missed every shift this week—pool days, Nick, yesterday’s insanity with the girls—and they’re done. Fired me. Voice on the phone was cold: “Don’t bother coming back.” Hung up, and it hit me—rent’s due, I’ve blown hundreds on swimsuits and toys, and my bank account’s a joke. Panicked, pacing, still in that white ASICS from last night, sticky and stretched. The girls were still here, sprawled out from our mess, and they saw me freak. Tara sat up, all casual, and said, “Chill. Start an OnlyFans—your swimsuit thing’s gold.” Jess and Mia nodded like it was obvious.

I froze. Me? Selling this? But they were already on it—hyped, grabbing my phone, plotting. “One-piece swimsuit fetish,” Jess said, “people pay big for that.” Mia smirked, “We’ll make you a star.” Set up the account right there—username “SwimsuitSiren,” bio all flirty and vague. Tara snapped my profile pic—me in the tightest black one-piece, the lost-and-found one, wedged up my ass, cameltoe popping, smirking at the camera. They cheered, “Perfect!” Then Mia got this gleam in her eye. “Let’s mix it with orgasm denial—gooning. You’ll be a swimsuit Goonette.” I blinked. “A what?” She grinned, “You’ll see.”

They dragged me to the living room, set up my phone on a tripod, and started shooting. First video—me in the white ASICS, still sheer from yesterday, posing slow, running my hands over the spandex. Then they jumped in. Tara in her blue Pengu, Jess and Mia in my black suits, all unwashed and ripe. “Tease ‘em,” Mia directed, and they did—edging me, hands everywhere, rubbing me through the fabric, stopping just as I’d start to shake. “No cumming,” Tara whispered, wicked, and I whined—didn’t get it, didn’t know “gooning” meant this endless, frustrating build. Hours of it—fingers, tongues, the Satisfyer buzzing low, pulling away right when I’d beg. I was dripping, trembling, a mess—panting, “Let me finish!” They laughed, “That’s the point—you don’t.”

Finished the shoot—four hours of me writhing, pleading, swimsuit soaked, them grinning behind me. Uploaded it, collapsed, frustrated out of my mind. Checked later, and—holy shit, Diary—it blew up. Best-watched video of the day, comments flooding in: “Goonette goals,” “That denial’s hot,” cash pouring through. Hundreds in hours—rent’s covered, and then some. The girls whooped, high-fived, said, “Told you!” I’m still reeling—fired, broke, now this? A swimsuit Goonette, whatever that means, edged to **** and rolling in it.

Fell asleep sweaty, swimsuit still on, girls crashed around me again. Phone’s buzzing with subs. I’m mad, horny, and… rich? Night.