Onlyfans Olympian

A/N:

This is my other submission for the Yay Team 2025 writing challenge! It's based on the story of a real person, reported in the news. But of course I've taken artistic license to change various details.

This is a slow-burn erotic romance. If you really don't like longer stories, you should probably skip. (I promise the payoff is worth it though!)

The narrator's voice is unflinchingly British. There might be some minor confusion for those of you living across the pond. Sorry about that in advance X)

Thanks very much to @Kumquatqueen for beta-reading and giving some very helpful suggestions!

- Z

============

I contemplated manslaughter, not for the first time that day.

Standing in Cameron's small studio--bare chest out, jeans slung low--I tried not to feel like a right muppet. A voice in my mind kept screaming that I'd wandered onto the set of a dodgy calendar shoot. Cameron was doing his thing with the lens, head tilted, fingers fiddling with some little dial like it mattered.

I hated this. Not in the I feel silly way. No--this was proper, bone-deep hate. I hated the lighting, too soft and too warm. I hated how the denim stuck to my thighs. Hated the way I felt like a preened boytoy, posing for the camera like a cheap tart in a Topman ad.

Cameron sighed, finally lifting his head. "Could you, I don't know... smile a little?"

Christ, it got on my nerves how he pronounced every syllable down to a tee. He sounded like a posh grammar school wanker who drank too much chamomile tea.

"You've got that look like you're about to chew someone's ear off," he continued.

"Maybe I am," I muttered. "No promises."

He sighed again, letting it drop, thin lips pressed to a line. His gaze returned to the screen of the tripod-mounted camera as he adjusted the lens for the umpteenth time. I watched him, not bothering to hide my glower.

OnlyFans hadn't been my first idea. It hadn't been my tenth, either. It hadn't been on the bloody list at all, until some friend-of-a-friend had mentioned how their younger sister was raking in ten thousand quid a month. All for a few bloody feet pics a day. Christ knew I could use that kind of cash flow--I'd been off the Olympic roster for more than two years, and at thirty-four, I wasn't pulling sponsors like I used to. For a while I'd scraped by on contract renewals and old royalties--until some fresh-faced lad with abs like polished marble came along and dazzled the cameras with a smile.

That was it for me. Chucked aside like expired milk.

I'd had to take decisive action. Having dropped out of uni to do diving full-time, I had no marketable skills to speak of. All I had to offer was the body I'd spent honing six days a week for the past decade and a half. It might not be as smooth or cut as it used to, but underneath the rough parts, I could still pass for a Greek god.

When I first reached out to Cameron to set up this whole harebrained scheme, I'd thought the idea was tolerable, if not ideal. I'd modelled before. And a photo was what it was, didn't matter if you were selling to Calvin Klein or... others. But now, standing before the camera, I found the notion unbearable. Like I was nothing more than sleazy tabloid fodder.

"Try relaxing the brow a bit," Cameron said, eyes still on the screen. "You've got a good face. No need to strangle it."

I scowled at him briefly as the camera clicked one, twice, thrice. I felt like a hairy sausage on display at the local butcher.

"I'll bloody strangle something alright," I muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

Unfortunately he didn't take the bait. Merely twisted his mouth in a small frown, eyes unreadable, as he pressed a button on the side of the camera.

Bloody insufferable man. For the last half an hour I'd been spoiling to wipe that placid look off his face. Make him stop talking for a second like bloody Queen Elizabeth. Make him say something--anything--just so I could snap and let out the snarl I'd been holding back all day. Instead he just pointed toward the backdrop again, infuriatingly calm, leaving my murderous thoughts to stew unspoken.

"Chin up. Eyes on me."

I shifted, jaw clenched, feeling every bit a complete twat. Christ, this was torture. It felt like I'd been standing for hours. My stomach was doing that thing it does right before a meet--organs turned inside out, breath caught somewhere behind the ribs. Every part of me itched to move. To do. Dive. Train. Leg it back to the tube station.

It all felt so... fake. Posing, preening. Standing there with my tits out like I was auditioning for Love Island: Washed-Up Edition. I wasn't built for this rubbish. I was a diver. I knew precision. Grit. Pain. I'd thrown myself off platforms in winter rain, cracked ribs in training, puked from nerves in locker rooms. I'd shed blood, sweat, and tears to be a proud member of Team GB. Not some whore with a ring light and a selfie stick.

Cameron set the camera down on a nearby desk with a soft thud. Belatedly I realised he hadn't taken any photos in the last couple of minutes. I shifted uneasily as he looked at me properly now, calm, expressionless, piercing.

"Why'd you ask me to help with this, Ed?"

I hadn't expected to hear the soft edge of steel in his voice. That, at least, pierced my foul mood a little. Letting out a breath, I forced myself to meet his gaze, staring deep into vivid blue eyes.

If I was going to do this, I'd reasoned, I needed someone I could trust. Not a creeper who was going to get artsy with my arse. Cameron, at least, was someone I vaguely remembered from uni. Back then, he'd seemed decent enough. Kept to himself. We'd never been best mates, but I'd clocked him as a proper bloke--good and honest, if somewhat aloof and eccentric.

I'd come across him on LinkedIn a couple weeks ago, as I sat searching for leads. In the years since we'd last spoken, he'd done well for himself, making a name as a freelance photographer. Looking at the portfolio on his site, I'd decided he had the chops to do the job clean. And when I'd reached out, he'd agreed to an initial consultation, free of charge.

Still, I didn't say any of that. I just shrugged, not quite meeting his eye. "Figured you'd make it look less like wank fodder. More like... I don't know. A portrait or something."

He nodded slowly. "Then let me do that. Stop trying to fight it. Just be."

I rolled my eyes. But I followed the instruction. More out of stubbornness than faith.

---

It felt like hours later when he finally lowered the lens for good. He'd put me through more poses than I could count. I sat down heavily, touching a hand to my neck. Although I'd spent most of the session standing still, I'd ended it surprisingly sweaty. I towelled off and put on a clean tee.

"You've got a good look, when you're not scowling," he said, tone flat and clinical, like he was dissecting a corpse. "The beard and chest hair work well with the physique."

I raised a brow. "You trying to pull me, or sell me?"

Cameron didn't blink. "Just saying. I can work with that." He turned away, stowing his camera.

We moved to Cameron's tiny kitchenette, where he flipped open a laptop and pulled up a series of thumbnails--photos of men in every variety of seductive mood. I thought we'd been adventurous today, but I quickly realized Cameron had kept things extremely vanilla. Some of the photos were artful, studio-lit, barely suggestive. Others were sweat-drenched, lip-bitten, all abs and oil and come-hither smirks that made my hackles rise.

"We should talk tone," he said calmly. "For future sessions. What kind of image are you comfortable selling?"

I crossed my arms, gripping my shirt, the fabric balled in one fist. "Not that," I said, pointing at a photo of some bloke sprawled across silk sheets like a bloody centrefold.

"Too theatrical?"

"Too wank bank."

Cameron gave a neutral nod. "Right. No wank bank."

I tried to lean casually against the wall, but it came off more like I was bracing for a punch. "Let's make a list, yeah? No full nudity. No bending over. No baby-oil glisten. No fuck-me eyes." I paused, thinking. "No kinks." I spat that last word with venom.

Cameron scribbled notes on a pad. "Tasteful and stylish, got it. What about implied nudity?" He pulled up a picture of a man wrapped in a towel, standing at a fogged-up window. Bare chest. Hips just hidden. The kind of image you'd see in a perfume ad--moody, masculine, intentionally vague.

My eyes narrowed. "That depends. Is he about to step out of the shower, or is he waiting for his next client?"

Cameron's lips quirked--barely. "So you're open to implication, but not performance."

"I'm open to not looking like a tart."

He nodded again, unphased. "What about movement? Athletic shots? Stretching, diving poses, action blur?"

That gave me pause. I could already picture it--something halfway between a Nike ad and an old training montage. Me in motion, muscles taut, captured mid-kick or twist. That... didn't feel humiliating. That felt real.

"Yeah. That's more my speed."

Cameron wrote it down with a thoughtful nod.

Over the next hour, we gradually sorted through the assortment of photos and styles. Narrowing down exactly what I would and wouldn't do. By the end, we'd settled on a strategy. Rugged, masculine, physical. Hearing him describe it to me, in that quiet voice, I felt myself coming around to the idea once again. I'd present myself as an athlete--relentless, unyielding. A celebration of who I was, rather than a shaming.

It sounded almost too good to be true.

---

Before I left, Cameron stopped me with a touch to my shoulder.

"I know today wasn't easy for you, Ed." He seemed especially serious, even for him. "But I'm excited to work with you going forward."

His sincerity threw me for a loop. Even then I'd been entertaining thoughts of writing the whole thing off. But something in his eyes stirred my resolve for this whole crackpot idea.

And... he had been professional. Quiet. Focused. No lingering stares, no weird comments, no taking the piss out of me. Just the job. Most of all, I knew--deep down, under the piss and vinegar--that he was doing me a favour. That this whole shoot was a lifeline. Even if I felt like a cock-up for even considering it.

Reluctantly, I swallowed the lump in my throat, and tried for cordial. "Right," I said. "Grand. When's our next session, then?"

---

I showed up again to his studio the following Monday afternoon, shortly after lunch. As I kicked off my shoes, Cameron pulled me aside to show me the photos he'd printed out.

I didn't expect much. Bit of awkward posing, maybe a few shots that looked halfway decent if you squinted. At best, something I could stomach putting behind a paywall. I braced myself for that familiar kick of shame.

Instead, I found myself quietly impressed.

There was one where I looked off to the side, jaw set, beard catching the light. Another where my back was half-turned, muscles taut under shadow, like something out of a bloody cologne ad. Printed properly. On glossy, heavyweight paper. Like it belonged in a fine art gallery.

No, they weren't just not-bad. They were... striking. They made me look like someone else. Like a man I hadn't thought I was in a long, long time. I felt something twist in my gut. Pride? Grief? I couldn't tell. Last week, Cameron had promised me he'd make it tasteful, stylish. I reckoned he'd delivered in full.

As my fingertips brushed the photos, I felt Cameron's gaze on me. Thoughtful, considering.

"What do you think?" he asked.

I swallowed. "They're alright," I said.

"They're a start, Ed. I know you can do better."

That jolted me. I let out a breath, more scoff than laugh. Bold words, I thought. Somehow he'd said exactly the right thing to set off my competitive streak. Now I wanted to make him eat those words.

"You want me to swoon, is that it?" I said. "Let a single tear roll down my cheek?"

"I want you to follow my lead," he said. "Can you trust me?"

His eyes seemed to see straight into my depths. I grimaced. My jaw worked. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was giving up some part of myself I wouldn't be able to get back. On the other hand, I was clearly out of my depth, and I'd need his help in order to make this successful.

"Fine," I said.

Cameron sealed the photos in a manila envelope, labelled clearly in his neat handwriting. We returned to the studio floor shortly after.

"Top off again?" I called, half-joking. He looked over his shoulder, where he was adjusting the tripod. "Not yet. Let's try something else."

I raised an eyebrow. "What, you want to frame my arse first?"

He didn't even crack a smile. Bloody infuriating man. One of these days I was going to find a way to wipe that placid look off his face.

Cameron just nodded toward the stool in the centre of the space. "Sit. Relax. I want you to think about something for me." I eyed him suspiciously but sat down anyway, the creak of wood under me too loud in the small room. He spent a while adjusting the lens, thin lips pressed together. I fidgeted a little in the silence.

Finally Cameron looked up, gaze unreadable. "Think about a time you felt proud," he said, lifting the camera but not raising it to his eye. "Not just 'did well,' not just 'looked good.' Proud. Properly. When everything aligned and you thought--that's who I am."

The words hit me sideways. I blinked.

Proud?

It took longer than I wanted to admit. There'd been flashes--brief podium moments, an old photo in a kitbag, that time someone recognised me on the tube. But real, bone-deep pride?

Eventually I found it. Of course that had to be it. Why hadn't I thought of it immediately?

"Rio," I said. My voice came out rougher than I expected. If I'd been in a different mood, I might have snorted and called it sappy. But Cameron didn't say anything, just nodded slightly and lifted the camera halfway, waiting.

"Summer of '16," I said, memories slowly bubbling up in my mind, fresh as the day they'd formed. "My first Olympics. First time I'd ever been to the Americas, actually. Heat like a bastard, but that pool... Christ, it was beautiful. Everything was loud, golden, alive. The boys back home didn't expect much from me--I wasn't a favourite. But I'd trained like hell. And when I stepped up for the ten-metre final... I knew it. In my gut. Knew I bloody well had it."

I shook my head, lips twitching. My vision blurred a little.

"Third round, reverse 31/2 somersault tuck. Landed clean. Not just clean--fucking textbook. Barely a ripple or sound. You could hear the air get sucked out of the stadium. Not even the judges blinked. That silence, just for a second, right before the crowd explodes--that's the moment. That's the high."

I looked down at my hands without thinking. They were relaxed. Open.

"I came out with a silver. My first real medal. I felt so fucking proud I could have cried like a dog. First time I saw my dad cry, too. He tried to hide it behind his pint after, but I clocked it."

The shutter clicked, soft and precise. Once. Twice. I hadn't even noticed Cameron move.

He wasn't barking orders now. No "chin down" or "look to the left." Just a quiet observer, watching something thaw in real time.

"That's it," he murmured. "Hold that."

I stayed still. That memory burned warm in my chest, and for the first time since this whole mad idea began, I wasn't posing. I was just... being. Sitting in the shell of who I'd once been, and maybe--maybe--who I could be again.

Click. Click. Click.

Cameron didn't say much else during the rest of the shoot. Just let me hold that energy, let it bleed into the frame. He kept things simple--shadows, breath, posture. A few slow shifts. No artificial swagger.

When we were done, I didn't rush to put my shirt back on. Just sat there for a bit, breathing slower than I had in weeks.

"That," Cameron said, adjusting a dial, "was the real you."

I couldn't help but agree.

"You've always had that in you," he added after a beat. So quietly I wasn't sure if I was meant to hear it.

---

That was the day we set up the account.

After he'd stowed the equipment, Cameron sat cross-legged on the floor, the glow of the screen flickering across his face. "Come here," he said, without looking up. I awkwardly settled myself onto the floor, feeling big and clumsy beside his slender frame. Peering over his shoulder, I saw the photo he had open. The one from earlier.

Me on the stool. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. Beard full and dark, eyes set forward--not posing, not smiling, just... resolved. Like I'd just come down from the mountain and wasn't planning to explain myself to anyone.

I stared at it. Speechless.

Because for the first time in years, I looked exactly how I'd always wanted to feel: strong, regal, disciplined. The proud image of a warrior, facing the future with his back straight and his hands steady. Not broken. Not washed-up. Not some sad bloke flogging himself for scraps.

Whole.

Cameron glanced up, watching me read my own face. "That's the one," he said.

I nodded, slowly. "Yeah."

We set up the OnlyFans that night. Or rather--Cameron did, while I sat beside him and nursed a protein shake like it was a stiff drink. Username, bio, pricing tiers. I let him handle it all, his fingers moving precisely as he set up the centrepiece of our new joint venture.

I listened to him drone as he did it. He talked endlessly about framings. How we needed to be tasteful, while still bringing out my natural sex appeal. It all sort of wafted over my head. I was still thinking about how I'd looked, chest strong and eyes proud. Like a version of me who hadn't been broken.

We agreed to a sixty-forty split of the proceeds. Photo sessions three times a week to start. The other details escaped my mind, but Cameron meticulously wrote everything down in the notepad he kept by the side of his desk. He'd draft the contract and send it for my signature once I left.

In the end, all I had to do was pick a display photo.

I chose that one.

He asked if I wanted a caption. I thought for a moment. Then I said, "Call it: 'The Comeback.'" Cameron didn't ask for clarification. Just typed it in and hit save.

The account went live at 10:42 p.m. on a Tuesday. No fanfare. No big launch. Just an image of a man who hadn't given up yet.

---

In the days that followed, I found myself making the trip to Cameron's studio often. We'd spend hours on the camera floor. No flashy sets. No ring-light gimmicks. Just him giving me instructions in that maddeningly calm voice. Some part of me still thought this was a massive cock-up. But I went along with it anyway. I needed the money. And maybe I was a little curious about where this was going to go.

Cameron proved a firm hand in the studio. Gentle voice, sure, but when we worked, he took no shit. His instructions were clipped. Efficient. He didn't flatter or fuss. Just called out angles, adjusted light, kept moving.

It was annoying at first. I can't count the number of times I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from snapping something at him. But gradually, I grew to appreciate his steadiness. It was like training with a coach who actually knew what the fuck he was doing.

A good coach doesn't flinch when you growl at them. They see what you're holding back--and make sure you show it.

I found myself relaxing under his guidance. Trusting him to take the wheel. He would mutter things like "drop your shoulder" or "tilt your jaw" or "that--hold that," and I'd follow without fighting him. Like he was coaxing something out of me I didn't know how to access on my own.

"You've got a weird knack," I muttered one day, "for bossing people around without sounding like a knob."

Cameron didn't look up from the laptop. "You like being told what to do." I didn't know what to say to that.