Warning:This is a "what if Belle was/became a pornstar" fic. As such if it's not your cup of tea then don't read.

Her father dying had been her immediate concern when she was told her father had had an accident and was in the hospital. She hadn't thought about expenses or finances, too caught up in the very real fear of losing her papa. The bills had piled up over time and once it became obvious that Maurice French wasn't going to go quietly and without a fight Belle had begun to notice their money trouble.

It didn't help that, looking deeper into her father's account books, it was obvious that the flower shop was a money pit which had failed to pay for itself even after all the effort Maurice had put into it over the years. Small town had small needs, after all. Her position as Storybrooke's librarian let her live comfortably and save a bit, but not even her careful nest egg was enough. Not by a long shot. On top of it her papa needed specialized care once he was allowed to go home, so she'd hired a nurse, an efficient but cold woman in her forties that made her deeply uncomfortable.

It all meant bills and money they didn't have. Even with Billy repairing the van almost for free and Jimmy, her father's only employee, refusing to demand the pay increase he very well deserved, it was a tight fit to just make rent and scrape by every month, much less begin to cover all the debts. Determined, Belle began to look for a second job, something she could do at nights or on weekends, but there wasn't anything in Storybrooke that fit the criteria.

"Reading on the job? For shame, Miss French."

Mr Gold's Scottish brogue surprised her, making her startle visibly before she had the presence of mind to turn off the computer monitor.

"Just some research, nothing very interesting. Are you here for the rent, Mr Gold?"

She'd asked her father's landlord to go through her for the rent money from his ship and home. Though Belle's little apartment above the library was property of the Storybrooke and, therefore, not part of Mr Gold's real estate portfolio, the rest of the town was, except for a few select houses and lots. She had never had much contact with him, but he'd always piqued her curiosity from afar. He seemed so... lonely. Like he was surrounded by a glass dome that kept everyone out and was slowly smothering him.

"Indeed I am. The fact that ducking into the library saved me from meeting Madame Mayor and listening to her riveting plans for Miner's Day had nothing to do with it, I assure you."

He talked like how she imagined large predators would: softly, silkily, gently. But, beneath it all, there was steel and fire. She laughed, and he seemed surprised by it, like he hadn't meant to make a joke, or expected her to get it.

"I'd never believe you capable of such despicable acts, Mr Gold."

She handed him a manila envelope with the money, noticing he didn't open it to count the amount before pocketing it. He enquired after her father, looking like he cared about the answer even though Belle thought it unlikely and then stared at her for the longest time.

"You look tired, dearie," he finally said, a softness creeping into his voice. Startled, Belle felt her eyes fill with tears unexpectedly, his sudden kindness overwhelming her. He offered her a handkerchief, which she took, dabbing her eyes carefully.

"I'm sorry. I'm just very emotional as of late. And exhausted. Money is a bit of a problem at the moment, but nothing to be overly concerned about."

She knew her smile was shaky but she kept it firmly planted on her face.

"You know, Miss French, I could always be amenable to a deal..."

He let the words hang between them, heavy and tempting. He was right, of course. A deal with him could possibly solve all her problems, except that something inside of her emphatically rejected the notion. She didn't want money from him, didn't want the same base relationship he had with everyone else in town.

"No need. We'll manage. But thank you for the offer."

She was sincere but he looked faintly troubled for a moment before he nodded, wished her a good day and limped out of the Library. It was then that she turned the monitor back on, looking at the adult classifies she'd been perusing before he arrived. Several ads seeking models for "tasteful photo shoots" with "minor nudity" for "private collections" looked like they paid well so she jotted down some addresses, all in Boston, and decided to check them out over the weekend.

The photo-shoots turned out to be a mistake. Besides making her a nervous, anxious wreck, the experience itself was both degrading and dehumanizing. She was painted over, dressed in horrible, trashy lingerie and told to pose this way and that. Often she was offered alcohol or pills to "loosen up" and left alone with the photographers, who had a hard problem with the word "no". She soldiered through, telling herself to do the brave thing and wait for bravery to follow, but it felt like it wasn't worth what she got paid.

Most unusual too was the fact that no photographer called her twice and when she did she was told they'd never hire her again, and that her shots had been destroyed. It filled her with both staggering relief and a sense of dread, since it meant hunting down another photographer and risk finding the one that wouldn't take "no" for an answer.

But as the bills kept piling up it became clear that the shoots were not even making a small dent in the debt and were not worth her frayed nerves and the awful feeling of weight pressing in on her. One of the models at the last shoot she'd gone had suggested she do an adult video. Porn stars made a lot of money, but people paid even more for "virgins", attractive females who didn't participate in porn "professionally" but rather once or twice in their lives. Some people, apparently, found porn stars too "trite" and "fake" and liked more to watch inexperienced, "real" women.

She made calls to all ads that seemed to look for that but it looked that whatever bad luck she'd gained with the photo-shoots had followed her. It seemed like the moment she mentioned her name some sort of unexplained magic occurred and she became an unwanted. And a part of her couldn't help the sheer relief every time that happened, no matter how difficult the financial situation became.

Few people seemed to notice her increasing anxiety. She was having trouble sleeping, tossing and turning at night trying to figure out numbers and due dates to no avail. As a result she'd become pale and drawn, with dark circles under her eyes. She'd lost some weight too, a fact that Gaston, an obnoxious would-be boyfriend, had commented on, muttering something about how "better" she looked with "a bit of extra-weight" off.

"Dearie, it seems like every time we meet you look more waifish. I had to supress the urge to pick up a muffin on the way over."

Mr Gold's smile did not hide the worry in his eyes, or his chiding tone. She laughed, finding his humour dry but funny and his concern touching.

"I just have a lot on my mind as of late, no room for appetite, it seems. But I'm glad you remembered how I frown upon food and beverages inside the library."

She slid the money for the rent towards him, once more tucked inside an envelope. He took it almost reluctantly, eyeing it and then her.

"Once more, dearie, I feel the need to remind you that, should you need help, my door is always open. That deal is still on the table."

It was tempting, and not in a "deal with the devil" kind of way, like it was for most others. She was sure that, should she ask for that deal, Mr Gold would be fair and even generous, but it would also irreparably change their relationship. Not that they had much of one, not really, but for some reason it seemed rather important to her not to be in Mr Gold's debt.

It also seemed quite ridiculous, honestly, to keep calling him Mr Gold, even inside her head.

"What's your name?"

The words tumbled clumsily out of her mouth, but she was too tired to care. The pawnbroker froze, surprise evident in his face, as if no one had ever asked for his name before, which couldn't be right.

"Have you forgotten it, perhaps?"

She tilted her head to the side and smiled, letting him know he was teasing. He answered her with a small, nervous smile.

"Raoul. Old family name."

She mouthed it, surprised to see his eyes focus on her lips.

"It's nice. Distinguished and mysterious. Suits you perfectly, Mr Gold."

He asked her to help him pick books on British history focusing on the Stuart reign and they made small chat before he departed. She caught herself wishing she'd thought of some clever way to keep him talking for a while longer and shook her head, going back to work.

It was three days later that she spotted the ad. It called for a small brunette in her mid to late twenties, long curly hair and blue eyes. It seemed almost tailor-made for her and when she called to enquire she was informed that the footage was meant for a private collector and would never be sold to the general public. It sounded almost like a dream opportunity, too good to be true. It became even more so when she gave her name to arrange for an interview and she wasn't immediately rejected.

The "casting" wasn't at all like she expected. A very professional-looking woman in her forties asked her questions regarding her likes and dislikes, hobbies and such and enquired, over and over, if she was okay with being filmed in a sexual way, almost trying to encourage her to change her mind. When she seemed to realize Belle was determined to go through with the experience she gave her a time and a place and told her to be there. With no further instructions Belle spent the next few days trying not to think about anything. Prior to the appointment and as a precaution she shaved and washed thoroughly and reminded herself to ask about the use of protection and other important matters.

She dressed nicely that day, trying to find courage in her prettiest dress and her nicest peep-toe shoes, and took the morning bus to Boston. The address she'd been given turned out to be one of those traditional Boston low-rise masonry buildings, well-preserved and located in a lovely part of the city. The librarian almost thought she'd written down the wrong address but she was greeted by a well-mannered man in his late forties that was, indeed, expecting her.

He introduced himself as Lionel and informed her he'd be in charge of the camera but wouldn't be in the room, setting everything up and leaving her alone for an hour. When she expressed her puzzlement he explained that the video sessions had been arranged to cater to a private, anonymous man of means interested in watching a woman of her description masturbate. Belle tried not to let her overwhelming relief show. As awkward and unpleasant as masturbating in front of a camera sounded it meant she wasn't going to have to deal with a stranger all over her.

When Lionel disclosed the amount of money that she'd get for her trouble her jaw almost dropped. It seemed a ridiculously high amount and made her deeply suspicious.

"I... I won't be asked to do anything... strange, will I? Because it seems quite a bit of money for such a... small request."

"Indeed not, Miss French. You will have to tape various sessions but will never be asked to do or wear anything strange, I assure you. We have for you a selection of clothes to change into but none of them are in the least bit odd."

He directed her to the room in which she'd be taped. It was a lovely bedroom, the walls painted a deep rose, with lovely paintings hanging on the walls and a big four-posted bed with a rather intricate wooden headboard commanding the eye, as well as a lovely Persian rug covering part of the mahogany floor. The bed was done in creams and burgundies, with a rather fluffy comforter and some throw pillows. The camera was discreet, located right above the bed in the ceiling, not too big or too obvious but not hidden either. Lionel let her get comfortable, giving her as much time as she wanted to explore the room. She found clothes in the chest of drawers, tasteful silk nightgowns, satin pyjamas and even some shirts, long enough to cover almost all of her.

She changed into a nice, cream-coloured nightgown with hints of lace, wishing for something that would make her feel comfortable and sexy at the same time and called out to Lionel to tell him she was ready. He told her there was no need to get completely naked, only that she successfully orgasmed at some point during the hour of taping and she took off her undergarments at some point. She nodded, feeling herself blush furiously against her will.

When he left her alone she sat on the bed and tried to compose herself, pretending that the cameras weren't there. When she finally felt like her hands weren't shaking anymore she laid down on the centre of the bed, propped up against some pillows. She arranged her hair so it artfully haloed her head, trying somehow to look appealing, lest she not be paid, and closed her eyes, breathing deeply in and out. She started fingering the lacy hemline of the nightgown with one hand as she swept the other over her body, ghosting across it so she barely felt the touch through the silk. It took quite a while for her to feel herself relax enough to timidly shimmy out of her panties, tossing them aside and closing her legs demurely afterwards.

Knowing it'd take more to go through with it all she closed her eyes again and this time let her gentle explorations of her body be accompanied by some sort of fantasy. She conjured up a faceless stranger, mysterious yet familiar in a way whose touch her body welcomed eagerly. She picked him slight and small like her but with a towering presence who'd make her tingle with a look. In her mind the stranger sat beside her on the bed, looking at her up and down as if she was some sort of apparition he was adoring. He threaded his hands, with long, slim fingers, through her hair, massaging her scalp till it tingle pleasantly, before sliding downwards, his hands wrapping loosely around her neck, feeling her fluttery pulse before splaying across her bared collarbone. Her own hands did as her phantom lover's, and soon enough a pleasant sort of tingle started to spread across her lower belly.

She took a deep breath and focused on her fantasy, imagining someone cupping her breasts tenderly, gently running his thumbs over her already sensitive nipples, the silk sliding against the hardened buds. She imagined him bending over with some difficulty to softly kiss the corner of her lips, then her jaw, her neck and her collarbone, teeth scraping against her clavicle and making her shiver. She had to make do with her own fingers instead, her nails scratching softly against her skin leaving faint red welts in their wake.

At some point she began to press her thighs together, a familiar ache making itself known. She sighed in relief, the sound coming out as a moan when she pictured her lover gently caressing her abdomen and lower belly before stroking down her left thigh and up her right one in a soothing way meant to explore and worship. But it was only when she pictured him gently prying her legs open to kneel between, hovering above her and effectively covering her from the camera, that she could let herself go, letting one of her hands sneak beneath the hemline of the nightdress to lightly finger the coarse hairs of her sex.

She was wet, which she hadn't expected, and warm. In her mind her partner grunted in approval to find her so welcoming, raking his nails down her thighs till her breath hitched and then slowly inching her nightdress upwards so that his hands could curl around her hips, the gesture oddly possessive. It seemed to take forever for him to move to cup her sex with his right hands, hers doing the same in reality. She grinded herself against the rough palm, imagining a faint, mellifluous voice murmuring encouraging nonsense.

Slowly he slid his hand upwards, his middle finger sliding into her folds, coating in her juices. He caressed her, slowly and firmly, before entering her smoothly at first with one finger but soon adding a second and then a third. It didn't matter that it were her own fingers buried to her knuckles inside of her, they still felt very much foreign and wonderful. It was him that was on the other side of the camera, she decided. She was touching herself for him and him alone and the thought allowed her finally inhibitions to drop, letting her come with a breathy sigh.

She tried not to look too much in a rush as she ducked out of the range of the camera and into the ensuite bathroom, washing the stickiness off her fingers and sex and putting her panties and the rest of her clothing back on. She folded the nightdress carefully and put it back inside the drawer, fingering the silky fabric idly. Surprisingly she'd liked to take it with her. She could tell by how it smelled and how the fabric was crisp and almost stiff that it'd never been worn before and it looked like something she'd love if she could afford it.

Lionel knocked discretely on the door so she hurried to gather the rest of her things before unlocking it and stepping outside. They arranged for another session at the same day and time the following week before he saw her to the door, shaking her hand before she left. The entire experience seemed surreal, like it hadn't happened, the moment she stepped out into the street. Refusing to think about it the librarian started walking to the bus stop, glad her legs weren't shaking.

The following days it started to sink in, what she'd done. Belle felt as if it was stamped across her forehead and it was utterly maddening that no one around her noticed. She wanted to talk about it with someone but no one ever came up to her and asked about her day, or how she was feeling. She supposed people didn't want to know, because then they'd feel obliged to help. But everyone she knew had their own problems and she couldn't expect them to drop everything for her.

Still, the isolation stung. She rather liked being alone but never being lonely, and that's how it felt like, by herself in the Library, with Ruby too busy when she called and Emma to hung up on her never-ending custody battle with the Mayor, not to mention Ashley and her notion that the world revolved around little Alexandria and no one had it quite as hard as she did. She hated feeling so bitter about everything but she just wanted someone to... comfort her.

See her.

With so few people going inside the library she dedicated most of her time to cataloguing new additions and carefully shelving them, menial work that nevertheless needed to be done. She was putting away a heavy new French dictionary when the weight of if threw her off balance, causing her to topple off the stairs. Though she had been perched on the third step she still expected a bit of an ugly fall. Instead she was encompassed in warmth and softness, and the scent of leather, musk and spice. It took her a second or two to recognize Mr Gold's slight body pressed up against hers, his arms around her catching her fall.

"Careful there, dearie."

His voice was like honey, playfully chiding but carrying a hint of true fear within. He was wearing a charcoal grey wool coat, soft and comfortable, and a cashmere scarf which felt heavenly against her cheek. Without quite meaning to she pulled him closer, fitting her head on the crook of his shoulder, her nose pressed against the skin of his neck. He made a strangled sound, surely of disapproval or distaste, but didn't pull away nor slipped his arms away from her.

"Belle, what...?"

She shushed him.

"Just give me a second. Please."

Human contact felt wonderful and there was something incredibly safe and... good about Mr Gold. Pleasant and inviting and she couldn't help but inhale deeply through her nose to catch even the smallest trace of his scent.

"Belle, please... a deal. Make a deal."

She shook her head, her nose rubbing against his throat. He sounded hoarse and desperate, unlike him, and it was enough for her to know he cared. Finally, reluctantly, she pulled away, blushing furiously.

"I'm sorry. You were just being gentlemanly and I practically attacked you."

She smiled, though it was a slightly wobbly gesture, and stepped away from him fully, going to the circulation desk.

"Anything I can help you with, Mr Gold?"

When she turned around to look at him she found him staring at her strangely, as if he were expecting something from her. A second later he was back to normal, enquiring after a new copy of Devil in a Blue Dress. She fetched it for him, having put it aside the moment and was pleasantly surprised when, instead of leaving, he stayed to talk for a few minutes about books and movies. She confessed to being a closet fan of European football, which seemed to earn his deep admiration and respect, and they spent a nice half hour discussion the Champion's League and their mutual belief that the Barcelona would take the title that year.

It was the highlight of Belle's day.

She had agreed to four sessions and as the last one drew near Belle didn't know how to feel. She'd been shocked to realize she was enjoying the sessions on some level. A part of her had found the idea of someone spying on such an intimate act. She'd developed quite a fantasy inside her head regarding the man paying for the tapings, a safe, comfortable dream lover who had no face and yet felt familiar in the most wonderful ways. It had allowed her in some way to take charge of the experience, make it her own. It was empowering in a myriad of ways and she had to admit once she'd gotten past the initial shyness she'd experienced some very powerful orgasms.

She arrived promptly at the Boston apartment, Lionel solicitously offering her tea and water before escorting her to "her room". She opened the drawers where the clothes she was meant to wear were stored. She had opted for nightdresses twice and once for a silk pyjama consisting of shorts and a camisole but this time something else caught her attention. It was one of the men's shirts, deep blue and very soft-looking. Unlike everything else it didn't seem brand new and unused but rather well-preserved but also well-worn. Indulging herself she grabbed it and went to the bathroom to change, taking everything off before putting on the shirt and buttoning it up. It was loose and covered her till a bit part mid-thigh but there was a strange sort of sensuality to it that appealed to Belle.

As usual she began by sitting on the edge of the bed. She felt loose this time around, playfully bending down to caress first one leg and then the other, raising the hem of the shirt as she did so. Above her loomed the camera, no longer a frightening intruder but rather a sort of cohort in on her dirty little secret. And on the other side she could feel the eyes of her benefacto, adoring her. Slowly, leisurely, she stretched out on the bed, basking in the sheer softness of it. She spread her arms wide and hummed in contentment, closing her eyes and welcoming the presence of her imaginary lover. She could see him in much more vivid detail, clad in an expensive suit of dark grey with pinstripes. Beneath he wore a charcoal-coloured shirt and a steel-blue tie, all perfectly-tailored and becoming.

She pictured him straddling her waist and looming above her, his hands resting on either side of her head, one moving at some point to caress her hair and face with a tender touch. She arched into it, uncaring than in reality it was her own hand dipping into the hollow of her throat and splaying across her collarbone, nails scraping against the skin there. She undid the first button of the shirt have access to more skin imagining her lover chuckling at her eagerness. He had a rumbly, gruff sort of laugh in her head, almost familiar.

Feeling bold and daring she let herself imagine her secret lover unbuttoning the rest of the shirt, her own hands doing the actual work. She didn't take it off, though, simply let it slightly open to reveal a strip of skin in her middle.

"My precious girl."

For a moment she thought there was indeed someone else in the room with her but the voice was only in her head, thick and smooth like honey, tickling her memory. She let herself enjoy the adoration in it, the utter awe at the mere glimpse of her body. One slender finger traced a path from her collarbone down to her lower belly, teasing between her breasts in the process. Her breathing grew heavy, as did his.

"So strong and yet so vulnerable. All for me."

Even though there was no one there Belle could feel phantom lips against the valley of her breasts, a tongue flicking out to taste her. Almost without realizing she opened up the shirt a bit more, baring her chest to the camera without a second thought. As a reward a mouth closed around her right nipple, her wet fingers and nails mimicking the feel of teeth and tongue. She let her head fall to the side, pressing her nose against the upturned collar of the shirt. She inhaled deeply, the scent coming off the shirt only arousing her further. It was a well-known smell, like leather and spices and man. It was how her dream lover smelled, how she'd always known he smelled.

"Belle, sweetheart..."

His words were akin to a whine, a pitiful cry against her ribcage before he travelled lower and lower. She parted her legs eagerly, bending her knees and propping her feet against the mattress as her own hand found her sex. She teased herself the way his tongue would with one hand while the other massaged first one breast then the other. Finally she slipped three fingers inside her at once, imagining that the groan that echoed inside the bedroom was his and not hers.

"Belle, Belle..."

Her name sounded like a prayer and she fought to concentrate on his name as she started to thrust her hips up and against her fingers. At last his face appeared in her mind's eye, longish brown hair, deep brown eyes and a sharp nose.

"Raoul..."

She cried the name out, feeling her inner muscles coil and her senses spiral out of control, her orgasm leaving her dizzy. It seemed to last forever and not nearly long enough. She laid there for a while after the feeling passed, feeling satisfied and wanting at the same time. The camera still tape right above her but, strangely, Belle felt no sudden impulse to cover herself up.

"Thank you," she said, looking directly into the lens. It took her twenty minutes to clean herself up and change into her clothes. She went looking for Lionel after that, gratefully accepting the envelop full of cash he had ready for her. He insisted she counted the money and even though Belle knew how much it was it still staggered her.

"Are they really worth it? The tapes, I mean... Am I any good?"

"I wouldn't know, Miss French. I was under strict orders not to watch or edit the footage, only to deliver it in a DVD to the customer. But I imagine that had he been unsatisfied he'd let it be known. In any case the money is yours, never fear that. It was a pleasure to meet you."

She waved goodbye from the threshold before braving the cold Boston streets, tucking the money into an inner pocket of her coat and feeling like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

Her happiness at having her financial problems fixed almost made her forget the name she'd shouted as she had climaxed.

Two days later, in a dark study a man sat on a leather chair, hands clasping the armrests in a vice grip. He wore suit pants and a dark grey shirt, the tie looking perfectly-knotted. He sat ramrod straight, unblinking as a movie played on a flat-screen in front of him. His eyes never left the form of the woman in bed, almost naked and moaning. He was hard, his erection straining almost painfully against his boxers and pants, but he made no move to touch himself whatsoever. He merely watched, enraptured, captivated by the tiny woman in a bed so similar to his own.

He let out a moan when she began to writhe and keen, her voice the only sound in the room other than his harsh breathing.

"Raoul..."

His name on her lips took him completely by surprise, his balls drawing up before he spilled himself, the orgasm sudden and powerful. He tightened his grip on the armrests of the chair, his hips jerking upwards against his will as he spent himself inside his boxers.

When he regained his focus his eyes found her once more, looking sedated and pleased, a small, languid smile curling about her lips. His right hand fumbled for the control remote on a side-table, pressing the "STOP" button resolutely. He looked pained and determined as he let his head fall against the back of the chair.

"Enough."