Line of growth

Some people in this world burn out at corporate parties with ridiculous team-building exercises. Others—on assembly lines, putting together iPhones. But Lara burned out on a variety of dicks. In the literal sense.

 

It all started with a noble impulse—she needed money. At eighteen, a freshly minted high school graduate from the suburbs, she moved to the capital with dreams of becoming an interior designer. But reality, in the form of renting a room in a communal apartment and the price of courses, quickly hinted that art is wonderful, but food is needed right now. A friend who worked as a waitress in a strip club jokingly suggested: “You’ve got tits like a fertility goddess and the face of an angel. Go to a casting call, they pay upfront.” Lara, a blonde with eyes the color of the northern sea and a body toughened by school rowing (her mother’s way of fighting scoliosis), went. Out of principle. And out of desperation.

 

They took her. A shoot for “plumber’s porn,” as she called it to herself. It was embarrassing, scary, and… funny. Her partner, a guy with a dragon tattoo on his back, nervously hiccuped between takes. The director screamed “Passion! Fire!” while staring at the monitor with the face of an accountant calculating electricity costs. She closed her eyes, imagined it was just weird, very cramped gymnastics, and got the job done. The check in the envelope after the shoot was the largest sum of money she had ever held in her hands.

 

And so it went. Lara Crawford (a stage name that sounded more solid than Larisa Krotova) became in demand. Her type—”the innocent Slavic girl with killer assets”—was wildly popular. Years flew by in a kaleidoscope of studio sets painted to look like hotel rooms, palm oil instead of lube, and endless, mechanical motions. She learned to turn off her brain, smile at the camera with a blissful look while mentally running through a grocery list, and masterfully imitate orgasms that sounded like a mix of a sneeze and a wounded bird’s cry.

 

The “burnout” didn’t come out of nowhere. It was a gradual impoverishment. One day, looking at yet another rainbow-colored artificial phallus, she thought: “God, how many dicks have I seen in my life. And they’re all—equally boring.” The thought was so exhaustive that she didn’t want to think any further. Even the money accumulating in her account stopped bringing joy. It was payment not only for work, but for a quiet, permanent numbness of the soul.

 

Salvation came from an unexpected direction. During a long break between shoots, bored out of her mind staring at the ceiling, she stumbled upon a woodworking video. A guy with a beard was planing a piece of walnut so inspiringly that what flew from under his hands weren’t shavings, but neat golden curls. It hooked her. The next day she bought the cheapest set of carving tools and a scrap of pine. Her first attempt to carve a flower ended with a splinter in her finger and a figure vaguely resembling a potato. But there was excitement. There was silence in her head. There wa

s a focus on texture, on the movement of her hand, on the birth of form from chaos.

Wood carving became her secret life. Her apartment smelled not of perfume and lube, but of sawdust and linseed oil. Fingers accustomed to certain grips now learned to feel the fine line, to not break a petal. She watched videos, read forums, bought expensive Japanese chisels. Gradually, potatoes turned into complex patterns, and then into small sculptures—birds, leaves, abstract forms. She even started selling them through a small online platform. The money—pennies compared to porn—but the feeling was different. This was her money, for her real skill.

 

And then, one Thursday, the phone rang. An old acquaintance, director Hector, whose voice always sounded like he’d just run a marathon.
— Lara, sunshine! Free this weekend? Got a great project. Intimate, stylish, decent budget. Need your… well, you know, your natural purity. ‘Innocence with a twist,’ as we love it.
Lara rolled her eyes, looking at the unfinished wooden owl.
— Hec, I think I said I was taking a break.
— A break is a break, but this project is a step forward! Almost arthouse. Partner—Leo Walter, you know him, he’s trending. Don’t say no, or I’ll get offended. And for god’s sake, be in shape. Get yourself in order: hairstyle, new manicure, shave. Everything as we like it. Saturday, ‘Eclipse’ studio, ten a.m. Don’t be late!

 

He hung up. Lara sat, holding a chisel. The word “shave” stuck in her head like a splinter. A routine request. But in the context of her exhaustion from this whole merry-go-round, it sounded like the last straw. Shave. Get in order. Be a product in the right packaging.

 

And then, in her naturally fair-haired head, an idea was born so insane that its genius was obvious only to her. I’ll shave. Completely. To hell with it. Everywhere. Everything. It will be a huge, fat, incredible “fuck-up.” They’ll kick her out in disgrace, Hector will never call again, and she can finally, with a clear conscience, devote herself to wood and the small but honest income from it. The thought of how Hector would see her, stripped of all her “work tools”—those long, well-groomed locks and other vegetation—induced a wild, almost childlike joy.

 

On Friday, she stocked up at the pharmacy and hardware store: an expensive hair clipper, a pack of new five-blade razors, a can of mint shaving foam, post-depilation oil. The ritual was scheduled for Saturday morning, right before leaving.

 

Saturday morning. Lara stood before the mirror in a spacious, light-filled bathroom. She wore only an old, stretched cotton robe. She looked at her reflection: thick, light-brown waves falling to her shoulders, neat, thin eyebrows, her whole body—a familiar, finely tuned landscape. For the last time.

 

— Well, beauty, — she said aloud to her reflection. — Let’s go.

She took off the robe. Turned on the clipper. Its low, powerful hum broke the morning silence. She took a strand of hair at her temple, brought the clipper to it and… bzzzzzt. The strand, heavy and shiny, fell into the sink. Her heart skipped a beat, not from pity, but from excitement. She ran the clipper over her head like a lawnmower, mowing down everything in its path. On the crown, the back of her head, the temples. Hair fell in clumps, revealing pale scalp covered with short, prickly stubble. In five minutes, the clipper’s work was done.
She ran her palm over the top of her head. The sensation of stubble was strange, unfamiliar. “Halfway there,” Lara thought. But this was only the rough stage. Now she had to achieve perfect smoothness.

She applied thick, cold mint foam to her freshly shorn head. White foam settled in uneven clumps on the ashen stubble, turning her reflection into a ghostly, almost clownish image. Then she took foam on her fingers and thoroughly, in circular motions, covered her entire scalp with an even, fluffy layer. The sensation was icy and ticklish. Then came the turn of her eyebrows. With two precise strokes, she applied foam to the spots where neat arches had been just minutes before. Now there was only smooth skin with sparse dark dots—hair roots sticking out of the stubble.

 

She took a new, sharp five-blade razor. Held her head under a stream of warm water to soften the foam, and began.

 

First—the temples. The blade slid over the skin with a light, hissing sound. There was no usual resistance from long hair, just a slight friction against the stubble. The razor removed the white foam along with the ashen stubble, revealing underneath perfectly smooth, pale, almost porcelain skin. She moved the razor against the grain, from temple to crown, in careful, overlapping strokes. Each movement was methodical, almost meditative. The sensation of the blade sliding over her own scalp was incredibly intimate and strangely detached at the same time. She saw in the mirror how the last trace of her familiar appearance disappeared.

 

The back of her head was trickier. She had to use a second mirror to control her movements. The razor slid over an area invisible to her, relying only on tactile sensations—slight resistance, then smoothness. She checked the result with her palm. The skin was absolutely smooth, cold, and wet.

 

Then she moved on to her eyebrows. Jewelry-like precision was required here. She stretched the skin of her forehead with the fingers of one hand, and with the other, ran the razor over where the arch used to be. One short, precise movement—and half an eyebrow disappeared, dissolving into a blob of foam on the blade. A second movement—and nothing remained of the eyebrows except two perfectly smooth, slightly pinkish from the stretching arches. Her face in the mirror transformed instantly and finally—huge blue eyes, stripped of their usual frame, looked at her with an expression of shocking openness and… determination. She grinned at her new, alien reflection. The angel from the cover had turned into a radical futurist.

 

— The body, — she whispered, like a commander giving the next order.

She ran the clipper over her armpits, shaving off the dark patches. Then moved on to her legs. The process was mesmerizing. Fast, light clipping, revealing skin. Then she opened the window, letting in cool air, and got down to the most important part.

 

She applied foam to her pubic area. Cold, thick, with a sharp menthol smell. Then took a new razor. Sat on the edge of the bathtub, placing one foot on the toilet. The first touch of the blade to the foam-covered skin was icy and electric. She guided the razor from top to bottom, against the grain. The blade slid almost silently, with slight resistance. Foam and dark hairs gathered on the steel strip. The skin underneath became not just smooth, but somehow new, childlike, hyper-sensitive. She breathed through her mouth, concentrating on every centimeter. Her movements were slow, almost meditative. She shaved everything clean, stretching the skin with her fingers to not miss a single hair. The sensation when it was all done was hard to describe. Absolute nudity. Even the hint of a boundary, of a hidden zone, was gone. Everything was open, smooth, and… innocent, somehow.

 

Then she treated her legs, thighs, buttocks, back. When she finished, her body resembled a statue of polished marble. Not a single roughness. She applied oil, and her skin gleamed. Putting on a hoodie, sweatpants, a cap, and dark glasses, she assessed the result in the mirror. From the outside—just a girl in a banal hood. Underneath—a radical manifesto and a farewell middle finger to an entire industry.

 

At the “Eclipse” studio, familiar bustle reigned. Lara went straight to her dressing room, avoiding encounters. Inside, she undressed, threw on a robe, and waited. Her heart pounded with anticipation.

— Lara, on set! — an assistant shouted.

She dropped the robe and walked out. The set was decorated in pastel tones: beige walls, a pink nightstand, a huge pink bed with snow-white linens. Hector, a stocky man in a cap, was discussing something with the cameraman. Next to him stood Leo Walter, her partner, the classic handsome type with a pumped-up torso and a hairstyle that cost more than her set of chisels.

 

Everyone turned when she stepped into the spotlight.

A silence fell. The kind you can hear. Hector dropped the script. His face went through all stages from incomprehension to pure, unadulterated horror.
— What… what the fuck is this? — he squeezed out, pointing a trembling finger at her.
Leo whistled, and his gaze, sliding over her bald head, lingered on her huge, firm breasts, which now looked surreal and provocative on her absolutely smooth body.
— Cool, — Leo simply said.
— This is ‘get yourself in order,’ Hec, — Lara said, spreading her hands. — You said it yourself: shave and get a new hairstyle. So I did. A full rebrand. Modern art, you fucking wanker.

 

Hector turned crimson.
— You stupid bitch! You’ve shit all over my project! This isn’t arthouse, it’s a fucking freak show! Fuck off! You’re fired!
— Already quit, — Lara parried, enjoying the moment.
But then the producer, a skinny guy in glasses who had already done the math, intervened.
— Hec, calm down. Everything’s paid for, Leo’s booked for an hour, studio rental. Not shooting is throwing money away. We shoot as is.
— But… — Hector started.
— We shoot, damn it, as is! — the producer hissed. — And you, — he turned to Lara, — I’ll personally tear you a new one later.

 

Hector, puffing with rage, sat in the director’s chair.
— Fine! Leo! — he yelled. — Since she’s so… radical… Show her who’s boss! Start with… anal! Right from the start! No foreplay! Let her know what she gets for pulling such stunts!

Leo just smirked. The scene began.

 

The spotlight was blinding and hot. Lara lay on the pink sheets, feeling their cool smoothness touch her incredibly sensitive, absolutely bare skin. Leo approached, his body gleaming with oil. His gaze was not professionally indifferent, but interested, studying.

 

— Never seen anything like it, — he said quietly, running his palm over her bald head. The sensation was strange and intense. His fingers slid down, over her neck, to her collarbones, and then cupped her breasts. Without the usual barrier of hair, his touches to her nipples were fiery. He leaned down, starting to work on her almost with… tenderness, perhaps, but the tenderness was only in the preparation. The action was hard, deep, technical, as it should be. When he entered her from behind, Lara bit her lip. Pain mixed with an unfamiliar, sharp sensation of complete openness. There was nothing to soften, hide, veil. Every movement was maximally exposed, not just physically. His hands held her by the hips, fingers digging into the smooth skin. He worked rhythmically, powerfully, his body slapping against her buttocks. She, obeying old habit, made the necessary sounds, but inside raged a mixed feeling of triumph and a strange, perverse excitement from this absolute, shocking nakedness. The camera slid over her back, over the contrast between her pale, bald head and the dark sheets, showing in close-up how her body was completely given over to her partner’s will. Hector, sitting in his chair, muttered something under his breath, but in his gaze there flickered not only anger, but professional curiosity. It was bold. It was new.

 

After the final, staged climax, Hector barked: “Cut! That’s a wrap!” and left the set, slamming the door.

Lara, still trembling, got up. Leo handed her a towel.
— Intense, — he said, but there was respect in his eyes. — Decisive shit. I liked it. Don’t you want… to discuss it over coffee? No cameras.

 

That evening they sat in the semi-darkness of his loft. Wine, soft music. The conversation smoothly flowed into something more. Here there was no director, no “action!” There was only curiosity and attraction.

 

He kissed her bald head, his lips sliding over the tender skin where there used to be hair. Then went lower, exploring every centimeter of her smooth body with his tongue. The sensations were mind-blowing. Without the usual barriers, every touch, every kiss reached nerve endings with doubled force. When he took her breast into his mouth, she arched from a wave of pleasure she hadn’t experienced on set in years. His hands slid over her absolutely smooth thighs, the inner surfaces, where now there wasn’t even a hint of ticklishness, only hyper-sensitivity. He entered her slowly, looking into her eyes, and this gaze was real, not for the camera. They moved in unison, and Lara, to her surprise, caught a real, wild, uncontrollable orgasm that escaped her as a quiet moan, not a dutiful scream. Her whole body, stripped of all natural coverings, became one giant erogenous zone.

 

In the morning she left, leaving him asleep. The thought that her genius plan had worked warmed her soul. She returned to her owl, to the smell of wood. Days passed calmly. No calls, no offers. Perfect.

 

Until a week later, her phone exploded. Dozens of notifications from messengers, email, even Instagram (which she hadn’t used in years). Offers. Dozens. The sums in them made her eyes widen. “Unique look,” “radical aesthetic,” “actress needed for project ‘Smooth Edge’,” “Lara, this is genius, let’s discuss exclusivity.”

 

Bewildered, bordering on hysterical, she went to one of the major porn sites. That very video was on the front page. Title: “ANGEL WITHOUT WINGS: RADICAL TRANSFORMATION.” Views were off the charts. Comments were full of admiration: “This is a new level!”, “Wow, she’s like a statue!”, “Never seen anything like it!”, “This is insane, but damn hot!”

 

Lara leaned back in her chair in her workshop, smelling of pine and oil. She looked at her tools, at the newly started work—a complex carved box. Then at the numbers in the offers on her phone. Numbers behind which stood years of that very numb life.

 

She slowly stood up, walked over to the large mirror hanging by the entrance. Turned her back to it, looked at her reflection over her shoulder. Smooth, pale skin, gleaming under the lamp light. Not a single hair.

 

With an ironic smirk, she slapped her palm against her bare, perfectly smooth ass. The sound was sharp and comical.

 

— Well then, sister, — she said to her reflection, — looks like you’ve still got some suffering ahead. For very different money.

And the story, like her career, found its new, unexpected, absolutely brilliant line of growth.