When Hate Turns to Dirty Desire

Introduction: Eric Carter’s Confession

Let me tell you something about the adult entertainment industry—nobody ends up here by accident. At least, not the ones who last. I know that better than most. My name is Eric Carter, and three years ago, I was just another burned-out filmmaker grinding away on indie projects that went nowhere. Then one night, drunk and frustrated, I filmed myself with an ex-girlfriend—just raw, unfiltered passion, the kind most directors overthink into oblivion. That video, uploaded on a whim, changed everything.

Now? I’ve got a Pornhub channel with six-figure subscribers, sponsorships from sex toy companies, and the kind of creative freedom most artists kill for. And the best part? I don’t even have to try. My improv skills, my rough-but-charming smile, the way I make partners lose control on camera—it comes naturally.

Which is exactly why she can’t stand me.

Marian Alexander.

Former A-lister. Perfectionist. Fallen star.

And now, my favorite obsession.

Obsession Begins with a Whisper

The first time I noticed her watching my streams, it wasn’t obvious. Just a lingering username in the chat—no comments, no likes, but always there. Always. I might not have cared if it weren’t for who she was. Marian Alexander wasn’t just another performer; she was legendary. Flawless angles, calculated moves, the kind of precision that turned sex into high art.

Which made it even funnier when her career crashed.

Now? She streams, too. Small audience. Meticulous setups. Zero spontaneity.

And apparently, a burning hatred for me.

So I decided to fuck with her.

On my next family porns livestream, I grinned at the camera and said, "This one’s dedicated to someone special—hope you’re taking notes." Then I pulled my partner’s hair just a little too hard, making her yelp and moan, and came on her face with a messy groan.

The username disappeared from my viewer list immediately.

Her DM hit an hour later.

"Unprofessional."

I replied: "Real. That’s why they love it."

Silence.

Then, a week later—her own family porns stream, shooting herself with robotic precision. At the end, staring dead into the lens: "Some of us care about craft."

That’s when I knew this wasn’t just rivalry.

It was foreplay.

Filming Together: The First Time

The collab was her idea—probably to prove she could out-perform me. The script? A family porns scenario with me as the dad who catches her, the "stepdaughter," masturbating. Classic.

But the second the cameras rolled, I threw the script out.

I pushed her against the wall instead of fake-lecturing her. Bit her neck instead of asking questions. She gasped—actually gasped—and for the first time, that perfect control wavered.

"You’re ruining the scene," she hissed.

I laughed, palming her breasts roughly. "No, I’m making it better."

She came untouched when I growled "Beg for it" in her ear.

Later, in editing, she insisted we reshoot.

I leaked the raw footage instead.

Her cum on face moment—eyes fluttering, lips parted—got more likes than her last ten videos combined.

Breaking her Down Again and Again

After that, it was war.

She’d film delicate, artistic scenes—slow buildup, whispered dialogue.

I’d respond with something filthy.

Once, she uploaded a sensual family porns solo with candles and soft lighting.

I countered with a double-penetration collab where I came on two faces, winking at her username in the comments.

Her next video? She had a cum on face finish—but it was neat, calculated, like she’d practiced in the mirror.

I dripped fucking syrup onto my partner’s face in my next upload, laughed, and titled it "Marian’s Breakfast."

We were trending within hours.

The Turning Point

The night she showed up at my apartment unannounced, I knew I’d won.

She wore a trench coat, naked beneath. No words. Just shoved me onto the couch, climbed onto my lap, and rode me like she was trying to erase every other woman I’d been with.

I let her—until I flipped her over, forced her ass up, and fucked her raw.

"Tell me you hate it," I taunted.

Her moan was a sob.

When I came—not on her face, but inside—she clawed at the cushions and came harder than any of her scripted performances.

After, panting, she whispered: "You ruin everything."

I kissed her. "You love it."

The Morning After

I woke up to the scent of her shampoo—something expensive, floral, clinical. Like everything about Marian. She was already dressed, standing by my window, sipping black coffee while scrolling through analytics on her phone. The sheets were cold where she’d been.

"You’re trending," she said, not looking at me. "Our… unplanned collaboration got 400K overnight."

I stretched, grinning. "See? I told you—they like it messy."

Her knuckles went white around the mug. "It’s not sustainable. You can’t build a brand on—"

"On making you cum so hard you cried?" I sat up, letting the sheet fall. "Because the metrics say otherwise."

For the first time, her polished mask slipped. A flush crept up her neck. She set the mug down too hard. "We need rules."

I laughed. "You wanna script us now?"

The Rules And How I Broke Them Immediately

Rule 1: No unplanned orgasms on camera.
Broke it during our next family porns shoot when I ignored her choreography and licked her until she sobbed through three back-to-back climaxes.

Rule 2: No facial finishes without prior discussion.
Broke it by "accidentally" slipping during a BJ scene, painting her perfect makeup with thick stripes. The cum on face clip went viral as a meme.

Rule 3: No improv.
Broke it by live-streaming us "arguing" until she shoved me onto the bed—only for viewers to realize her "anger fuck" was 100% real.

The New Audience Demand

Her fans turned rabid. Comments flooded in:
"Marian’s finally enjoying herself 😍"
"Eric owns that ass now"
"SHE LET HIM CUMMMM ON HER FACE AGAIN OMFG"

Worst of all? Her engagement doubled.

She hated it.

She hated how much she loved hating it.

The Breakthrough

The night she begged, I recorded it.

Not for content—for me.

She was on her knees on my bedroom floor, still in her blazer from a meeting, mascara running. "Please," she whispered, and it shattered something in both of us.

I made her say it again.

Again.

When I finally gave in, coming on her face while gripping her hair, she didn’t wipe it off. Just looked up at me with something worse than defeat: gratitude.

Now

Now? We still feud online.

But every Sunday night, her camera mysteriously cuts off early.

And my favorite cum on face videos?

The ones where she thinks she’s in control… right until the moment she isn’t.

Marian Alexander might never admit she’s addicted to me.

But her body knows the truth.