Celeb Interviews #4
With Madelaine Petsch
Written by TheLW
Codes: BDSM/Bondage, Fingering, Rough Play
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.
(https://thumbs2.imgbox.com/f3/2c/2DCiZiL4_t.jpg) (https://imgbox.com/2DCiZiL4)
Lee Thompson snapped his bag shut and gave it a light pat, like a coach checking gear before game time. Recorder, check. Notepad, check. Backup batteries, God help him if he ever forgot those again. Everything he needed was packed and ready.
The morning heat had already started creeping through the cracked office window. Out in the distance, Los Angeles shimmered like a mirage. Traffic buzzed, tires screeched, and somewhere below, a car alarm whined before dying off in defeat. Business as usual.
This one wasn’t just another assignment. Madelaine Petsch. He’d interviewed rising stars, indie darlings, even a couple of legends clinging to relevance, but she was different. Redhead. Razor-sharp. With that mix of Hollywood polish and something just a bit too real for the cameras to tame.
Lee stepped outside, the sun hitting him like a spotlight the second the door shut behind him. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he slipped on his shades, tightened the strap on his bag, and headed to the rental.
Up in the hills, behind coded gates and million-dollar views, she was waiting.
And he was ready.
Once Lee had arrived, the gates opened with a slow mechanical groan, revealing a long driveway flanked by manicured hedges and just enough shade to keep the L.A. sun from melting the pavement. Lee guided the rental up the incline, parked near the stone steps, and killed the engine.
Madelaine was already waiting at the door.
She wore a loose white blouse and black slacks, barefoot, with her signature hair pulled into a twist. Effortless. Intentional. Her smile was warm, but not wide, just enough to register. Lee climbed the steps, his bag slung over his shoulder, and the second she opened the door, they hugged like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a while. Not quite intimate, but familiar. He kissed her cheek, quick, polite, nothing lingering, and stepped inside.
“Come on in,” she said, already turning toward the interior.
The house was clean and modern, filled with that kind of air-conditioned stillness that came from money and space. Polished floors. Neutral tones. A subtle scent of something citrus and expensive in the air.
She led him into the living room, a wide, open space with sunlight pouring through tall glass windows. There were plants everywhere, alive and thriving, like props from a lifestyle shoot that somehow never ended.
They sat down, she on the long cream-colored sectional, he across from her, pulling out his recorder and notepad, setting them carefully on the coffee table between them.
There was a brief pause, neither awkward nor rushed. Just the stillness before the match starts. Lee clicked the recorder on.
“All set?” she asked, crossing one leg over the other, eyebrows slightly raised.
He gave a small grin. “Always.”
And just like that, the interview began.
Lee: First and foremost, I just wanted to say thank you, for agreeing to a sit-down interview with CSS Magazine. But also, for inviting me into your beautiful home, to conduct said interview.
Madelaine: Of course, Mr. Thompson.
Lee: You don’t have to call me that, Lee is fine.
Madelaine: If that’s what you prefer Lee, then that’s what I’ll go with.
Lee: With that said, let’s get down to business and get this interview underway. I would like to start by asking about rumors that were circulating around the internet a few years ago.
Madelaine: And what might those rumors be?
Lee: I don’t recall all of the details from this rumor, but from what I do remember, apparently you liked being tied up, are into rough sex, that sort of thing.
Madelaine lets out a laugh.
Madelaine: Oh, those rumors.
Lee: So are they true, did the producers have to talk to you about that? To ask you, not to do that stuff during filming of Riverdale?
Madelaine: Something like that.
Lee: So they are true then?
Madelaine: Those rumors are absolutely true. The guy I was seeing at the time, loved tying my wrists up. Anyways whenever we would fuck, it would leave rope burns on my delicate skin.
Lee: I do have to ask, since you just confirmed those rumors, and I do appreciate that. Is that all there is to those rumors, you being restrained during sex, or is there more that you happen to be into.
Madelaine: Oh definitely more, that relationship was truthfully just the start. It woke something up in me, a kinky wild side.
Lee: Well I’m intrigued.
Madelaine: Let’s just say, I’m definitely into BDSM.
Lee: BDSM? If you could Madelaine, can you explain what BDSM is for our readers?
Madelaine: Of course, Lee, it would be my pleasure. BDSM stands for bondage and discipline (BD), dominance and submission (DS), sadomasochism (SM).
Lee: Well from what you’ve told me so far, you’re definitely into bondage, and it seems like you're pretty submissive as well.
Madelaine: Yes, yes I am.
Lee: I know when I interviewed Emilia Clarke a few years ago, she liked it rough, but it sounds like you take it to the next level.
Madelaine: Well I don’t know about Emilia, however, my basement has been converted to a sex dungeon.
Lee: Are you serious?
Madelaine: Oh, I would never lie about that, I take great pride in how I have it set up.
Lee: Oh my.
Madelaine: I knew you would love the sound of that.
Lee: Would it be possible to see this sex dungeon?
Madelaine: I mean if you want to wrap this interview up, I can definitely take you for a tour of my dungeon.
The recorder clicked off with a soft beep, signaling the end of the interview. A few final notes scratched into the pad, then Lee set the pen down and leaned back, exhaling through his nose.
She stood, smooth and unhurried, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she stretched slightly, arms overhead.
“Come on,” she said, glancing back at him.
She didn’t wait for a response, just turned and started walking, barefoot across the hardwood. Lee followed, one step behind, watching her hips move like they had their own rhythm. Mesmerizing. Intentional.
He didn’t bother pretending not to look.
She led him through a hallway, past clean-lined furniture and shadowy corners, to a door at the far end. It looked like a storage room at first glance, plain white, flush against the wall, but when she opened it, cool air drifted out. Steps led down into darkness, lit only by a soft red glow at the bottom. Subtle. Controlled.
Lee hesitated at the threshold for half a second.
Madelaine glanced over her shoulder, her voice low, amused. “Coming?”
There was something in her tone, playful, sure, but under it, a challenge. Like she already knew he’d follow. Like this was part of the plan all along.
He descended behind her, the wood stairs creaking softly under his weight. With each step, the red light grew stronger. Warmer. Thicker. And by the time they reached the basement floor, the energy in the air had shifted entirely.
What waited down there wasn’t just another room.
The back wall was a visual punch, a black, velvet-lined display that showcased everything with unapologetic precision. Coiled whips hung beside riding crops and floggers, all arranged in a clean, almost clinical order. A collar and leash set, deep crimson leather with polished silver hardware, hung like a crown jewel in the center, waiting. A pair of strap-ons were mounted beside them, one of which Madelaine glanced at briefly, a smirk tugging at her lips.
“Those got a workout,” she said offhandedly. “Lili and Camila can tell you all about it.”
Lee didn’t respond.
In the center of the room stood a heavy bench, the kind designed with intent, curved, padded, built for restraint. Thick leather straps were bolted into the sides, worn smooth from use. At the base, a metal bar spreader jutted out.
To one side, a bed, black sheets, low to the ground, the headboard threaded with handcuffs built into the frame. No frills. No romance. Just raw function. Nearby, chains hung from ceiling hooks, their twin counterparts anchored to the floor beneath. Their purpose wasn’t vague. You could practically hear the echoes of skin and sound in the room.
In the corner, a sleek black shelf lined the wall, stocked with… everything. Nipple clamps, ball gags, plugs in varying sizes, glass toys, a paddle carved with the word SLUT so deep the letters looked branded.
Lee stood still, eyes moving slowly, deliberately. This wasn’t a novelty. It wasn’t a set piece. It was lived in. Practiced. Perfected.
Madelaine turned back to him, arms loosely folded, watching him absorb it all, not with shame, but with pride.
“This is where the masks come off,” she said. “Everything else is just performance.”
And damn if he didn’t believe her.
Lee didn’t speak right away.
His eyes scanned the room again, slower this time.
He looked back at her.
Madelaine hadn’t moved. She leaned against the bench casually, like it was just another piece of furniture in her house. Her arms were still crossed, one eyebrow slightly raised, waiting, but not pushing. She didn’t need to. The silence was working for her.
“You bring all your interviewers down here?” Lee asked.
Her smirk deepened, barely.
“Only the ones who ask the right questions,” she said, stepping forward now.
She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could feel the energy shifting again, hotter this time, even in the cool basement air.
“Well,” she added, tilting her head slightly, “this is the realest part of me. The part no magazine ever prints.
Madelaine reached past him, slowly, and picked up the crimson collar from the wall. She held it loosely in one hand, letting the leash unspool to the floor with a soft clink of metal on tile.
“This intimidates some people,” she said, tone calm, matter-of-fact. “Others… lean in.”
She held it out, not pushing it on him, not demanding, just offering.
Lee’s eyes dropped to the collar, then back to hers.
He reached out and took it from her.
Lee turned the collar over in his hands. The leather was soft, but sturdy, well-used but immaculately cared for. The leash was cold where it brushed his knuckles. And yet, all of that felt like background noise compared to the look in her eyes.
Then, slowly, Lee looked her dead in the eye.
“Take off your clothes.”
The words weren’t barked or whispered. They came out low and firm, measured. A statement, not a question. A test.
Madelaine didn’t flinch.
Her smirk didn’t return, either. Something else surfaced instead, something quieter. She held his gaze for a heartbeat longer... then lifted the hem of her blouse. No theatrics, no showy tease. Just calm, practiced removal. Fabric peeled away from skin, exposing smooth shoulders, her bare chest, her breath steady and controlled. Her slacks followed, unbuttoned and slipped down in one clean motion, then stepped out of with ease.
Now fully naked, she stood before him, unashamed, unguarded, defiant in her stillness.
Lee stepped closer.
He lifted the collar again, slower this time, brushing a thumb across the inside as if confirming it was real. And when he reached out and wrapped it around her neck, his hands were steady. The click of the buckle echoed faintly off the concrete walls.
The leash trailed loosely from his fingers.
“There,” he said. “That’s better.”
Madelaine didn’t say a word.
But her eyes, sharp and alive, told him everything he needed to know.
She’d given him the reins.
He gave the leash a slight tug, not forceful, just enough to say move.
“Bench,” he said.
Madelaine turned without hesitation, walking slowly toward the padded structure in the center of the room. Her movements were unhurried, but precise. She knew exactly where this was going.
Lee led the way, taking in every motion, the tension in her shoulders, the soft sway of her hips, the rhythmic sound of her bare feet against the floor.
When she reached the bench, she positioned herself without prompting, placing her knees on the padded surface and leaning forward, bracing her arms along the upper rest. Her back arched, exposing her fully, willingly.
The leather straps hung loose at the sides like waiting hands.
Lee moved deliberately.
He started with her wrists, buckling each one in, testing the tension with a careful tug. Then he worked his way to her thighs, securing the heavy restraints so she couldn’t shift without permission. Finally, he reached for the bar spreader beneath and nudged her legs into place. The cold metal clicked into its lock with a sound that echoed.
Her body was completely restrained now, kneeling, arms bound, legs spread and locked open. Vulnerable. Displayed.
Lee took a step back, leash still in hand, and looked at the sight before him. Madelaine, actress, icon, control freak to the outside world, was caged in stillness, breathing slowly and even, waiting for whatever came next.
Lee circled her slowly, his footsteps against the cool floor. The leash hung in his hand, trailing behind him like a live wire waiting to be grounded. Madelaine didn’t move, couldn’t, and wouldn’t, even if she could. Her breathing was steady. Not nervous. Not excited. Focused. This wasn’t new to her.
He stopped beside her, fingers brushing over the curve of her lower back, lightly, barely there. The contact was nothing, but the message was clear, He decided when things touched her. He dictated what came next. Then he took a step to the racks, his back to her but his attention still wrapped tight around the center of the room, the energy hanging between them.
He ran his hand along the selection of impact toys, letting the leather fringe of a flogger tickle his palm, then chose the paddle with the deep, bold engraving.
He held it up, let her see it. Let her remember the word carved there.
“Slut,” he announced, because names and labels meant power.
He brought the paddle down in a clean, diagonally arc, so the first strike landed right at the center of her ass. Not hard enough to draw a yelp, but more than enough to print the text in red relief across her skin.
Madelaine exhaled, the only allowance she gave herself.
Lee traced the faint, mirrored S with his thumb, admiring his handiwork. She was silent, but her entire body was a study in animal tension, the flexed fingers, the taut muscles, the subtle clench of her jaw as sensation rippled outward. He struck her again, then again, watching the welts bloom, the color deepening with methodical precision. With each blow, the room seemed to shrink, the world outside the bunker less basement receding until there was nothing but her restraint and his will.
He gave it a moment, then another, letting her ride the sting. The second swing fell lower, across the tops of her thighs, leaving a matching pink band that would rise and bloom. He had an artist’s eye for balance, alternating sides, never repeating the same spot until a gradient of red deepened, a map of pain and worship. The word SLUT started to imprint itself on her skin, as if daring her to look later and regret nothing.
He stopped not when her skin changed hue, but when her breathing did, a short, shuddered inhalation, like a swimmer surfacing from long submersion. He placed the paddle on the bench beside her, careful, ceremonial, then leaned in, mouth near her ear.
“You’re doing well,” he said.
He reached for her hair, he wanted her to feel that move coming, wanted her to anticipate it, and gathered the twist into one fist, tugging just enough to arch her neck. Her voice didn’t break. “Thank you, Sir,” she said, not with the meekness of a supplicant, but the crystalline clarity of a declaration. Lee heard something else in her voice, relief.
He released her hair and let his palm drift over the bright welts. Warmth radiated from her skin, but her breath remained steady, not wanting or pleading, but braced for what might come next. Lee’s own pulse hummed, amplified by her composure.
Lee let the leash dangle to the floor and moved towards one of the shelves, and selected a glass plug, a clear, weighty, teardrop-shaped thing. He grabbed a bottle of lube, uncapped it one-handed, and poured some of the substance onto the plug.
He said nothing as he stepped behind her, one hand parting the curve of her ass with confidence. He pressed the cool bulb to her asshole, holding it there, giving her time to feel the chill, to dread or savor it as she chose. Madelaine arched back, presenting herself, and he pressed harder, slow and unstopping until it breached her and the flare settled home. She gasped, a small sound, but not a protest.
She clenched, adjusting to the fullness, the pressure, the ownership of it. He trailed a thumb over the base, a silent affirmation, before stepping sideways and selecting the pair of clover clamps from the shelf. They gleamed in the saturated red of the overhead bulbs, their mechanics simple but merciless. Lee crouched beside her, his hand firm on her shoulder as he pinched her left nipple, rolling it to a peak with practiced fingers. Her breath hitched. He attached the clamp, then its mate, one after the other, and let the weighted chain fall.
Madelaine made no sound, but her pale skin flushed where the chain dragged between her breasts. He gave the chain a gentle lift, watching the clamps tighten, reading every micro-flinch in her face, and smiled. She was luminous with restraint. For a moment, he said nothing. Just watched the tremor of her body, the subtle fight between pain and anticipation. Lee knew how to read the difference, in people, in moments like this. That was why he always won.
He reached under the bench, retrieving a thin black cane. Carbon, not wood, flexible and precise. He let it whistle through the air once, a warning note, before tapping it to the inside of her left thigh. Her muscles tensed, ready, but she didn’t utter a word. The discipline of her silence was exquisite.
When the first strike landed, it was a sharp, elegant sound, almost musical in the acoustics of the dungeon. Madelaine jerked, her hands gripping the leather bench, but she did not flinch away. The next tap was slower, a warning, then the third stroke bit deeper, raising a line of red across her skin. Each strike was measured. He watched her ride up on the pain, watched the edges of her composure fray and then mend as she found her footing in the sensations. Lee set a rhythm, tap, swish, snap, and the body responded in kind, climbing higher, then trembling at the edge.
Her hair had fallen forward, red curtain over her face, but he saw her jaw tight, her lips parted, breathing through every new line etched into her flesh. Lee didn’t ask if it was too much. He read her limits in the way her knuckles whitened in the cuffs, in her mounting, almost defiant, refusal to break. He continued until the marks glowed, and only then did he stop, letting the anticipation bloom.
He could have kept on until she broke. He knew exactly how many more strokes it would take. But instead, he stopped, resting the tip of the cane against the back of her knee while his other hand traced the rising welts on Madelaine’s body. Lee put the cane away, pointing it like a conductor’s baton toward the array of implements and toys, as if considering where this night ought to go.
Madelaine could not see his face, but expected his next move, she always did, or tried to, it was in her nature to outguess and outmaneuver, but Lee surprised her by letting the moment hang, stretching the silence into its own kind of torment. In that pause, the last trembling echoes of pain retreated, replaced with the low, molten burn of being truly seen.
“Still with me?” His voice was a low rumble.
“Yes, Sir,” she said. It was not a gasp or a whimper. It was clear, bright, the vowel stretched out like a gift.
He leaned in, removed the leash from her collar, and replaced it with his hand around her neck, not squeezing, just resting a possessive palm there as his other hand traced the outlines of the word branded above her ass. She felt him catalog the marks, assessing with the patience of someone who could distinguish, in the most minute gradations, every increment of hurt and hunger.
Lee lifted the chain connecting the clamps with his free hand, giving it a playful tug that drew a sharp gasp and a reflexive clench from Madelaine’s whole body. Then he left it swaying, weights gently tapping her breastbone, a silent metronome for the pain. With his other hand, he lifted her chin until she was forced to look straight forward, eyes unfocused but burning.
For a few seconds, neither of them moved. The air pulsed between them, thick with surrender and intent. Then Lee bent down, his mouth at the shell of her ear. “I want to see your eyes when you come,” he said. He didn’t say if, he said when, and Madelaine believed him.
He reached under the bench, fingers slipping between her legs, parting swollen lips with practiced, impersonal precision. She was radiantly wet, he expected nothing less, but the confirmation pleased him all the same. His first contact was light, then he pressed harder, thumb circling around her clit but never square on, always adjacent, always just enough to tease the nerves into frenzy without granting relief.
“You’re perfect,” he said, and then, almost gently, “Let yourself go.”
Madelaine’s breath caught, and the words landed deeper than any blow. She nodded once, a tiny, involuntary twitch, as Lee’s thumb pressed against her, while two others teased the rim of the butt plug. Madelaine braced herself, pretense and posture stripped bare, reduced to breath and will. The rasp of her own panting, the sting amplifying along her limbs, cold and heat warring over her skin.
Yet what thrilled Madelaine most, what had hooked her from the first time she’d surrendered control, was not the pain. It was the clarity. The hyper-focused now, where everything else, her career, her reputation, the antennae of public perception, fell off like an old skin. Here, she was nothing except what Lee made her.
She began to rock, barely perceptible at first, just enough for the plug to shift and the clamps to bite sharper. Lee noted every micro-movement, adjusted his rhythm, his thumb working small infernal circles that never lingered at the dead center, always orbiting, taunting, holding her at a desperate pitch. In the trap of her own restraint, Madelaine’s logic scrambled and reassembled itself around the imperative of sensation.
Lee maintained the pressure with one hand, the other kneading at her hip. She wanted to speak, to defy him, to say his name not as a plea but as a demand. But every time the urge welled up, Lee dialed her back into obedience with a tweak of the clamps or a slap of the paddle’s memory on her ass. Madelaine’s vocabulary condensed to grunts, sharp exhalations, and the strained music of the chain bouncing against her chest.
He worked her like a symphony, the overture of pain giving way to an aria of raw pleasure. The plug filled her, the clamps burned, and her clit pulsed under the relentless orbit of his thumb.
Lee started this to expose her realness for the article. He was learning something new about himself instead.
He watched, unhurried, as Madelaine’s composure stripped away. The first tremor arrived quietly, a shudder traveling up her back, a gasp that barely escaped her lips. Lee didn't grant satisfaction so easily, he’d edge her for as long as it pleased him, turning her insides to molten syrup before pouring her over into the next torture.
Madelaine realized with cold shock that she wanted to break. She wanted to sob, to scream, to spit out ugly truths and let them stain the floor. It made her feel filthy, weak, glorious. The need ratcheted up, a hot ache banded by the cool burn of glass and the icepick bites of the clamps and the steady, inescapable orbit of Lee’s thumb. She started to tremble in the straps, breath tearing out of her like she’d been underwater for months. The clamps bit. The plug pressed. His thumb pressed down with implacable pressure onto the trembling bundle of nerves, and the bench shuddered as Madelaine snapped, spasmed, really, hips bucking against her bonds, vision whiting out as the orgasm ripped through her.
Lee watched her ride it, watched the control evaporate from her limbs. Her hands fought the restraints; her thighs clenched unconsciously around the spreader bar. The chain sang against her sternum, high and bright. Only when the wave had wrung her entirely, when she looked spent, drooling onto the leather below her, did Lee allow himself a faint, private smile.
He reached forward to unclip the clamps, slow but unsparing. The rush of blood back into her nipples made her sob a little and then laugh a little, breathless and deranged, her whole body still quaking. Lee stroked her hair, only once, but there was a kind of benediction to it. He unbuckled her wrists, slow and careful, and Madelaine let her arms hang limp, chin pressed to the bench, wet cheek glued to the leather with a mix of drool and tears.
He stepped away but didn’t leave, crouched at eye level, appraising, as if the benchmark of his handiwork was not just in the aftermath but the way a subject recomposed herself.
“You good?” he asked, his voice back to low and gentle, not in mockery but as a real question. Lee did not deal in false aftercare.
Madelaine nodded, tongue thick in her mouth, voice milky. “Yeah. Really fucking good.” Then she tried to laugh again, and it came out as a hiccup, a strangled glissando. “That was brutal.”
Lee’s phone vibrated in his pocket as he helped Madelaine sit upright. He let the screen flash and fade without checking it, moving instead to offer her a bottle of water from a mini fridge tucked beneath the racks. The chill from the condensation seemed to wake her fully, and she chugged half the bottle in one go, the last of her shakes subsiding as the liquid hit her system.
She grinned, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and waited as Lee gathered up the implements with the same fluid, orderly movements he’d shown all morning. Even now, he was cataloging details, mentally writing the opening lines of what would be his most read, most discussed, maybe most controversial feature.
The End