"Behind The Lens" with Multiple Celebs (Chapter 3 with Madelyn Cline Posted)

[TheLW]

Behind The Lens #1
With Dua Lipa
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Anal, Fingering, Rimjob
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

It hadn’t been long, just a couple of weeks, since I, Logan Fitzpatrick, shot the wedding of Hailee Steinfeld and Josh Allen. That job wasn’t just high-profile, it was career-defining. Every major outlet covered it. My name was suddenly in demand. What followed was an avalanche of emails, social media buzz, and phone calls from people I never thought I’d hear from.

But one message stood out.

A sleek, minimalist email from British Vogue. No subject line. Just a simple message: We’d like to fly you out for an exclusive shoot with Dua Lipa. Are you available this week?

Fuck yes, I was available.

The next morning, I was stepping onto a first-class flight, cradling my camera case like it was a newborn. A few hours later, I touched down. No sleep, no downtime. I checked into the hotel, tossed my bags on the bed, changed my shirt, and hailed a cab straight to the shoot location.

When I arrived, the energy in the studio was chaotic but controlled. Lighting techs fussed with rigs, assistants adjusted racks of designer outfits, and makeup artists hovered like hawks. But all that background noise faded when I saw her.

Dua.

She was standing near the wardrobe setup, sipping from a bottle of water, half-smiling as a stylist adjusted the sleeve of her jacket. And damn, she looked unreal. That wasn’t just celebrity polish, it was presence. Command. Confidence wrapped in effortless charm.

Our eyes met for a moment. Just a flicker. But it lingered.

I approached and introduced myself, doing my best to keep things cool. “Logan Fitzpatrick,” I said, offering my hand. “Apparently I’m the lucky guy getting to shoot you today.”

Dua’s smile widened just a bit, enough to let me know she caught the double meaning. “Lucky indeed,” she said, her accent wrapping around the words like silk. “I’ve seen your work. Hailee’s wedding was stunning.”

“Helps when your subjects are literal movie stars,” I replied with a smirk. “But today? I think I’ve got something even better to work with.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Are you always this smooth?”

“Only when the camera’s not in my hands.”

She laughed, low and throaty, then tilted her head slightly. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

From there, it was like magic. The moment she stepped in front of the lens, everything else faded. The chaos, the noise, the crew, it all vanished. It was just her and me. Click. Click. Click. She moved effortlessly, slow turns, sultry glances, quick bursts of attitude that made every frame feel alive.

“Give me more of that energy,” I said, adjusting the lens. “Like you’re about to take over the world.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “What if I already have?”

I grinned. “Then let’s make the world remember it.”

Her gaze locked with mine between shots, and there was a spark, subtle, but unmistakable. After the third outfit change, she wandered over as the crew reset the backdrop. She leaned in close, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.

“Are you always this intense when you shoot?” she asked, lips close enough that I could smell the faint trace of her perfume, something floral, but with a sharp, spicy edge.

“Only when the subject’s worth it.”

She smiled again, slower this time, eyes scanning my face like she was trying to read more than I was giving. “Careful, Logan. Keep talking like that and I’ll think you’re trying to charm me.”

“And what if I am?”

Dua paused, lips parting slightly like she was about to say something, but then just smirked and turned back toward the camera. “Then I hope your follow-through is as good as your lighting.”

Damn right, challenge accepted.

That wasn’t just banter, that was a line in the sand, and Dua Lipa had just dared me to cross it. And let me be clear, I’m not the kind of guy who blinks when a global icon locks eyes and throws down like that.

We went right back into the shoot, but now it wasn’t just electric, it was nuclear. Every pose she struck felt personal. Every smirk, every glance was aimed through the lens and straight into me. The rest of the team might as well have vanished into smoke. It was just her and me, in a dance of light, shadow, and unspoken tension.

She'd shift, flash of leg, flick of hair, arch of the neck, and I was right there catching it, anticipating every movement like we’d done this a hundred times before. But this wasn’t repetition. This was chemistry. This was combustion.

“I need five,” she said.

The second Dua walked back onto set in that outfit, black leather sculpted like it was poured onto her, gleaming under the studio lights, I knew we were about to push this shoot past anything British Vogue had dared to imagine.

Her hair was slicked tight, that long braid snapping like a whip every time she turned. And the way she moved? Like she owned the room, hell, like she was the room. Confidence weaponized. And I was going to capture every damn second of it.

"Alright, Dua. I want heat. I want danger," I said, stepping back behind the lens. “You’re not posing. You’re challenging them. Make the camera beg.”

She turned her back to me, hands on the wall, hips arched, that coat flaring just enough to reveal… yeah. She knew exactly what she was doing. I clicked the shutter.

Click.

She spun around and bit the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder, her eyes locked onto the lens with a hunger that damn near made my hands shake.

“More of that. Keep that fire,” I instructed.

Dua didn’t wait for another cue.

She shifted her weight, one hip cocked with defiance, and slid her fingers across the curve of her waist, slow and deliberate, like she was daring me, or anyone watching, to look away. Her eyes never left the lens. That wasn’t just posing anymore.

Click. Click. Click.

She moved again, hands to her hips, chest out, chin low, like a panther ready to pounce. Her leather outfit caught the light and practically radiated, every muscle beneath it coiled, precise. The braid whipped behind her as she pivoted, striking her silhouette into a pose that would have shattered glass.

“Damn,” I muttered. Not even to her. Just to myself. Because holy hell, she was on another level.

“Don’t stop shooting,” she said, breathless but sharp, voice cutting through the noise like a scalpel. “I’ve got more.”

“Then show me,” I snapped back, adrenaline flooding in. “Show me the version of you no one else gets to see.”

She grinned, wicked, knowing, and her entire demeanor shifted. The smirk turned feral, her stance widened, and her fingers traced the seam of her outfit like it was part of her own skin.

Later that day, the studio lights had dimmed, the echoes of hurried footsteps and clicking shutters long gone. The chaos had emptied out, and in its place was silence, the kind that only settles when something real is about to happen.

It was just me and Dua now.

She hadn’t changed.

She was still in that outfit, the sculpted black leather dress that clinged to her every curve like it had been painted on. Her skin still shimmered faintly from the shoot, the sheen catching the soft light from the monitor as we stood side by side, going over the photos.

I don’t even remember who suggested staying back to review them, maybe it was her, maybe it was me, but neither of us had rushed to leave. And now she was leaning in just a little too close, her perfume curling through the air again, spicy and floral, intoxicating as hell.

“Look at this one,” she said, tapping the screen, her voice smooth, a little husky from the long day. “You caught me just as I turned… see the way the braid cuts through the shadow?”

I looked, I did, but my eyes weren’t on the photo anymore.

They were on her.

“You’re not even trying anymore,” I said, grinning.

“Trying what?” she asked, eyes looking up to meet mine, that wicked curve returning to her lips.

“To act like you’re just here to review shots.”

She tilted her head, braid slipping over one shoulder like a slow-moving fuse. “Who said I’m pretending?”

My throat went dry.

She took a step toward me, not much, just enough. Her hand grazed the edge of the table, fingers tapping softly, rhythmically. That leather outfit, still molded to her, gave nothing away but demanded everything in return.

“I’m still dressed for the shoot,” she said, voice low and deliberate. “But I think we both know... this part wasn’t for them.”

She leaned in, her breath warm against my neck now. My heart damn near punched through my ribs.

“So,” she whispered, “what are you gonna do about it, photographer?”

I turned toward her slowly, eyes locked, tension coiled so tight the air crackled.

“Simple,” I said. “Set up one more shot.”

Her eyes lit up, fierce and hungry. “Then make it count.”

And with that, the real moment began.

Moments later, I moved into position behind her.

The back of her outfit, that slick, sculpted leather, was tugged down just far enough to bare her shoulders, the zipper drawn halfway with a deliberate slowness that made my pulse hammer in my ears. Her skin, warm under the soft studio lights, was flawless, smooth, glowing, real. A striking contrast to the hard, untouchable image she projected all day. This was something different. Something raw.

Dua didn’t flinch. Didn’t look back.

She stood still, poised, the same confidence radiating from her even now, maybe especially now. One hand rested on the edge of the table, the other casually draped on her hip, her head turned slightly to the side, exposing the elegant line of her neck. She knew I was behind her. She wanted me there.

“You’re quiet,” she said, voice low and teasing.

“I’m taking in the view,” I said, and it wasn’t a line, it was the truth.

She laughed, soft and dark. “So you do know how to appreciate beauty when it’s not behind a lens.”

My hand hovered near the zipper, the urge to pull it just a bit lower crawling through my fingertips. But I stopped, not out of hesitation, but control. She didn’t need to see the look on my face to know what I was thinking. The tension between us was thick enough to choke on.

She leaned back slightly, just enough to brush against me. Deliberate. Calculated. Her head tilted again, and she whispered, “Are you sure you’re not still shooting?”

“I don’t need the camera anymore,” I said, my voice sharp and hushed. “Some things you don’t capture. You experience it.”

She exhaled, slow and charged, and in that moment, standing behind her, fingertips grazing the edges of her exposed back, I knew this wasn’t the aftermath of the shoot.

This was the real session.

And neither of us was ready to call it a wrap.

With that, the rest of her leather dress hit the floor, Dua completely exposed, and I dropped to my knees behind her.

My hands clamped onto her hips, those world-famous curves, right there under my palms, and she shivered, just once, but enough for me to notice. I pressed my thumbs into the groove above her ass and she eased herself down, folding at the waist, spine arching like a taut bow. Her bare skin was perfect, and I bent forward with a hunger that had nothing to do with composure or professionalism.

The first touch was a surprise, she gasped, then let out a laugh that spiraled straight into a low moan. I spread her cheeks wider, exposing the tight pink ring that flexed under my breath, and let my tongue circle it, gently at first, then harder as she arched back against my face.

“Jesus, Logan,” she hissed, and I smiled, she felt that, too.

Dua’s ass was, in every sense, a work of art. I traced every contour with my lips and tongue, lapping slow, then fast, circling her star until she groaned. I licked her, steady and deep and relentless, savoring the taste and the way she trembled when I flicked my tongue just right. Each time I pressed in, she gripped the table.

“That’s it,” she whispered, goosebumps prickling her thighs, “don’t fucking stop.”

I didn’t. My tongue worked her, opening her, soft then hard, turning slow circles with steady pressure that made her moan again, the muscles in her legs shaking. Every sound out of her felt like a dare, and I answered it, grabbing a fistful of her braid with one hand and holding her open with the other, devouring her until her knees gave way and she melted onto her forearms.

Her ass, slick and flushed, trembled as I licked her rim, then dipped my tongue deeper, pushing past the tight ring until Dua croaked out, “Holy shit, Logan, fuck.”

I kept going, tongue pressed flat and deliberate against her, inhaling her heat, her sweat, her absolute want. My hands slid up, grazing her ribs, and trailing the curve of her waist with my fingertips as my mouth stayed locked on her.

“Fuck, Logan, god, right there, don’t you dare…” She cut off with a breathless gasp.

I pressed my face tighter, greedy, letting my stubble scrape her softly. With each circle, each plunge, she got louder, her accent breaking into something animalistic. The hand not tangled in her braid slipped down to cup her cunt, finding her hot and wet, dripping over my fingers. I let them join my mouth, two thick fingers slipping inside as my tongue kept working her ass.

I tongued her, and worked my fingers in tandem, scissoring gently as her body rocked into the pressure, greedy for it, instinctive. Dua arched, letting all her weight rest on the table, thighs trembling against my cheeks, ass grinding against my mouth. She pushed back, grinding her ass into my face, her hips shuddering. It was filthy, obscene, and she didn’t care. Neither did I. She wanted to be devoured, to surrender every last inch, and I was going to give it to her.

“God, fuck, yes,” she moaned, “more, more…”

Her taste, her scent, her sweat mingled in the air, intoxicating and so sharply hers that all I could do was chase it, bury my face deeper, lose myself. I let go of her braid and gripped her cheeks with both hands, parting her wide. I rimmed her, flicked her, pressed hard and deep, until Dua was just a collection of sounds, moans, curses, rasps, my name spit out in syllables drawn from the back of her throat.

I obliged, pressing firmer, flattening my tongue and flicking it fast over her rim, while my fingers worked up a slick rhythm, twisting as I felt her clench around them. Her cunt pulsated around my fingers, and I knew she was close. Dua’s pussy clamped down hard on my fingers, spasming as she came with a low, helpless groan.

Moments later, I got off of the floor, pulleds my pants down, and lined my rock hard cock up with her oh so fuckable asshole. I pressed forward, slowly, not wanting to force it too much at first. There was some resistance, maybe she tensed, or maybe I was just a little too eager, but then the head pressed past tight muscle, stretching her open.

I gave her time. Felt her warmth stretch and mold around me as I entered deeper, patient, savoring the increment as her tightness finally gave way. My hands bracketed her hips, fingers digging in where old bruises bloomed under her skin. Each inch I fed into her was received with guttural little moans that escalated until I was fully sheathed, flush against her ass, the world narrowed to only the throb of pressure and the wild pulse in my own skull.

“Ugh,” she cried out.

I withdrew, slow, and watched as her body seemed to plead for my return, then drove in harder, now less merciful, letting the rhythm take hold. The slap of our flesh echoed sharp in the empty, shuddering room.

Her ass opened to me, greedier than any mouth could be, that ring of muscle grasping, reluctant to let me go. I buried myself, both hands locked at the sharp flare of her hips, and pistoned in, each stroke slicker, meaner, bottoming out with a slap that echoed off the cinderblock studio walls. She howled, voice bouncing from every corner, a performance for an audience of none.

“Fuck,” she gasped, “fuck me, deeper.”

I gave her everything, hips rocking, cock splitting her open, glare locked on the place where we joined. She was a sculpture of need and hunger and I was the chisel, relentlessly, carving more from her every second.

The slap of skin punctuated every thrust. Dua braced herself, she threw her head back, braid snapping down her spine. Her ass bounced against my hips each time I bottomed out. The look she shot me over her shoulder was pure defiance, a queen daring a servant to do better, harder, more. I met her stare and drove in with a force that made her slap the table.

I was close, too close, but I didn’t dare relent. She demanded everything, so I’d give it to her. She shrieked then, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry, a sound that made my cock twitch and my control snap. I slammed forward, burying myself to the hilt, and let go, every muscle clenching as I spilled inside her. The last throbs shot through us both, and she arched, grinding back to milk out every last drop of my baby batter.

We hung there, bodies fused, sweat mixing, both of us shaking. Dua exhaled, low and satisfied.

“Is that how you wrap up every Vogue shoot?” she panted, voice still edged with laughter.

“Only the ones worth remembering,” I answered, breathless.

She turned her head slowly, her eyes catching mine, and just like that, the tension sparked again. We weren’t done. Not emotionally. Not mentally. Maybe not even physically.

“Good,” she said, voice steadying, “because I plan on remembering every second of this.”

The words hung in the air between us, not a question, not a challenge, but a promise.

To Be Continued

[TheLW]

Behind The Lens #2
With Kylie Jenner
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Choking, Rough Sex
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

Another week, another high-profile job. Logan Fitzpatrick barely had time to breathe, let alone process the whirlwind his life had become. Business was booming, sure, but it wasn’t just about the bookings anymore. No, lately, it felt like something else was driving him. The truth was, he lived for this chaos. It fed something in him, something hungry, something that didn’t know how to sit still.

After wrapping up the British Vogue shoot with Dua, you'd think he'd take a damn break. But no, Logan dove headfirst into his next gig, this time a photo shoot with Kylie fucking Jenner. A shoot for her Khy bikini collection in collaboration with Frankies Bikinis. Sunlight. Skin. Fame. And her.

He didn’t like the Kardashians, not really. He found their whole empire loud, performative, saturated with too much gloss and not enough grit. But Kylie… that was different. She was the one he’d never admitted to crushing on, not to his crew, not even to his ex who once caught him lingering too long on one of Kylie’s campaign ads.

And now she was about to be in front of his camera. Half-naked, sun-kissed, and expecting nothing less than magic.

The location was already set, a secluded beach estate in Malibu, private, pristine, and worth more than Logan had made in the last two years combined. He arrived early, as always, wanting time to scout the angles, adjust for the light, and settle the humming nerves he refused to acknowledge.

The crew milled about, prepping equipment and laying out pieces from the bikini line, a red one, a black one, and barely-there fabrics that were more suggestion than garment. Everything was soft tones and coastal warmth, but Logan felt none of it. All he could think about was how this woman, this brand, was about to walk onto his set and test every last ounce of his self-control.

And then, like clockwork, she arrived.

Kylie didn’t enter the space. She claimed it. Surrounded by assistants, stylists, and the ever-hovering PR rep, she moved through the area like a queen in a territory she’d already conquered. Her dark eyes scanned the set with clinical ease, taking in every detail. And then she looked at him.

That one glance? It hit like a gut punch.

“Logan?” she asked, her voice calm, businesslike, yet soaked in confidence.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat, trying not to sound like a kid caught sneaking into a club he didn’t belong in.

She smiled. It wasn’t friendly, it was knowing. That smile said, You’re going to work for it. Every shot. Every angle. I’m not just your subject, I’m your test.

He raised his camera, pretending to check the settings, needing something between them, even if it was just glass and steel. It was a few minutes later when Logan looked up from his monitor, and everything around him just… dropped away.

She had changed.

The first bikini for the shoot, a blazing red two-piece from the Khy collection, tied tight at the chest, loose at the hips, was doing a hell of a lot more than selling swimwear. It looked like it had been designed specifically to weaponize her curves, to broadcast exactly how untouchable she was. And from the way she moved, slow, like a lioness hunting its prey, she knew it.

Kylie stepped through the dappled light of the garden trail behind the estate, half-shielded by overgrown greens and thick brush. Her towel slung casually over one shoulder, her feet bare, her skin glowing like it had been dipped in honey. She didn’t say a word at first. She didn’t have to.

The red bikini clung to her like sin. Every tie, every inch of fabric was perfectly placed to make Logan’s job impossible. Not because of technical challenges, no, the light was perfect, the backdrop lush. It was her. The way she filled the frame. The way her presence hit like a shot to the chest.

“Start here,” Kylie said, her voice smooth, commanding. “Keep it natural. No bounce, no flash. Just me.”

Logan nodded, finding his voice buried somewhere beneath all that heat. “Yeah. Got it.”

She moved into position beside a stretch of thick rosemary and low-hanging leaves, her hips cocked just slightly, her hand to her side. Her head dipped as she let her hair spill forward. The red of her bikini burned against the green, drawing the eye like blood on satin.

She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “You gonna shoot, or just keep staring?”

Logan snapped back to it, raised the lens. “I’m good. Just… adjusting.”

Kylie tilted her head. “I’m not here to be adjusted. I’m here to be captured. So do it.”

Click.

The first shot landed clean. Too clean. Professional. Cold. It wasn’t enough.

Kylie shifted again, subtly this time, letting the strap of her bikini top slide just barely down her shoulder, exposing more skin but without crossing a line. Just nudging it. Just enough to make Logan bite the inside of his cheek.

Click.

Click.

She leaned slightly into the frame of leaves behind her, arching her back just enough to deepen every curve.

Click.

They were on the second look now. The heat had shifted. The garden shots were done, and the crew had peeled away, giving them space by the pool for the next setup.

Kylie had once again changed.

This bikini was darker, black with subtle white dots, thinner straps, sleeker fit. It clung to her like it had been stitched onto her skin, damp already from her first dip into the pool. Water beaded on her chest and shoulders, sunlight catching every curve in glinting gold. Her hair was slicked back now, jet black and soaked, framing her face like it had been styled for one shot, and one man’s eyes.

Logan raised his camera, but he was too slow.

“Hold up,” Kylie said, arching herself backward in the water, the curve of her back breaking the surface in a slow, gliding motion. Her chest rose, catching the light perfectly, and she tilted her face just enough to let her jawline sharpen in shadow.

Click.

She smirked at the sound. “Better.”

“Logan,” she said, voice low, amused, “you always get this quiet when you’re turned on, or is it just me?”

He lowered the camera an inch. Just enough to meet her eyes. “I’m focused.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Focused,” she repeated, drawing the word out. “Cute.”

Then she dipped fully beneath the surface, vanishing for a beat. When she came back up, water poured off her hair and shoulders, her bikini clinging even tighter now. Her lips were parted, her gaze sharper.

He lifted the lens again.

Click.

Click.

Click.

“That all you’re gonna do?” she asked. “Just stand there and shoot me like this isn’t driving you out of your fucking mind?”

His jaw flexed. “This is me being professional.”

She swam closer to the edge, placing both hands on the wet stone ledge, lifting herself halfway out, barely covered, soaked, heat radiating from every inch of her. “What if I told you I’m tired of professional?”

Logan said nothing.

“You ever shoot underwater?” she asked, teasing the line between business and something else entirely.

He nodded. “I have the gear.”

She smirked. “Good. Bring it. Next round, I want to go under. Close. Real close. I want you in there with me.”

He clenched the camera in his hands. The shot was incredible, but this wasn’t a shoot anymore.

This was bait.

And Logan? He was already hooked.

The pool was quiet now. No crew. No distractions. Just the two of them, and the heavy tension hanging in the humid afternoon air.

Logan slipped into the water slowly, camera in hand, sealed in its underwater rig. The moment his head dipped below the surface, the noise of the world cut out, replaced by the soft, echoing hush of water. Peaceful. Still.

Then she appeared.

Kylie swam into frame like a siren, slow, elegant, unapologetically close. Her body moved with that same fluid control she’d carried all shoot long, only now it felt more intimate… more intentional. Her dark hair flowed around her shoulders, and that polka dot bikini seemed to melt into the water.

Logan raised the camera, framing her from below as she arched backward in a suspended pose, her chest rising toward the surface, her eyes opening underwater and locking onto him.

Click.

Then she swam forward. Closer.

Her hand gently brushed the side of his arm beneath the water, barely there, but enough to make his lungs tighten. He didn’t pull back. He couldn’t. Her mouth parted as she floated beside him, a single bubble escaping, trailing upward like a secret.

They hovered there, faces inches apart, bubbles rising between them.

Then she did it.

She leaned in, slow, testing him, and pressed her lips softly against his underwater. Warm, soft, lingering. A kiss that shouldn’t have happened. A kiss that did. Just long enough to make it unforgettable.

And then she pulled back.

Both of them surfaced at the same time, water cascading off their skin, breaths shallow. Neither said a word. It hung in the air between them, undeniable now.

The camera gear hit the edge of the pool with a heavy thunk as Logan climbed out first, chest tight, mind spiraling. He grabbed a towel, barely looking back.

Kylie pulled herself out next, water dripping from her curves in slow, taunting rivulets. She didn’t rush. She didn’t need to. She walked over, grabbed her robe, then leaned in close, wet hair clinging to her cheek, voice low enough that only he could hear.

“You’re done for the day,” she whispered, her breath warm at his jaw. “But I’m not.”

He swallowed.

“I’m at the Mandarin, top floor. Penthouse suite. Come by tonight… if you’re not too scared.”

And just like that, she walked away, leaving water and chaos in her wake.

A few hours later, The Mandarin Oriental, Top Floor.

Logan stood in the hallway outside the penthouse suite. The hall was too quiet. The carpet was too soft. Everything was too polished. The kind of place where discretion wasn't just expected, it was sold.

He lifted his hand, paused, then knocked twice.

The door opened almost immediately.

Kylie stood there in a cream robe, tied just enough to hold a shape, but loose enough to hint. Her skin still glistened faintly from the pool, damp hair falling in waves over one shoulder. She held a glass of something golden, eyes locked on him with zero effort and all the power in the world.

“Took you long enough,” she said, eyes sweeping him from head to toe.

Logan smiled. “I had to make sure I didn’t show up looking like I was too eager.”

She stepped aside without another word, letting him in. “You failed. You look eager as hell.”

The suite was warm, dimmed, impossibly sleek. The windows framed the skyline like a movie set.

“I see you went all in,” Logan said, taking the second glass waiting for him on the marble counter.

Kylie raised an eyebrow. “You think I do anything halfway?”

“Didn’t look like it earlier,” he said, taking a slow sip. “Especially not in that bikini.”

She smirked. “You noticed.”

“Pretty sure half of Malibu noticed.”

“And yet you’re the only one I invited up.”

Logan moved closer, setting his glass down on the table without breaking her gaze. “So what’s the plan, Kylie? Do I pretend this is some casual post-shoot debrief, or do we stop wasting time?”

She took a step toward him, hands slipping into the pockets of her robe, voice velvet smooth. “Why would I waste time with a guy who clearly knows exactly what he wants?”

“I do,” he said. “Right now, it’s standing three feet in front of me, wearing a robe that’s one deep breath away from falling off.”

Kylie let out a soft laugh, biting her lip. “You’ve got a mouth on you, Fitzpatrick.”

“You’ve got a lot worth talking about.”

That brought her even closer, no hesitation now. Her fingertips found the hem of his shirt, dragging slowly upward, her voice a little softer but no less dangerous.

Not soft. Not careful. It was a kiss that was hot, like she’d been waiting since the pool to tear him open. Logan’s hands found her waist, fingers sinking into the curve of her hips through the thin fabric of her robe. She tasted like champagne, and he kissed her back like it was oxygen, like he didn’t care if the whole city saw it through those damn windows.

The robe slipped. It fell in a hush to the floor, pooling around her bare feet.

Kylie pressed into him, her bare chest against his shirt, her fingers working the buttons one by one, slow and deliberate. She didn’t rush. She unwrapped him like a gift she planned to enjoy on her terms.

“You always let your clients undress you?” she asked against his neck.

“Only when they look like this,” he growled.

She bit his bottom lip, playful and rough. “Good answer.”

His shirt hit the ground next, and her hands roamed across his chest, dragging nails just hard enough to make him flinch, to remind him, she was still in control.

But not for long.

Logan spun her gently but firmly, pressing her back against the edge of the marble counter. The cold stone made her gasp, and he swallowed the sound in another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier. His hands slid down her sides, memorizing the curve of her waist, the lines of her thighs. She arched into him, pulling him closer until there was nothing between them but heat.

The kiss broke, and for a moment they just stared at each other.

“I thought photographers were supposed to keep their hands off the talent,” Kylie said, voice breathless but teasing.

Logan grinned, his hands still roaming over her bare hips. “Then you should’ve hired someone else.”

She grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand back to where she wanted it.

“I hired exactly who I wanted.”

And then there was no more talking.

Just hands. Mouths. Tongues. Skin.

And then just like that, Logan flipped Kylie over, her stomach pressed up against the marble counter.

A moment later, Logan’s pants dropped to the floor, his cock pressed hard between her cheeks as he gripped her hips, the tension making every nerve in his arms burn. She was wet, slick, and as he slid the head against her, Kylie looked back over her shoulder, readiness etched in every taut line of her spine.

He pushed in, slow at first, savoring the strangled gasp that jumped out of her. She felt it, every inch, and he could feel her back arch, her body tense and open all at once. Logan held her there, one hand on her hip, the other sliding up her ribcage to palm her breast. The marble was cold against her skin.

She pressed back against him, greedy, unafraid of what she wanted. He let her set the pace, the angle, her hips rolling him deeper and harder until each thrust echoed off the glass and stone. Logan met her pace, fucking her harder, deeper. He memorized it, the way she sounded, the way her body took his, the way she kept turning to glance at him over her shoulder.

Logan gripped her harder, using her hips as handles. Kylie took everything he gave, every rough motion, the way he pressed his chest to her back and bit down on her shoulder. Each breath came out in shudders, gasps, punctuated by his hands gliding up her stomach, then pinching and rolling her nipple, making her arch even more.

He was wild for her, obsessed with fucking her good and hard, the warmth, the way she turned to catch his gaze even as she let him drive her into the stone. Kylie looked over his shoulder, holding his stare. The slap of skin on skin, the way her hand braced against the counter and the other reached behind to dig into his hip, pulling him deeper.

He thrust harder, not thinking, only wanting to fill her, to watch her body react with every inch. Logan leaned in, kissed her nape, licked the wet salt from her skin. “Fuck, Kylie,” he moaned out.

He grunted into her hair, pulse racing, then yanked her hips back, burying himself deeper. The slap of her ass against him echoed off the high glass and stone. Kylie’s forearms pressed flat to the counter, head dropped between raised shoulders, her wild hair shrouding her cheek as she cried out in pleasure. She shifted her feet farther apart, offering herself up, greedy for the way Logan drove into her.

Logan set his hands wide, palms flattening against the cool marble next to hers. He leaned low, his chest grazing her back, and fucked her with steady, dangerous force. She didn’t make noise for effect; every gasp and whimper and sharp string of profanity was real, dragged out of her by the collision of flesh and stone and something neither of them had thought about before tonight.

As Logan looked up, he could see her profile reflected in the glass backsplash, mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut. He wanted to see more. Logan reached, fisted the tail of her hair and pulled gently until her face turned back, locking eyes with him.

“You can go harder, you know.” Kylie said.

He didn’t answer, just drove in deeper, pace snapped tight. The pressure was insane, her heat, the friction, the way she squeezed around him, like she was planning to wring out every drop he had to give. Every thrust drove her hips to the edge, her skin blooming red where it met the marble, but Kylie never flinched, not for a single second.

“God, like that. Don’t stop.”

He held her there, bent hard over the counter, breathing in her sweat and perfume, his own sweat slicking his chest. Every time he hit her deep, her thighs tensed and he caught the tremor in her knees, seeing it reflected in the glass. There was nothing fragile about Kylie now, she wanted it rough, he could tell by the way she met every thrust.

Logan pulled her upright, back pressed to his chest, arms caging her in. She twisted in his grip, catching the edge of the counter for balance. His hand slid up, fingers closing around her throat, not hard, just enough to claim her attention. Her breath hitched, mouth slack. Kylie tilted her head, jawline bared, and he bit down on the curve of her shoulder. She shivered, lips parting in a sound that was all hunger.

“Ugh. so fucking good.”

He leaned over her, breath hot at her ear. “Look at yourself,” he growled.

Kylie tried to, eyes looking up. He drew back, letting her see him, her, everything.

Logan palmed her oh so perfect ass, spread her wider, and drove himself into the root. God, Kylie was perfect. She met him, push for push, bracing herself as he aggressively thrust into her, the kind that left bruises. She was so wet he could hear the slap of skin, as his cock slid in and out of her, could feel it in the way her pussy clenched, every time he went back inside of her.

She was close, Logan could tell by the way she went rigid in his grip, thighs clamped around him like a vice, whole body trembling. His hand still circled her throat, thumb feeling her pulse jitter, counting down the seconds until she let go. For a moment she fought it, her hips pushing back so hard he nearly lost his balance. Then suddenly her whole body shook and she made a sound, legs shaking as she came, pussy clamping and grinding on his cock, every muscle in her drawing him in.

He pulled out, and turned Kylie around in one motion, hoisted her up onto the counter so her calves dangled over the edge. Logan stepped in, no hesitation, and dragged her forward by the waist until her ass slid to the very edge. He wrapped one arm under her thigh, hiking her knee, her thighs were still shaking when he lined himself up again and pushed back into her already well fucked pussy.

There was nothing shy in the way Kylie held his gaze, nothing uncertain about the grip she kept on Logan’s arms as he hammered into her over the cold hard marble counter. She wanted it every bit as much as he did. More, probably. Her calves tightened around his waist, pulling him closer as he worked her over, nipping her bottom lip between every rough kiss.

She dug her fingertips into his shoulders, Logan responded in kind, reaching both hands up to frame her jaw, pinning her in place while he fucked her, the speed fast and urgent now. He couldn’t get enough, and from the way she clamped down on him, neither could she. Every thrust knocked her farther up the counter, back slamming against the wood cabinets, Kylie’s tits bouncing with every hard thrust.

"Harder! Faster!"

Logan was out of his mind. He watched Kylie’s thighs tense on either side of his hips, her heels digging into his ass to drive him deeper, her hands moving from his shoulders to his jaw. She rode every thrust with him, no give, just pure pleasure and friction, that felt so fucking perfect.

Kylie licked her lips like she was starving, breath coming in ragged little sighs. Logan pinned her harder to the counter, both hands gripping her ass to haul her forward and backwards, in an up and down motion as his prick hammered away at her snatch. He leaned forward, mouth dragging along her collarbone, Logan left a mark just above her breast and she barely flinched, instead pulling him closer with a wild little laugh.

Logan felt the heat build from his balls, as he came hard, the first pulse dripping from her even before the second forced itself deep. Kylie let out a low, filthy gasp, grinding on him as he shot rope after rope of cum, filling her up until it leaked out around his cock, down onto the cool marble and smeared across their skin.

Afterwards, Logan glanced over at the oven clock. "Shit... it's nearly two am."

Kylie smirked, brushing her fingers down his chest. “Then don’t go.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“My room’s down the hall,” she said. “Big bed. Even better view. You should stay.”

Logan leaned in, kissed her again.

“Lead the way.”

The End

[Blocboy VC]

Nice job so far. I'll say though, you should tweek the first chapter a bit, since it seems like the story is gonna be in third person as of now, and it was kinda weird shifting from first to third so suddenly. I'll say that third person is better, and I'm really liking where this is going.

[TheLW]

Behind The Lens #3
With Madelyn Cline
Written by TheLW
Codes: Blowjob, Handjob, Public
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

Logan Fitzpatrick kicked the door shut with his heel, grocery bag cradled in one arm, keys still dangling from the other. His apartment was quiet, dim afternoon light filtered in through the blinds, catching the dust in the air. He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, headed into the kitchen, and started unpacking.

He had just set the eggs and milk in the fridge when his phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up: Lee Thompson.

He wiped his hands on a dish towel and picked up the phone.

“Hey, Lee,” Logan said, answering it. “How’s it going, man?”

“Pretty good,” Lee said, voice upbeat and familiar. “Actually, I’ve got a job opportunity for you.”

Logan leaned against the counter, already wary. “Oh yeah? What kind of opportunity?”

“Our movie premiere photographer just called in sick,” Lee said. “We need someone to cover the screening of the new I Know What You Did Last Summer. You were the first guy in L.A. I thought of.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t done red carpet work in over a year. “Just pictures?”

“Well,” Lee said, drawing the word out. “You’ll also get a VIP pass. You can actually sit in for the film. Free drinks, afterparty access, the whole Hollywood nonsense package.”

Logan gave a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? I can't imagine the movie’s going to be any good.”

Lee laughed with him. “Probably not. But come on, Jennifer Love Hewitt’s in it. You used to have a massive crush on her, dude. Like posters-on-your-wall level crush.”

Logan smirked despite himself. “Yeah… yeah, I did.”

“And they’ve added a few new girls to the cast,” Lee added. “Fresh faces. Hot as hell. I’m telling you, it’ll be worth the drive.”

Logan paused, chewing it over. A free VIP pass, maybe a few decent shots, a night out he didn’t have to pay for, and yeah, maybe he wouldn’t mind seeing Jennifer Love Hewitt up close.

“...Alright,” he finally said. “Fair enough. I’ll do it.”

“Atta boy,” Lee said, already sounding relieved. “I’ll text you the details, red carpet starts at 6:30 sharp. Wear something decent. And bring your camera gear, the real stuff.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it,” Logan said, chuckling. “Guess I better charge some batteries.”

“You’re the best. Drinks on me after.”

Logan hung up, staring at his phone for a moment longer before tossing it on the couch. He exhaled, glancing toward his bedroom.

“Alright,” he muttered.

He grabbed his camera bag from the closet, already running through mental checklists, lenses, batteries, SD cards, press badge.

Still... could be fun.

The red carpet was chaotic. Not surprising though.

Publicists barked instructions, handlers waved talent down the line, and flashes popped like strobe lights. Logan stood at his assigned spot, wedged between two other freelance photographers, camera raised, lens locked, his finger hovering over the shutter button like a sniper waiting to pull the trigger.

It was loud, it was crowded, it was a goddamn circus, but he’d done this enough to block it all out.

He was scanning the line, capturing the usual parade of B-list celebrities and influencers trying too hard, when something shifted.

A hush.

No, not exactly, but a shift in energy. Like the crowd collectively leaned in.

And then she stepped onto the carpet.

Logan’s finger twitched on instinct, snapping a photo before his brain caught up.

She was stunning.

She wore a silky blush-pink gown that clung to her like it had been poured on. The deep plunging neckline left little to the imagination, the fabric gathering just below her ribs and cascading down in elegant, ruched waves. It hugged her hips, then split slightly at the leg, revealing a glimpse of smooth skin and strappy heels that peeked out with every step she took.

Her hair, long, honey-blonde, and sleek, fell down her back like liquid gold, parted down the middle. Her makeup was flawless, accentuating high cheekbones, full lips with a soft pink gloss, and eyes that held just the right amount of mystery. She didn’t pose like the others, she owned the space, calm and deliberate, like she knew the effect she had and didn’t need to work for it.

Logan didn’t blink.

He lifted the camera again, more focused now, tracking her movements through the lens. His hands, usually steady, were just a little less so.

She glanced in his direction, no, right at him, and held his gaze for half a second. Just long enough to make him forget why he was there.

Click.

The flash caught her mid-turn, the soft fabric of her dress catching the breeze and her expression unreadable, a Mona Lisa like smirk with a red carpet glow.

“Jesus,” Logan muttered under his breath, checking the preview on his display. “That one’s going on the reel.”

The photographer to his right leaned in. “She’s the new lead. Final girl, I think.”

Logan nodded slowly, still staring.

Final girl or not, tonight, she was the main event.

A short while later, inside of the movie theater, the house lights had dimmed, the last few murmurs fading into silence as the screen up front flickered with studio logos and ominous music. Logan sat in the very back row, the freelancer’s refuge. No one to block his view, no one to notice if he ducked out early, and, most importantly, no one to expect small talk.

Or so he thought.

He had just leaned back, arms crossed loosely over his chest, when he heard movement beside him. A rustle of fabric. A faint whisper of perfume, warm, floral, expensive.

He turned slightly, and his heart nearly skipped.

Madelyn Cline.

Her.

She was easing down into the seat right next to his, pink dress flowing like liquid silk as she settled in, crossing one leg over the other with effortless grace.

Logan blinked. “Uh... hey.”

She looked over, lips curving into a knowing half-smile.

“Hey,” she replied, her voice low and unbothered, like they were old friends and this wasn’t insane. “Didn’t feel like sitting with the rest of the cast.”

He gestured vaguely toward the crowded rows up front. “Too much ass-kissing?”

She smirked, eyes back on the screen. “Something like that.”

A beat of silence passed. Logan glanced down at the camera bag resting at his feet.

“I was actually working the carpet tonight,” he said, feeling weirdly compelled to explain himself. “Didn’t think I’d be sitting next to one of the stars.”

She turned her head again, giving him a slow once-over. Not flirty, just observant.

“You got a name, camera guy?”

“Logan,” he said. “Logan Fitzpatrick.”

“Well, Logan Fitzpatrick,” she said, voice dipped in amusement, “you didn’t do too bad back there.”

He blinked again. “You remember me?”

“I remember a lot of things,” she said, cryptically, before turning back to the screen just as the movie began to roll.

Logan stared at her profile for a second longer, his heartbeat just a little faster than it should’ve been.

This night had just gotten a lot more interesting.

About halfway through the movie, Logan was only half-paying attention. The film played out in flickering shadows on the screen, but his focus kept drifting to the woman beside him.

Madelyn hadn't moved much, still reclined casually in her seat, one leg elegantly crossed, her The projector light caught her face just enough to highlight the glint in her eyes, and for a moment, everything else, the movie, the other people, the absurdity of the situation, disappeared.

She leaned in slightly, her breath warm as it brushed his ear.

"You looked like you needed help staying awake," she whispered, the words velvet-smooth and teasing.
gaze fixed on the screen. But then, her hand shifted.

Casually. Slowly. Until it brushed lightly against his thigh.

Logan stiffened.

At first, he thought it was accidental. The row was narrow, and maybe she was just adjusting. But then her hand stayed there, fingers resting with unmistakable intent, just enough pressure to be obvious, not enough to make a scene.

He turned his head to look at her.

She was already watching him.

Her lips just barely curved into a devilish smirk. Like she knew exactly what she was doing, and was daring him to do something about it.

Logan swallowed. Hard.

He turned his head, just enough to murmur back, “You’re playing with fire.”

She pulled back, her smirk widening. “Good thing I like the heat.”

The movie had just taken a turn, but not nearly as wild as the one happening in the back row.

Madelyn’s hand lingered, barely, almost a phantom touch at first. She kept her eyes on the actors being shredded on-screen, but her fingers walked up Logan’s denim-clad thigh, slow and with intent. Any casual observer glancing back would have seen nothing more than two strangers staring ahead.

Logan steadied his breathing while her fingernails traced around the edge of his zipper, his cock strained, insistent, against the denim. She curled her fingers under the denim, tugged down the zipper, the sound lost under a swell of on-screen screams.

Madelyn’s lips parted, the barest hint of a smile. She didn’t look at him, not at first, just brushed the heel of her palm against the ridge of his hard-on. Exquisite, barely-there pressure that somehow set his nerves on fire. His right hand twitched, curled against the armrest, gripping it like a lifeline.

He glanced nervously around the theater. Nobody looked their way. A few rows down, one of the film’s B-list alumni was scrolling her phone, screen illuminating her face in a blue-white glow.

Madelyn slipped her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, sliding it in with silent mastery and the steadiness of someone who’d made up her mind long before she sat down. Her fingers found him instantly, closed around him. She did not hesitate. No lingering glance for permission, no second-guessing. Her hand claimed his cock and squeezed, firm but knowing.

Through it all, her eyes monitored the screen, as if splitting her consciousness between the B-movie deaths above and the harder-to-predict drama of Logan coming apart in the dark beside her. If she caught his pleading, half-panicked side glance, she gave no sign. Logan sucked in a shallow breath he could barely control. Madelyn stroked him in an unhurried rhythm, as her fingers moved in an up and down motion.

She worked his shaft with relentless precision, never jerky or obvious, just a slow pace. His thigh tensed under her forearm, and he bit back a moan that would’ve drawn every eye in the theater his direction. Instead, he dug his nails into the plush seat cushion, sweat gathering along his temples. He tried to focus on the movie, to anchor himself in its stilted dialogue and shrieking teens, but all he could do was wait for her next move, his body entirely at her mercy.

She leaned toward him, not watching, mouth barely moving as she whispered, “Don’t make a sound.”

He nodded.

She jerked him, alternating long pulls with short, furious flurries. Madelyn didn't even give him the courtesy of eye contact. Her gaze stayed on the bloodbath flickering above, her face in profile, beautiful and coldly amused, as if this was the only way she could get through the film’s wooden dialogue.

Her gaze flickered. She shifted, her hand leaving Logan’s lap for the barest moment. And then, with confidence, she angled her body toward him, lowering her head until that movie-screen-perfect mouth hovered inches from his cock. The neon wash from the film cast shifting patterns across her cheekbones, her hair brushing his stomach as she exhaled slowly onto the exposed, throbbing length of his cock.

Madelyn’s head bobbed, slow at first, and the slide of her lips was exquisite. She used her hand to twist and coax in tandem, working the shaft with a synchronization that left him helpless. Somehow, impossibly, she stayed completely composed, even as the tip of his cock hit the back of her throat. She took him deep, as deep as she could.

Madelyn let her eyes drift up to his wicked amusement dancing there, then reached for his hand and guided it to the back of her head. He felt the impossibly soft shine of her hair, the lacquered smoothness of her scalp as he flexed his fingers, the insistence of her rhythm and the steady squeeze of her tongue around him. If anyone glanced back now, they’d see nothing but a woman’s head dropped briefly to the lap of a man, a silhouette in the dark, a slightly hunched figure, still as a predator, and a man paralyzed in his seat.

Every instinct screamed at him to groan, to thrust, to react, but he bit into his lip, all because he knew that if he made a noise, any noise, they would be busted. Sweat pricked the back of his neck as every nerve in his body threatened to betray him. He could feel the cresting edge of climax rising, heat gathering at his core, but Madelyn slowed, just enough.

He glanced down, watched the ripple of her throat as she swallowed around him, felt the hitch in his breath. He saw the curl of her smile as she sensed how hard he worked to keep silent, and she delighted in it. Madelyn was patient. She kept the exquisite torture on a simmer, knowing exactly how to wind him up and hold him there, balanced on that breathless edge.

A few rows down, the B-lister tapped out a tweet, oblivious. The couple even closer had begun a whispered argument, movie forgotten. No one saw what Madelyn was doing in the shadows.

Logan would never remember a single beat of the movie’s third act. She worked him so relentlessly, with such unrushed certainty. At some point, as the on-screen heroine’s scream bled into a shuddering, synth-fueled chase, Madelyn sunk lower, and twisted her wrist at the base of his cock in a way that made Logan’s legs seize and jaw clamp down until his teeth ached.

She took everything he gave, didn’t pull away, didn’t slow, not until every pulse and aftershock of him had been wrung out and swallowed. Then, with obscene grace, she smoothed her hair, zipped him up, and returned her folding silk hands to her lap.

It was as if nothing happened. The film’s credits rolled, a cheap pop anthem blared, and the MC stepped onto the makeshift stage at the front of the theater, thanking the cast, promising free drinks, and rallying everyone toward the velvet-roped after party upstairs.

“Ready?” Madelyn asked, glancing at Logan.

Logan adjusted his jacket and nodded, face slack and pale, the back of his neck still tingling. He followed her out wordlessly, the camera bag clattering against his hip as he stumbled toward the aisle. His legs were unreliable. No one paid them much notice, not in the swirl of the departing crowd, as they made their way to the glowing "VIP LOUNGE" sign and ascended the staircase.

The afterparty was squeezed into a makeshift speakeasy on the theater’s second floor, all velvet curtains and low slung sofas, a staging ground for actors, influencers, and the handful of industry parasites that always trailed behind. There was a crush at the door, a bottleneck of “oh my god!” hugs and cold appraisals, and Madelyn breezed right past, barely glancing at the faces crowding her periphery. Logan trailed in her wake, relief washing over him as he realized how few people gave a damn about the hired camera guy’s presence.

The End