"Behind The Lens" with Dua Lipa (Ongoing Multi Chapter Series)

[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