"Behind the Lens" with Multiple Celebs

[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.”

To Be Continued

[TylerDoesStuffYT]

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.

To Be Continued

[TheLW]

Behind the Lens #4
With Dua Lipa and Tate McRae
Written by TheLW
Codes: MFF, Alcohol, Blowjob, Fingering
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

It had been almost two months now since Logan was hired by British Vogue to do a photoshoot with Dua Lipa, an assignment Logan initially approached with the same professionalism he brought to every gig. Big names didn’t rattle him. He'd shoot actors, musicians, models, politicians… he’d seen enough egos to last me a lifetime.

But Dua? She was different. Not just the beauty, which was obvious, but the way she carried herself. Effortless. Confident. She didn’t try to command the room, she just did, like gravity worked a little harder around her. The camera loved her. Hell, everyone loved her. But for some reason, when they spoke between takes, she didn’t treat him like just another person behind the lens. She listened. She joked. She leaned in.

And he should’ve known then, he was screwed.

The photoshoot lasted a couple of hours, wardrobe changes, lighting resets. You name it. And in the midst of it all, they kept gravitating back to each other. There was sexual tension between them, and they both felt it. It wasn’t loud or obvious, but it simmered just under the surface, waiting for one of them to make the first move.

Most of the crew had wrapped and left, the studio slowly emptying. Dua stuck around, claiming she wanted to go over some of the shots with me, even though the images were already backed up and filed. They stood close in front of my laptop, scrolling through the photos, complimenting the lighting, the poses, the angles. But her shoulder brushed against him once. Then again. And she didn’t pull away.

They hooked up that night in the backroom of the studio, surrounded by half-packed gear and a still-warm pot of shitty coffee. It was fast. A little reckless. But holy hell, it was electric. When it was over, they didn’t talk about it. She gave him a crooked little smile, like they’d both just gotten away with something, and that was that.

But it didn’t stop there.

Over the next few weeks, it became a pattern.

A text at 10 p.m.

A car waiting outside.

A bottle of wine was already opened.

Clothes on the floor.

Breathless silence.

Then back to normal like nothing ever happened.

They weren’t dating, at least not officially. That word never even entered the conversation. But the truth is, they weren’t just hooking up either. There was something else brewing under the surface, something unsaid. She started sending memes during the day. Checking in. Asking if he’d eaten. Logan found himself looking for her name when his phone buzzed, catching himself smiling at dumb inside jokes.

And it wasn’t just Logan. She got weirdly quiet when he mentioned working with a female model for another job. She “jokingly” asked if he was seeing anyone. When Logan posted a photo from a rooftop bar with a friend, she texted, “Nice view. Who’s the arm?”

Like he said, it had become a pattern, so it wasn’t surprising that on a quiet Thursday night, Logan had just finished editing a set from an ad campaign shoot and was debating whether to order takeout or pretend he had groceries when his phone buzzed.

“Are you still in Los Angeles?”

Simple. Out of nowhere. No greeting, no context.

Logan leaned back in his chair, smirking a little. He hadn’t heard from Dua in a few days, not unusual, not alarming, but enough for her name to light up his screen and command full attention.

“Yeah, still here.”

She didn’t make me wait long.

“Flying in tonight. Got a friend with me… Tate.”

Classic Dua. Just the right amount of flirty to keep him guessing, just vague enough to make his chest tighten. They never really did the whole “constant texting” thing. But now she was back in his city, tossing him a breadcrumb like he hadn’t been wondering when she’d show up again.

“Where are you two staying?”

A pause. Then the dots.

“Thinking somewhere in West Hollywood. But honestly, we haven’t booked yet. Got a better suggestion?”

Logan could almost hear her voice in that message. Smooth. Teasing. Testing him.

“You could crash at mine.”

Another pause. This one longer.

“Tempting… but only if you promise to behave in front of Tate.”

There it was. She was doing this on purpose. Not just checking in. Not just making plans. She was playing the game again, setting the pace, pressing the right buttons.

And Logan was all too happy to let her.

Logan tossed his phone on the coffee table and stood up, already feeling the shift in the night. L.A. had a funny way of getting louder when she was in town.

And something told him it wasn’t just going to be a drink and a friendly catch-up.

An hour or so had crawled by since Dua's last message. Logan told himself he wasn’t pacing, but the way he kept glancing at the clock, yeah, he was pacing.

Then came the knock.

Not rushed. Not timid. Just… confident.

Logan opened the door.

And there they were.

Dua stood there first, leaning casually against the frame like she hadn’t just tossed his night upside down with a few texts and a wink. That low-key lethal look from the photo? It hit harder in person. Oversized long-sleeve layered over something darker underneath, one shoulder hanging loose like gravity only applied when she wanted it to. Fitted jeans hugged her hips, and those checkered slip-ons gave her this I-don’t-need-to-try energy that made it impossible to look away.

Then there was the other one. Tate.

She was standing just slightly behind Dua but definitely not in the background. Long blonde hair, loose and parted down the middle. A cropped brown jacket hanging open over a white tank top. Short denim shorts that showed off legs for days, and those slouched jeans layered over boots like she walked off the set of a music video and didn’t bother changing.

She didn’t smile right away. She just looked me over, measuring, maybe. Or maybe just naturally intimidating without trying. Either way, the air shifted when Logan made eye contact with her.

Dua tilted her head, smirking like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Hey,” she said casually. “So... this is Tate.”

Before he could even respond, she added…

“As in Tate McRae. Fellow singer. Canadian. Looks like she walked out of a Levi’s ad. Don't let the jacket fool you, she’s trouble.”

Tate raised an eyebrow at that, half-smirking.

“I’m actually very polite,” she said, stepping forward and extending a hand. “But yeah, I do break a lot of hearts.”

Logan shook her hand. Firm grip. Cool skin. Definitely not the type who got nervous meeting strangers.

“Good to know,” Logan said, nodding as he stepped aside to let them in. “And Dua’s what, just here for moral support?”

Dua brushed past me, close enough for her shoulder to graze mine.

“Please. I’m here to cause problems,” she said over her shoulder.

And just like that, the night officially began.

Logan poured them tequila, Dua’s choice, naturally. Tate didn’t argue. She just kicked her boots off at the door like she owned the place and slid onto the couch without waiting for permission.

Now the three of us were seated, way too close for comfort on a couch built for two and a half, tops. Logan was in the middle. Of course. Tate on one side, one knee curled beneath her, facing in. Dua on the other, legs crossed, elbow slung casually along the backrest, her fingertips brushing the edge of my neck every time she shifted.

The music was playing low, some R&B from Logan’s “don’t overthink it” playlist. Not loud enough to fill the silence, but just enough to make you lean in when someone spoke.

“So,” Tate said, swirling her glass, her gaze sharp and unreadable. “How long have you two... known each other?”

She asked smoothly. No accusation. No emphasis. But there was an edge in it, like she already had her own theory and wanted to hear how close you’d get to the truth.

Dua let out a quiet little laugh beside me.

“Oh, we go back a bit,” she said, drawing out the last word like a string of honey. “We met on a shoot. One thing led to another...”

She trailed off and looked at me with that slow, knowing smile.

Logan smirked, trying to keep my cool.

“Very professional start,” he added, taking a sip. “Vogue would be proud.”

Tate raised an eyebrow, her eyes darting between us.

“Right,” she said, biting back a grin. “And how’s the professionalism holding up?”

Logan choked on his drink, just a little. Dua laughed louder this time.

“It was holding up great,” she said, leaning forward to pour another round.

Tate didn’t miss a beat.

“Was?” she asked, glancing between us again.

“And then we fucked.”

She said it flatly. Casual. Like she was stating a fact about the weather.

Tate blinked. Then let out a short, surprised laugh.

Dua shot her a wicked little smile and leaned back against the couch, letting her arm drape behind him once more.

“Yeah,” she said, voice low but playful. “Then he started texting. Got a little clingy.”

“Clingy?” Logan shot back. “You’re the one who FaceTimed me at 2 a.m. from Ibiza.”

“I was drunk,” she replied, grinning. “You picked up.”

Tate raised her glass like she was watching the best damn reality show of her life.

“This is better than the last album rollout I sat through,” she said, taking a long sip. “Are you two always this open?”

“Only when there’s tequila,” he said, finishing his drink.

“And an audience,” Dua added, locking eyes with Tate.

That landed.

Tate set her glass down on the coffee table, leaned in just a little closer, her gaze sharp.

“Well... I’m not just here to listen,” she said.

Dua smiled.

“Good.”

Dua didn’t waste a single breath. She leaned in, one hand sliding up the back of his neck as if to steady him, which, for a second, he needed. Logan was about to say something, he didn't even know what, maybe a joke, maybe a protest, maybe nothing at all, but she was already turning her head, already closing the space between her and Tate.

It wasn’t a delicate kiss. There was nothing shy about it. The air shifted in the living room, thick with anticipation and heat. Dua lifted Tate’s chin, tilted her face just so, and pressed their mouths together. Tate didn’t hesitate, not for a second. For a girl with a handshake like a viable threat, she kissed like she meant to make a memory of it.

When they broke apart, everything felt slightly off-balance, but in that good, butterflies-in-your-stomach way. Dua looked at Logan sideways, her lips parted, her breath quick. She was testing him, or maybe inviting him, or maybe both. Tate just looked amused, like she’d suspected things might go in this direction and was more than game.

Logan watched, found himself unable to look away, as Tate’s tongue darted out, tracing Dua’s bottom lip, as if they’d engineered this moment since stepping through his door and were only now letting him in on the plan. Tate didn’t even glance his way. She pressed in again, lips skating along Dua’s jaw, then, quick as a spark, turned to him. Her face hovered just above his, eyes sharp, watching every micro-expression, the way a lion watches a twitch in tall grass.

“Are you good with this?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She smiled.

Seconds later, her mouth was on his, and Tate kissed like she wanted a fight and a surrender at the same time. Dua just watched, arm still behind Logan’s head, her palm sliding from his neck and down his spine, not possessive, not even guiding us. She hovered there a second, her nails catching on the nape of Logan’s neck, and then she kissed each of them in turn.

Tate’s laughter got sharper, her hands everywhere at once. She knocked over the bottle to the floor, half-spilled and forgotten.

As Dua glanced back, the faintest dare in her eyes, lips curling that half-mischief, half-command smile. Her hand found Logan’s, not holding, but guiding, pulling his fingers to the inside of her thigh, a silent “come here” and “pay attention” rolled into one gesture. Logan’s hand followed the cue.

Logan caught the signal between them, some shared look, some wordless agreement that left him slightly behind, and exactly where they wanted him. Their mouths met again. More urgent, less exploratory.

Logan fumbled with button and zipper, Tate was already a step ahead, hers undone before he could process it, hips popping to slide the denim shorts down, her thigh pressed to Logan’s, skin warmer than he had expected. Dua didn’t hesitate. She hooked her fingers under her own waistband, sliding her pants off in one smooth motion, then peeled away her top, leaving nothing between the three of us but skin and expectation.

Her energy changed, less devil-may-care, more deliberate, almost competitive. Tate shot her a look, half-lidded, a little dangerous, and then Dua was in her lap, straddling, kissing her again, pushing her back into the couch cushions with a force that made her gasp. Tate’s hands, blunt and greedy, moved up Dua’s waist, the tips digging in until coral lines flushed above her hips.

Logan watched, momentarily paralyzed, the two of them locked together, legs tangled and hands in hair. He could smell the tequila and sweat and coconut conditioner. Tate’s laugh had gone from sharp to breathy. She grabbed Dua’s waist, tugged her closer, and for a half-beat, Dua’s eyes flicked toward him, hunger and mirth mixed together. She broke from Tate and leaned in, hand on his chest, and kissed him hard, open-mouthed, as if reclaiming lost territory.

Tate, not to be left out, leaned across and bit Logan’s shoulder, gentle but definitely not an accident. She pulled him down by the back of his head, and suddenly it was all limbs and mouths, one body indistinguishable from the next, a knot of sweat and skin and fingernails. Logan’s glass hit the floor, rolled under the coffee table, and no one cared.

Eventually, both Dua and Tate found themselves, down on their knees, on the floor, working over his cock and balls. Tate got there first, grip tight, mouth hotter than he expected, but Dua was right beside her, as she wrapped her fingers around the base and fed Logan’s cock into Tate's mouth. There was no coordination, but somehow, they fell into sync, trading places every few seconds, hands gliding over Logan’s thighs, nails catching skin, tongues both fighting and collaborating for space.

Dua looked up at him, lips slick, and smirked, as if she’d scouted his weak points in advance and was delighted to prove it. She kissed the head, slow and deliberate, before letting Tate take over again, deeper this time, hands braced on my knees. Tate moaned as she sucked, eyes shut, then squeezed Logan’s balls in a way that sent a jolt all the way up his body.

he’d been in threesomes before, once or twice, but this wasn’t even in the same category. There was no awkwardness, no insecurity, just two women who seemed to have an inside bet about who could make him cum first.

Tate pulled off and stroked me with a grip that dared Logan to wince, while Dua licked her hand and massaged his balls, rolling them with the casual finesse of someone tuning an instrument. Tate, propped up on her knees, braced herself with one hand on his thigh and sucked the head so hard her cheeks hollowed. Dua’s mouth landed at the base, her tongue pressed flat as she looked up.

They changed formation, Tate lowering to tongue Logan’s balls as Dua enveloped the tip. Tate’s breath was hot and uneven as she swirled her tongue and squeezed my thigh, the bite of her nails leaving marks on his skin. Dua bobbed, slow and deep, until she gagged, then pulled back, spit glistening. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and shot a look at Tate.

"Don't let her get too confident," Tate said, as she licked along the underside of Logan’s cock.

Dua, undeterred, grinned and pushed Logan’s knees further apart, squeezing the inside of his thigh. She crouched lower, her hair falling in waves around her face, and went to work on Logan’s balls again, tongue flat and insistent, her palm cradling the base of his cock but letting Tate have the tip. Tate, meanwhile, had both hands wrapped around the shaft, one just behind the other, stroking as she sucked. The sensation blurred into a numb, throbbing need.

It was, in a word, amazing.

At some point, both women got up off of their knees, and bent over the couch, as Logan got into position behind them. Asses now in the air, skin pressed side by side, Dua’s fingers disappearing between Tate’s wet thighs. Tate bucked at his touch, her moan breaking through her clenched teeth, hips rolling as Logan pushed into her. He alternated. One minute, Logan was inside Tate, the next, buried in Dua, who clung to the back of the couch and laughed every time he switched bodies, like she was winning a game.

The curve of Dua’s back was perfect for gripping, a dark latticework of hair falling over her shoulders, and she moaned with each thrust, never quite surrendering, always half taunting. Tate braced herself, slender arms curved like parentheses around the couch cushions. Her ass bounced, inviting a slap, and Logan obliged, leaving a palm print that bloomed pink where she shivered.

Dua glanced over her shoulder, lips parted around a moan. “Don’t go easy,” she said, voice low and urgent. “I want to feel it tomorrow.”

Logan kept going, relentless, first in Tate, then in Dua, each time feeling the difference. Tate was impossibly tight, bracing for the shock of every stroke, jaw clenched, Dua loosened, easing into it, a huge greedy bloom of pleasure in every sound she made. “Don’t slow down,” she blurted, half-laughing, head thrown sideways to look at Tate slamming back onto Logan’s cock, her blonde hair a mess, Tate caught Dua’s eye, lips curling in open challenge, and slammed herself back against him.

Tate reached between her legs and circled herself with two fingers, working in time to the thrusts. The sounds in the room, panting, the slapping of skin on skin, it was one hell of a sight to behold. Dua grabbed the small of her back and pushed her forward so Logan could drive even deeper. Tate yelped, the wordless noise of someone at the edge, but held still, ass arched and trembling, riding the aftershock.

She’s not gonna last,” Dua announced, hand smacking Tate’s ass

Tate shot her a glare, but didn’t slow her own motion, just met Logan’s thrusts with equal force, as if matching him was the only way to keep from toppling over.

Logan shifted focus to Dua, and for a moment, he was just hovering, tip sliding against her pussy lips, slow torture. Dua growled, actual growl, in her throat, and reached back to grab his wrist, pulling him into her so hard Logan had almost missed. Her legs spread wider, knees planted on the couch-fabric, and she raised up, offering everything.

“Dua wants it hard,” Tate said.

Logan gripped Dua by the hips, skin slick with sweat, and slammed into her. Trying not to lose his grip, with every pump of his cock, into Dua. She was impossibly wet. Dua’s hips snapped back to meet Logan, an involuntary hinge, and the breath left her in a sound that was barely a whimper. There was nothing delicate about it. Logan pounded her steadily, skin smacking, both of them sweaty and unashamed.

“Yeah, like that,” Dua moaned. “Come on.”

Logan set a pace that bordered on mean, each thrust a challenge to her pride and her body. “More,” Dua growled, and he delivered. Her ass rippled, hips bucking with a violence that made his own grip slip. Logan doubled down, voice thick in his ears, lost in the way her back arched and her head rolled.

Tate turned around, so she was sitting on the couch properly, before she started rubbing her own clit.

Logan fucked Dua harder. The slap-thump of hips to ass was obscene. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Her words blurred as she pushed back on him, greedy for more. Dua arched back, grabbed at the edge of the cushion, and muttered, “Fuck, I’m close.”

Tate’s fingers slipped in and out, as she worked over her sex mound, watching as her friend Dua got fucked good and hard. She was quiet now, biting her bottom lip, but the motion of her fingers was relentless. Her eyes were locked on where Logan was splitting Dua open, watching every inch, every recoil and impact.

He couldn’t look away. Tate’s hand was a blur, slick and shiny, knuckles pumping, each time she pulled out her fingers, they glistened in the overhead light. She rubbed them over her clit, slow at first, then faster, teasing herself until her hips jerked.

Logan pushed into Dua hard, losing any sense of rhythm, just chasing that last finish line. His body tensed, and she felt it, planting her feet and spreading her legs wide, squeezing around him as he bottomed out. The sound Dua made was raw, a full-bodied gasp that became a threat and a promise at once. Her whole frame went rigid, then collapsed, trembling and clutching at the slipcover.

"Fuck, that’s hot," Tate hissed.

Tate’s hand, still buried between her thighs, stared fixed on Dua, her tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth. Her fingers flashed with every motion, flecked with her own wetness. “Come on, finish,” she spit out, her legs working open and closed in little spasms. “Fucking finish inside of her.”

Dua’s ass flexed as Logan drove the last few strokes, cock so deep and stiff he thought he’d split her in half. Her breathing hitched, then broke, her whole body seizing around him. Dua collapsed forward, panting, forehead pressed into the armrest. Logan felt every aftershock in her thighs, the way her ass clenched and released, spasms rolling out in waves.

Logan was close, and Tate saw it. She reached over, her hand slick, and wrapped her fingers around the base of his cock as he pulled out of Dua. She jerked Logan just once, hard and deliberate. “Give it to her,” she whispered, fierce and wild, and before he could protest, she guided the head straight down, right onto Dua’s lower back. Logan’s cock pulsated, as rope after rope of white spunk came splattering onto Dua’s sweaty, trembling skin.

The whole room smelled like sex and tequila.

His knees buckled and Logan half-laughed, half-groaned, slumping onto the floor. Dua lay sprawled, her back sticky, glancing over her shoulder with a look that could stun a horse. Tate sat cross-legged on the couch, hand still between her thighs, eyelids heavy.

For a moment, every sound in the apartment was silent except for the blood still rushing through his ears.

To Be Continued

[TheLW]

Behind the Lens #5
With Tate McRae
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Blowjob, Shower Sex
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

The next morning, Logan woke alone in his bed.

It didn’t make sense at first. He remembered drifting off with Dua tucked against one side of him, Tate sprawled against the other, his king-sized mattress barely enough for the three of them. Now, the space on either side was empty, the sheets still faintly warm, the faint trace of perfume clinging to the air.

He stretched, yawned, rolled out of bed. The house was too quiet, until he caught it. The sound of water, steady and close.

Logan followed it down the hall. The bathroom door was ajar, steam curling out into the corridor, damp heat clinging to his skin as he stepped closer. He pushed the door open and walked in without hesitation.

The mirror was fogged, the room blurred by steam, but the silhouette behind the shower curtain was sharp enough to draw him forward. With one smooth tug, he pulled the curtain back.

Tate stood beneath the spray, water streaming down the curve of her shoulders, her hair slick and heavy, clinging to her neck. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cover herself. Instead, she turned slowly, letting her eyes rake down on him, pausing at the unmistakable bulge straining against his boxers.

“Well,” she said, voice honeyed with amusement, “someone’s happy to see me.”

Logan grinned, unbothered, leaning casually against the wall. “Hard not to be,” he shot back. “You make quite the wake-up call.”

Tate’s smirk deepened, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. She dragged a hand down her stomach, fingers circling at her hip before letting them slip lower, her body arching slightly under the water. “Dua had to take off. Left me here all alone,” she murmured, as though it were a crime. Her eyes locked on his again, gleaming with mischief. “Which means it’s just you and me.”

Logan stepped closer, the steam wrapping tighter around him, the water’s hiss swallowing up the outside world. “You say that like it’s a problem,” he said.

Tate tilted her head, extended her hand through the curtain of mist. Droplets slid down her wrist, catching in the hollow of her palm as she held it out to him. “Not a problem,” she said. “An opportunity. Unless you’re planning on standing there pretending you’re not dying to touch me.”

Logan’s grin sharpened. He stripped his shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor, his eyes never leaving hers. “Pretending isn’t really my style.”

Tate laughed softly, low and approving, the sound vibrating in her chest. “Good,” she whispered, beckoning him closer.

Logan didn’t take her hand right away. He let his gaze trail over her, the droplets racing down her skin, the way the spray bounced off her collarbone and broke into rivulets that slid lower. Steam wrapped the room in a haze, curling against his chest as he stepped forward, closing the space between them inch by inch.

Tate arched a brow, her hand still extended, waiting. “Taking your time?” she teased, though her voice carried an edge of anticipation.

“Just enjoying the view,” Logan said, his grin crooked, his tone easy. He hooked his thumbs into his waistband, pushed his boxers down, and let them fall. Her eyes looked down, then back up, the smirk she wore deepening into something sharper.

Finally, he reached out, his palm closing over hers. Tate’s skin was wet and hot from the water, her grip confident as she tugged him closer. He stepped into the spray, the water hitting his back, heat sliding across his shoulders as the curtain swayed shut behind him.

The shower was too small for distance, too intimate for pretense. Tate’s body brushed his with every subtle movement, her damp hair clinging to his chest when she leaned in. She tipped her head back into the spray, droplets catching her lashes before she blinked them away, her smile a spark in the mist.

“Better,” she said, her voice nearly drowned by the sound of water.

Logan let his hand trace the line of her arm, over the slope of her shoulder, until his palm rested against the curve of her back. “Much better,” he answered.

For a moment, neither of them moved, just stood there, steam swirling, the shower’s water beating down around them like a second heartbeat.

Tate didn’t hesitate, she pressed up against him, skin to skin. Her mouth found his neck, tasting salt and humid heat, teeth grazing just enough to claim territory. Logan was distracted for a moment by the sensation, her hands everywhere at once, fingers mapping the terrain of his stomach, nails raking down his chest.

He stole a kiss, water beading between their lips, tongues tangling with the hunger of two people who’d done this before and knew exactly how reckless it could get. But Tate always played with escalation, always skipped middle ground and went straight for the edge.

She broke away, eyes glimmering. Then she dropped to her knees with a practiced, almost theatrical grace. The tile of the tub was cold, but she didn’t flinch, both hands braced on his thighs, a little pressure testing his balance. She looked up at him with a sly, uneven grin and licked a single drop from the curve of his hipbone, then worked her way in.

Logan’s world narrowed. He let his head loll back against the tile, breathing steam and soap and the faint chemical tang of too-hot water. Tate’s mouth was the only thing that mattered. She took him slow at first, teasing, with every bob and swirl an exercise in patience. Logan gripped the edge of the glass door, the surface slick under his palm.

Tate alternated between shallow and deep, with a slow, rippling pull, like she was working him over with a measured intent, not letting him break, not letting him fall apart. Tate’s tongue licked along the base, the tip of her nose pressed into his skin, and Logan tipped his chin down to watch, searching her face for a tell, for a sign she was playing for anything other than pure enjoyment. The water beat a migraine rhythm against his shoulders, louder each time he braced the slick porcelain for balance.

Steam rose around them, the glass fogged so dense it felt like they were locked in some makeshift sauna. Tate liked to tease, knew exactly how to keep him on the edge without letting him drop, she’d always had a knack for control, for resisting and denying, only giving in at the last possible moment.

She stopped suddenly, lips flushed and swollen, and glanced up, smirking. Water dripped from her chin. That fucking look. Then Tate wrapped her hand around him, just below the head, squeezed until he twitched. “You look like you’re about to pass out,” she said, voice husky from the work she put in.

Logan only grunted, teeth gritted, the wordless permission she offered. Tate’s mouth found him again, her tongue slick and greedy, her lips bruising the ridge beneath the head while her grip tightened and pumped in counterpoint. She gagged just once, eyes gleaming up through wet lashes, savoring his shudder.

She pulled off with a pop, spit and water dribbling down her chin, using both hands to stroke him, her touch deft and obscenely assured. Logan’s knees buckled, the cold porcelain digging into his calves as he rocked forward, chasing the sensation, throttle opened, every muscle wound taut.

Tate didn’t let up, fatigue and desire and last night’s sleep deprivation all blurring together, and still she worked him, relentless, swallowing him again, the tip of her tongue tracing the pulsating vein along the underside like she wanted to claim it for herself. She stayed like that, watching him through her lashes, until the control snapped and he bucked forward. Tate pulled off, and laughed, a guttural sound drowned out by the hiss of water.

“Do you ever come up for air?” Logan gasped, when he could.

Tate pulled back, lips swollen, a single strand of saliva stretching and snapping before the water washed it away. She nipped at his thigh, then climbed up him, slippery and predatory. Logan caught her under the arms, hauled her up with a strength he knew she expected from him. She wrapped around him, calves locking behind his knees, hands finding their way to the nape of his neck, tongue brushing against his teeth as he captured her mouth.

He spun, pressing her back to the tile, careful despite the hunger that raged beneath his skin. Showers left little margin for error. Her breath was hot in his ear, chest heaving against his, nipples pebbling with every shift of her body. He set his hands at her waist, thumbs digging lightly into the tense muscle just above her hips.

With that, Logan lowered Tate McRae onto his rock hard cock, she landed on him with a wet, graceless slap, the rounded angle of her ass catching the base of his cock and sinking him to the hilt. She made a sound, a crushed gasp caught between the water and the tile, Logan couldn’t tell if it was pain or want, or if there was even a distinction for her.

Tate rode him from the start, hips pistoning up and down with a purpose that bordered on petulance, like she needed to teach him something. Stinging slap of skin, the water making everything worse, frictionless and friction-high at once. Her ankles locking behind him, her cunt clenching so tight around his cock it felt like every nerve in him had been wired straight to the movement. He rocked up to meet her every plunge, slamming her into the tiled wall in sync with her pace.

“Ugh, fuck Logan.”

She didn’t look at him, didn’t have to. Tate’s whole spine bent backwards, forehead nearly grazing the slick porcelain as she bounced up and down, gathering the force of gravity and slamming back on to his cock, with each thrust. Tate’s heels dug in, her hands braced on his shoulder and the slippery ledge of his upper back, her nails nearly drawing blood as she rode out the quartz-bright rhythm, Logan’s cock planted solid inside her.

There was a noise on loop in his throat, some distorted blend of grunt and gasp, but the water devoured it before it could echo. The glass was opaque, hammered by steam and whatever flesh pressed against it. He couldn’t tell where his body ended and hers began, just the relentless, piston cadence and the way she bent backwards, hair plastered in ropes against her face, lips parted as drops clung to her chin.

“Fuck, Fuck… so good.” Tate cried out in pleasure.

A hard twist of her hips and he nearly lost his footing, his knees notched to the bathtub’s porcelain curve, water pooling around his ankles. He slammed her once, twice, feeling the aftershock tick through his spine. Tate grinned, feral, eyes opening only to roll back as she threw herself into another shattering bounce. Skin on skin, bone on bone, a single, brutal mechanism. Every collision smashed all the air out of his lungs, he couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to.

She cracked her forehead back against the tile, bared her teeth. “Harder,” she growled, voice ragged.

He flexed his quads, thrusting upward until her thighs started to tremble around his hips and her pelvis pressed down, grinding, each movement more intense than the last. Logan braced himself, and let her wear him out, as every thrust jacked the tempo higher, and Tate wanted everything hard or not at all. He sawed up into her, cock hard and thrusting inside her, and then she bit his neck, sharp and deep. He felt the mark bloom, a stinging ache that would outlast the shower.

Tate’s arms snaked around his neck, not for embrace but leverage, using him as a fulcrum to batter herself against the wall and drive him deeper, impossibly deeper. Logan felt her contract, a flutter and clutch that started low and spread like a riot up his spine. She was still grinning, eyes wet and bright, mouth open for oxygen or laughter, Logan couldn’t tell which, but it didn’t matter. He met her tempo, pistoning upward as the tile battered his kneecaps, until every slap of their collision sounded like it might break something important.

“Fuck, you...” He meant it as a warning, but there was no air to load the words, so it came out strangled, a tangle of syllables crushed under the force of her rhythm. Tate’s nails raked his shoulders, the sting a blur of heat that barely registered, because everything below his stomach was knotted and on the verge.

She clamped down, grinding herself flush to the base, and Logan felt the tremor at the base of her spine, her body cinched around him, a hot, vice grip. He was so close, half a dozen sharp plunges away from filling her up with his spunk, drowning every thought in a pure, electric white noise. His thighs trembled. Tate’s chin lifted, water sluicing down the sharp line of her jaw, and she ground down on him, rocking fast, insistent. Her moan split the fog.

He felt her clench, full-body, a shudder that started where he filled her and rippled out to every muscle in range. She made no sound, just a hitch in her throat and a locking of her legs, rigid around his waist. A second later, another orgasam, harder, her fingers curling tight enough to leave marks. Tate’s hair was everywhere, a mess plastered to her cheek and shoulder, and she bit down on his earlobe to keep herself together. Logan barely heard himself grunt, then groan, as he went with her, the pressure cresting and exploding, his whole body jerking as he emptied his balls into her, rope after rope of his hot cum shooting into her awaiting womb.

When the water finally ran cold, Logan and Tate tumbled out of the shower. The bathroom mirror was dripping with steam, their reflections blurred but close together, shoulder to shoulder as they half-heartedly tried to towel off.

Logan leaned back against the counter, chest still rising and falling, watching Tate wring the water from her hair. She caught him staring and arched an eyebrow. “You look smug,” she teased.

He smirked, unapologetic. “I feel smug.”

Tate chuckled, shaking her head as if she wanted to call him insufferable but couldn’t quite bring herself to. “Careful. You’ll make Dua jealous.”

At the mention of her name, Logan’s thoughts went back to the empty bed, the faint warmth where Dua had been. He wondered where she’d gone, whether she’d come back, and what it meant that she’d left them to their own devices.

Tate must have seen the shift in his expression, because her teasing softened into something sharper. She stepped closer, tracing a damp finger along his jaw. “Don’t overthink it. Dua doesn’t do accidents. If she wanted to be here, she’d be here. If she wanted you to wonder, she got what she wanted.”
Logan nodded slowly. Tate was right, Dua always played the long game.

**Later That Night**

A few hours later, Logan found himself across from Dua at a tiny family-owned Italian spot tucked off a side street in Los Angeles. The place smelled of garlic and simmering tomatoes, its mismatched chairs and hand-scrawled chalkboard menu a far cry from the glossy circles Dua usually moved in. But she seemed at ease, her dark hair pulled back, a glass of red wine glowing in her hand as candlelight flickered between them.

They eased through the early talk. Logan told her about the morning with Tate, how the shower had bled into the bedroom, how Tate had been a storm that left him worn and grinning. Then, with a crooked smile, he added that it didn’t matter, Tate was pure fire, sure, but fire burned out. Dua, though? Dua lingered, carved herself into him in a way no one else could.

She listened without interruption, a faint smirk playing on her lips. She didn’t seem rattled. If anything, she looked pleased, like she’d been waiting for him to admit it. She shifted the conversation with ease, talking about her day, shopping on Melrose, a coffee with an old friend whose name carried weight. Every piece of it sounded casual, but Logan knew better than to take anything she said at face value.

Their food arrived, plates of pasta that steamed in the warm air, a basket of bread between them, and for a while, they let the conversation drift. It wasn’t until Logan was halfway through his second glass of wine that Dua set her fork down and fixed him with that steady, unblinking gaze.

“Come with me,” she said. “I want you to meet my family.”

The words landed like a challenge, though her tone was soft, almost casual. Logan wiped his mouth with his napkin, stalling just long enough to read the intent behind her eyes.

“Give me a couple of days,” he said at last. “Sally set me up with a shoot, InStyle Magazine. Can’t blow it off.”

At the name, Dua’s expression changed, something sharp, something calculating, but it was gone in an instant. She nodded, her smile returning like it had never left.

“Two days,” she echoed, lifting her glass again. “Don’t keep me waiting longer than that.”

To Be Continued

[TheLW]

Behind The Lens #6
With Hilary Duff and Lucy Hale
Written by TheLW
Codes: MFF, Blowjob, Oral
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

Sally Holmes, the Editor-in-Chief of InStyle, had called him earlier in the week, asking him to cover an InStyle dinner at Hilary Duff’s Hollywood Hills estate. “Just take a few shots, Logan,” she’d said casually. “It’ll be fun.” He’d assumed she was joking, but here he was, camera slung over his shoulder, trying not to look completely out of place amid the glittering crowd.

Hilary’s house had been exactly what he’d imagined, a sprawling, airy estate with soft golden lighting spilling over manicured gardens. Music drifted from the terraces, and laughter and chatter mingled with the scent of rosemary from planters along the walkways.

He had been adjusting the lens when he saw them, Hilary moving through the party with that effortless charisma, laughing at a joke he hadn’t heard, and Lucy Hale leaning on the garden railing, watching him with a smirk before stepping forward. They had noticed him simultaneously, and in a heartbeat, the focus of the night shifted entirely.

“You're not on my usual guest list,” Hilary had said, stopping in front of him. Her gaze swept over him like she was already assessing him, playful, confident, a little daring.

“That’s because I’m not,” Logan said, raising an eyebrow. “Sally’s fault, she hired me to take pictures for the evening.”

Lucy had joined from his other side, flute in hand, smirking. “Figures. Sally always knows how to pick them.”

Hilary and Lucy exchanged a quick glance, old friends, clearly used to reading each other, before turning their attention back to him. Logan felt the pull immediately, Hilary’s confidence, Lucy’s mischievous energy, and the unspoken competition between them that made the air almost electric.

“So, you shoot for a living?” Lucy asked, circling slightly as if to examine him.

“Something like that,” he replied, shrugging. “These days, it seems like I'm mostly covering celebrity events for friends.”

“Lucky friend,” Hilary said, grinning, leaning in just enough to let him catch the faint scent of her perfume. “Guess we’ll get some good shots tonight.”

Lucy leaned closer, her tone teasing. “Or maybe we’ll get distracted by someone who’s not behind the camera.”

Hilary laughed, brushing lightly against him. “Careful. You might start thinking you’re the subject of the night.”

Their playful banter bounced back and forth, escalating the tension with every glance and touch. Hilary would brush her fingers along his arm, Lucy would whisper something into his ear that made him grin, then glance at Hilary to watch her reaction. Every move felt like a carefully timed duel, friendly but charged, with Logan caught right in the middle.

A short while later, after the InStyle party started to die down, Hilary, Lucy, and Logan snuck into Hilary’s house, and made their way to what he could only assume was the master bedroom. Hilary’s bedroom looked like the idealized after-scene of a photoshoot: plush white duvet, geometric throw pillows arranged in a rumpled crescent, cream walls catching the last honey of sunset. A glass of water sat untouched on the nightstand beside a dog-eared book. It was surprisingly lived-in, but the king sized bed at the center beckoned with its promise of trouble.

Logan hovered on the threshold, camera strap twisting around his wrist. Hilary propped herself up on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs deliberately. Lucy moved straight for the wall of windows, palming open a sliding door for a breeze, then drifted back with the confidence of someone intent on leaving fingerprints. The door clicked shut behind him, a soft, conclusive sound.

"We're not making you nervous, are we?" Hilary asked.

Logan set the camera on a midcentury chair and shrugged. "Would it ruin the image if I said yes?" He tried for nonchalance.

Lucy snorted, flopped backwards onto the bed, hands pillowing under her head.

“Darling,” Lucy said, “if you could see yourself, you wouldn’t have to ask.” She crooked a finger, beckoning him to the bed, and when he sank onto the edge, Hilary grinned in a way that made him feel like she’d already won something.

“I’m not nervous,” he said, though it came out with a rasp. “Just trying to keep up.”

Hilary leaned forward until her knees pressed against his thigh. “Oh, you’re not even close to behind.” She traced her fingers over the seam of his shoulder; the shirt was linen, a begrudged upgrade per Sally’s request, and it always wrinkled the second he did anything remotely human. Once, twice, Hilary smoothed the fabric as if pretending to flatten him into a more presentable version.

Lucy turned to lie sideways, propping herself up on an elbow. “You ever photographed yourself?” Her toes nudged his shin. “You’ve got the cheekbones for it.”

He laughed, but Hilary said, “Bet you look better in motion.” She tugged him gently by the hem of his shirt, enough for his hands to land on the mattress, bracing him maybe two inches from her face.

“You want to know the secret to a good photograph?” He tried to buy time with the line, but Hilary’s mouth hovered near his ear, and Lucy’s foot was drawing circles on his ankle.

“Prove it.” Hilary, close enough that he caught the tick of her smile.

He kissed her. It wasn’t calculated, he just leaned in, met her hazel eyes wide and unblinking, and pressed his mouth to hers. She stiffened for the briefest moment, then melted, hand sliding up the back of his neck, nails lightly scratching. She tasted like the champagne from before, and something else, citrus, maybe, or a secret. Somewhere behind them Lucy made a surprised, delighted sound.

He half-expected Hilary to call him on it, to cut the tension with a playful slap or a snappy joke, but instead she pulled him closer, the sharp press of her thigh against his jeans. He felt the warmth of her, the way she coordinated her breathing to his, like she wanted to memorize the exact depth of it. When they finally broke, she kept her forehead pressed to his, and he saw the way her smile tried to hide how much it had rattled her.

“Effective enough for you?” he asked, voice lower than he’d intended.

Lucy’s hand landed lightly on his shoulder. “My turn,” she said, and for a second Logan thought she was just joking, but she was already leaning in, teasing, giving him enough time to pull away if he wanted, which he absolutely did not. Lucy’s kiss was completely different, playful, brighter, a little more dangerous, lips softer but with intent behind the tease, her tongue flicked once over his lower lip, a punctuation. She tasted like gin, something herbal and strange, and then she bit down, just hard enough to make him lose his train of thought.

Hilary made a sound, a little laugh or maybe the beginning of a protest, but Logan felt her hand grip his knee, possessive, not letting go. Lucy broke off with a grin, lips still parted, and he saw a look in her eyes. They were both waiting for his reaction, and it felt almost like an audition, except the judges were hotter and more unpredictable.

He cleared his throat. "Do I need to keep score?" He didn't. He could already feel the point spread, but he'd never admit it.

Hilary reached past him, feathering her fingers through Lucy’s hair, not rough but not quite gentle either. "We're not competing," she said, voice honey-smooth. "Unless you want us to."

Lucy’s palm was warm against his neck now, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. “Do you want us to?”

He wasn’t sure what would happen if he said yes, but he wanted to find out.

“That depends,” he managed. “Does the competition end with a winner?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Hilary said, and she was already tugging his shirt loose, knuckles grazing the bare skin beneath. “Everybody wins.”

Hilary’s nails dragged lightly up his shirt, and suddenly Lucy was on her knees in front of him, grinning like the troublemaker she surely was. Logan barely had time to register the shift; the second button was already gone, then the third, the linen parting under Hilary’s deft hands as Lucy’s nimble fingers toyed with his waistband, cool knuckles scraping deliberate as she pulled him closer to the edge of the mattress.

Shirt gone in a breeze, Logan shivered at the difference, then Lucy’s mouth was on his chest, open and brazen, while Hilary pressed kisses along his collar, lips damp and slow, tongue flicking at his pulse. It was orchestrated, a duet of hands and mouths, Hilary tugged at his shoulder for balance, Lucy’s palm flattened on his stomach, thumb tracing a line low and slow.

Logan tried for some semblance of control and failed. Hands found Lucy’s hair, softer than he’d pictured, and she looked up with a flash of amusement before grazing her teeth just above his waistband. Hilary’s lips worked up his jaw, then hovered a breath from his ear.

“I bet you’re even better out of these,” she murmured, and her hands slipped down, finding the buckle.

“I’m sure you could use a hand with that,” Lucy said, popping the button on his jeans with two quick flicks, thumbs bracing at his hips as she peeled the denim down with practiced efficiency. Logan stifled a laugh, some muttered protest about rough hands, but it fizzled out when Hilary bit at his shoulder, just this side of gentle, and Lucy’s hands closed over his thighs, dragging jeans and briefs all the way to his knees.

Logan gripped Hilary's hip, the sudden bare heat of her surprising him, she'd already wriggled free of her dress, and the silk pooled at her feet like a dropped peach. She wore nothing underneath, just sun-warm skin freckled at her shoulders and that same glint of challenge in her eyes. Lucy, in the process of pulling her own dress overhead, shot him a quick, reversed grin from behind her curtain of hair. Red fabric followed the path of Hilary’s, the movement so swift and casual he almost missed the nervous thrum under the lightness of it.

Hilary reached for his cock first, palming it at the base with more delicacy than he would’ve guessed, a slow, possessive pump that made him exhale through his mouth. Lucy didn’t wait, she dipped in, tongue hot, drawing the head into her mouth and sealing her lips around it, already bobbing as if she’d been waiting for this privilege. There was nothing playful about it, Lucy wanted to taste him, all at once, and she did, hand twisting under to cradle his balls while she sucked him deeper, her hair in bright, silken ropes over her shoulder.

If Lucy’s mouth was fire, Hilary’s hands were ice. She pinched at his hip, curved up his abs, skated her nails along his skin, then steadied him for Lucy as she worked. Her cheek pressed against his thigh as she watched, and her gaze stayed on his face, neither blinking nor smirking, just watching, intent, as if memorizing what Logan looked like at that exact point of unraveling. He had seen photos of himself, sure, scattered across articles or tagged by friends, but he’d never felt like a subject until right now, framed between two women who could render him speechless with a half-second’s teamwork.

Lucy’s lips popped off him with a wet twist, a strand of saliva briefly linking her mouth to the head of his cock. “Goddamn,” she said, stroking it with one hand while she grinned up at him. “I knew you’d be cute when you squirmed.” She traced her tongue over her bottom lip, a practiced little flick that threatened to undo what Hilary had so methodically assembled.

Hilary nudged Lucy aside with a pointed look and knelt, one palm flattening onto Logan’s thigh, the other steady at the root as she bobbed slow, purposeful, twisting her tongue around the head before taking him as far as she could, cheeks hollowing. Lucy retaliated by climbing onto the bed behind Logan, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pressing her lips to the spot just below his ear.

“Bet you’ve never had a double feature like this,” Lucy whispered, biting gently at his jaw. Her hand reached down, sneaking under Hilary’s arm to grip the base, and for a second, Hilary and Lucy’s hands overlapped, knuckles brushing. The subtle flex of competition, even in this, made Logan’s hips buck helplessly.

Hilary pulled off, chest rising and falling. “He’s going to explode if you don’t pace yourself, Luce.” She grinned, thumb skimming over the wet crown, then shot Lucy a look that said it all. “You want the honors, or should I?”

“Let’s see if he can hold out,” Lucy murmured, then kissed him again, deeper, her hand moving in time with Hilary’s.

Hilary’s hand didn’t linger, she used it as leverage to push him back, flat against the mattress, so that Logan’s head landed in a dip of the pillows. The way she straddled him, businesslike and graceful, made it clear who ran this particular set. Lucy followed, crawling up until she was kneeling by his side with all the feline elegance that used to get girls kicked out of Catholic school.

Hilary pushed up, finding the pace she liked, grinding down in a way that slotted their hips together just so. The heat of her clam, the slippery ache, made him tilt his head back and lose focus for a second, but Lucy’s hand was at his throat, thumb under his jaw, just enough pressure to sharpen every sensation.

Lucy, not to be outdone, kissed her way up Hilary’s side, nipping just under her breast, making a show of it. Logan was treated to the full crash course in how girls like these took what they wanted: Lucy’s tongue trailed along Hilary’s ribs, then her lips closed over the tight point of her nipple, and Hilary, visibly startled, bucked down hard onto him, nearly making him lose it right there.

Lucy’s mouth didn’t leave Hilary’s nipple, not even when Hilary ground down harder, that little tremor in her thighs pushing Logan further into the mattress. Hilary’s pace changed, as she found a sync with Lucy’s tempo, each bounce counterweighted by Lucy’s palm sliding up and down his chest, nails dragging just enough to light up the nerves without cutting. He tried to reach for Hilary’s hips, needed leverage, something to hold on to, but Lucy’s knee blocked him, and Hilary just grinned down at him, hair wild and cheeks flushed.

Not fair, he thought, but he’d never actually expected a fair fight.

Hilary slowed, letting him slide almost all the way out, then pushed back until she bottomed out, every time. He could hear the damp sounds of it, wet and obscene, over Lucy’s low giggle. Hilary’s hands braced against his chest, fingers splaying for balance. Logan tried to say something, probably a curse, but his brain stuttered in the moment.

Hilary’s thighs flexed around his hips, every controlled motion lifting and lowering her wet warmth, the slow pull and greedy push swallowing Logan whole. She had the advantage, and she knew it, she leaned into the pleasure, head tipped back, mouth open. The tempo of her hips, the way she rolled them, made him want to give up every shred of self-control, but he held on. Barely.

Lucy slithered up beside him, a brush of hair, a teasing drag of tongue along his collar. Then she swung one silk-skinned thigh over his face and perched above him, her knees framing his jaw, her wet pussy so close he could taste her before she even lowered herself to his lips. “Your turn,” she breathed, then, with a daring little shift of weight, pressed her cunt to his waiting mouth.

Logan lapped and sucked, probing with his tongue, drawing a shiver from Lucy’s belly into her thighs. Above, Hilary’s motions faltered for a beat as she watched, maybe savoring the view, maybe daring him onward, but then she ground down again, hard and fast, her clit grinding against Logan’s pubic bone in perfect counterpoint to Lucy’s writhing.

Lucy gripped the headboard with both hands, her balance shifting as she rolled her hips, slow, then quick, grinding her neatly trimmed pussy against his mouth. Logan flattened his tongue, let her set the pace, catching the taste of gin and sweat and sweetness as she fucked his face with zero pretense.

She was loud, uninhibited, each gasp or strangled moan from her made Hilary clench tighter around him. He dug his hands into the backs of Lucy’s thighs, held her steady, buried his tongue as far as it would go, lips parting to let her ride. Lucy was so close, her whole body wound up and flexed above him, her nails scratching at the headboard with each building wave. “Right there,” she gasped, grinding down, and Logan’s world narrowed to the taste of her on his tongue and the hot, wet clutch of Hilary riding his cock.

Then Hilary’s tempo buckled. Her hips quickened, losing the teasing slow-build for something raw and insistent. Logan felt her get tighter, the way her body trembled as she leaned close to his chest, almost crushing him into the pillows. Lucy’s cries triggered a staccato echo in Hilary, and Hilary’s body tensed, her thighs pinning Logan’s hips, heel digging into the mattress. She muttered something throaty, half-growl, half-plea, and he could feel the telltale tremor of her orgasm as it rolled through her, spine bowing, nails digging into his pecs. She tried so hard to ride out the waves silently, but Lucy’s shrill gasp knotted with Hilary’s shudder, and both women were suddenly grinding down on him at desperate, uncoordinated rhythms.

Lucy’s wetness flooded his tongue, then her hips stuttered and she slumped forward, hair showering across his face, her thighs twitching in his grip. The taste of her, salty, unmistakably female, still slicked his mouth as Hilary collapsed onto his chest, her sweat-slicked skin sticking where their bodies met.

His own release followed, grounded by the feel of Hilary above him and Lucy’s weight against his face. He tried to hold back, last just a little longer, but the two of them together made resistance a joke, he thrust into Hilary, starburst-bright, chest thudding up once, twice, then Logan came hard, emptying his balls into Hilary’s trembling cunt.

Nobody moved for a while. The only sounds were Lucy’s breathing, ragged and wild, Hilary’s heartbeat against his chest, loud as a bass drum, his own pulse thudding at every joint. Logan tasted sweat and the afterglow, the copper tang of blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his cheek at some point. He blinked and found Lucy sprawled against the headboard, hair in chaos, eyes glassy and half-lidded. Between his legs, Hilary’s hand was still wrapped around his cock, still tracing absent, circles. His own hands, he realized, were still gripping Lucy’s thighs, thumbs digging pale spots into her skin.

Time limped by, surreal and elastic. Logan’s limbs tingled, boneless, so he let himself collapse back, letting Lucy’s thighs slide from his hands. She twisted, flopping sideways onto the bed, landing half across his chest and letting her head loll to one side. Hilary was still straddling him, still panting, but she was also cracking up, this low, frazzled laugh that proved she’d finally lost her grip. Her hair was an absolute riot, mascara smudged under her eyes. She wiped her mouth with the heel of her hand and grinned down at him, like she’d just been paid a compliment she actually believed.

Lucy was the one who spoke first, her voice airy and brandished with triumph. “Jesus, Hil, we should’ve started inviting photographers years ago.” She stretched out like a cat, her foot absently kicking at Logan’s shin under the sheet.

“You only say that because you didn’t have to host,” Hilary shot back, but she kept her body pressed against him, nuzzling into his chest as if she’d never been anywhere else. For a second, Logan had the surreal feeling that the three of them could just fall asleep like this, a tangle of arms and leaking, satisfied limbs.

To Be Continued

[TheLW]

Behind the Lens #7
With Dua and Rina Lipa
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Blowjob, Masterbation
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

Two days after the InStyle Dinner, Logan found himself trading tuxedos and camera lenses for the low hum of a private charter jet. The Atlantic stretched out beneath them as he and Dua flew toward London for the weekend. This wasn’t work. This was something more intimate. Dua had invited him to meet her parents and her younger sister, Rina.

The flight felt light, almost domestic in its simplicity. Dua was curled against the window with her headphones on, occasionally pulling one out to share a song. Logan teased her taste in beats, she rolled her eyes, and they laughed in that comfortable rhythm that comes from knowing you don’t have to perform for each other.

London greeted them with cool air and the easy familiarity of Dua’s family home. Her parents opened their door with warmth that instantly steadied him. Her father shook his hand firmly, dry wit already loading in the chamber, while her mother swept them inside with a grace that only years of hosting could perfect. Within an hour, Logan was in the kitchen helping with dishes, laughing at stories from Dua’s childhood, and adjusting to the way this new world folded him in without fuss.

Rina, though, was sharper. Younger, yes, but with a curiosity that bordered on investigative. She waited until the kitchen quieted, then leaned across the table, mug of coffee in hand, and asked the kind of question no parent would.

“So, Logan,” she said, eyes glinting, “what exactly is going on with you and my sister? Is this just a thing, or are you two serious?”

Dua didn’t jump in. She leaned back, letting him answer.

Logan held Rina’s gaze, deciding that if he was going to belong here, it had to be on honest terms. “We’re dating,” he said simply. “It’s kind of serious. But we have an open relationship. That means we’re together, we trust each other, but we’re also free to have fun on the side when we want. And that’s something we’re both good with.”

There was a look of surprise in Rina’s expression, but no judgment. If anything, her grin widened. “So you’re telling me you two actually figured out how to make that work?”

Dua cut in with a shrug and a smirk. “It’s called communication. You should try it sometime.”

Rina laughed, shaking her head. “Well, can’t argue with that. Still, Logan, you are ridiculously handsome. Serious or not, I get why she keeps you around.”

Logan opened his mouth to respond, but Dua beat him to it. “Handsome doesn’t even begin to cover it. Trust me, he looks even better naked.”

The table broke into chaos, Rina choking on her drink, their mother muttering about “decorum,” and their father leaving the room with a headshake. Logan groaned, burying his face in his hands, while Dua leaned back looking smug, delighted at his embarrassment.

The rest of the afternoon followed in the same way. Rina peppered him with more questions, his work, his family, even what he and Dua fought about most. He answered them all, sometimes straight, sometimes with humor, while Dua tossed in her own commentary to keep things lively.

It was the middle of the night, and the house was heavy with sleep. Logan had been lying awake for what felt like an hour, rolling from one side to the other, his mouth dry, his body restless. Finally, he gave up on chasing sleep, slid quietly out of bed, and padded down the hallway barefoot. The floor creaked in places, and he winced each time, half-expecting to wake someone.

As he reached the kitchen, he realized the light was already on. A soft, yellow glow spilled into the hallway, cutting through the dark. Logan hesitated, then stepped inside.

Rina was there, seated at the table in a loose t-shirt and shorts, one knee tucked up against her chest, a plate of dessert in front of her. She looked perfectly at ease, like she belonged in the quietness, while the rest of the house drifted.

She glanced up as he entered, her smile immediate, knowing. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, her tone soft but laced with something more playful.

Logan blinked, a little caught off guard. “Uh... yeah. Thirsty,” he said, nodding toward the sink. “Just going to grab some water and head back to bed.”

Rina twirled her fork in the half-eaten slice of cake, eyes following him as he crossed the kitchen. “You could,” she said, letting the words hang before leaning back in her chair. “Or... you could sit for a minute.”

He filled the glass slowly, the rush of water louder than he expected in the silence. When he turned, she was still watching him, her chin resting in her hand now, her expression more deliberate than casual.

“I’ve got to admit,” Rina said, “I didn’t expect to find out Dua was into open relationships. That’s... not the kind of thing you expect to hear from your sister. But it’s interesting.”

Logan leaned against the counter, sipping his water. “It works for us,” he said evenly. “With our schedules, with the way we live, there’s trust, and freedom. It means our needs get met, without pretending they don’t exist.”

Rina smiled at that, her head tilting just slightly. “Speaking of needs...” She tapped the fork against the edge of the plate, the sound sharp in the quiet. Then her gaze lingered on him, unflinching. “I definitely have some of my own.”

The words hit heavier than her tone suggested, leaving a charge in the space between them. Logan shifted, gripping the glass in his hand a little tighter. The house was silent around them, but the moment felt anything but still.

Rina set her fork down with a soft clank and pushed her chair back. The scrape of the legs against the tile made Logan’s grip tighten on the glass in his hand. She rose slowly, and crossed the short distance between them.

“You talk about trust and freedom like it’s a science,” she said, her voice lower. “But I think I understand it a little better now.”

Logan’s breath caught as she stepped closer, her hand brushing lightly against his arm. It wasn’t an accident. She was testing him, gauging his reaction, and when he didn’t step away, her smile deepened.

Before he could answer, she leaned in, her lips grazing his jaw. The kitchen was hushed except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. He set the glass down on the counter, unsure if it was to free his hands or to steady himself.

What neither of them knew was that the house wasn’t as asleep as they thought. Down the hallway, just out of sight, Dua stood barefoot in the shadows. She had woken to an empty bed, followed the sound of faint voices, and now she lingered at the corner where the hall met the kitchen. From there, she could see just enough, the curve of her sister’s body leaning into Logan, the way he didn’t immediately move away.

Dua didn’t step in. Not yet. She watched silently, her expression unreadable, her eyes fixed on the scene unfolding just a few feet away.

Inside the kitchen, Rina’s hand slid lower, her touch bolder, her body language leaving no question about her intentions. Logan shifted against the counter, tension written across his face. Then, without words, the moment tipped past the conversation.

The light over the stove cast long shadows across the room as Rina sank lower, her movement unmistakable. Logan exhaled sharply, his head tipping back, the glass of water forgotten on the counter.

From the hallway, Dua’s eyes narrowed. She stayed perfectly still, watching every detail, unseen.

Rina dropped to her knees, bare skin brushing against the cool tile. Her hands, steady and certain, worked at his waistband, pulling it open, Logan’s cock flopped free, half-erect and heavy, bobbing in the stagnant air of the Lipa family kitchen, and instantly she wrapped her hand around him. Her palm was tiny, almost comical around the thickness of him.

“Fuck me,” she whispered, glancing up at him with a sideways grin. “No wonder Dua won’t stop bragging.”

He could only swallow, each movement of her hand peeling back a layer of sanity. Rina held his gaze a moment longer, then spat, quick and crude, right onto the crown of his dick. Logan’s knees buckled, and his palm smacked hard against the counter.

She rolled the spit around the head with her thumb, then slid her mouth over him, warm, wet, and hungry. She gagged, just a little, her eyes watering, but she barreled through, tongue swirling along the underside like she was taste-testing a secret ingredient. Her cheeks hollowed, and she pumped her hand up and down the shaft until her lips met the edge of her own fist.

Logan stared down at Rina, her profile beautiful, jaw tense and lips stretched wide. There was something almost reckless in the way she watched him while she did it, eyes never blinking, daring him to flinch or falter. He didn’t. He was too far gone for that, surrendering to the rhythm she set, to the brutal honesty of her mouth and the slick, tight pop each time she pulled off, caught her breath, spat again, dove back down.

Dua shifted her weight, pressing her back tighter to the wall, bare feet icy on the hardwood. She couldn’t look away, as she watched her sister’s head bob in time, hair flaring out along Logan’s thighs. She slid her hands into the waistband of her pajama bottoms, pressed her fingers along the sharp place above her pubic bone. It wasn’t about jealousy, not exactly. Something much weirder and deeper. She’d given Logan that kind of permission so many times, but now, seeing Rina, baby Rina, with her mouth full. She’d never imagined the two worlds would overlap this completely.

Dua let her breath out slow, careful not to make a sound. Her fingers found the wet already pooling between her legs, traced it in slow circles, matching the cadence of her sister’s head. It should have pissed her off. It should have made her want to storm in, drag Rina backwards by the hair, but instead, she pressed a finger inside, just one finger at first , then two, and shivered at the way her own body clenched. Her heart slamming against her chest so hard she thought it might wake the whole house.

Rina bobbed up and down, fast at first, then slower, like she was changing up the music track in her head. She pulled off, strings of spit snapping from Logan’s cock to her lips, and stroked him with both hands like she was working dough. She looked over her shoulder, and for a second, Dua could have sworn the glint in her eye was aimed right at her, as if she knew she had an audience. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Dua flattened herself tighter to the wall, breath quick, blood roaring in her ears.

Logan’s hips jerked forward, and Rina took him even deeper, nose mashed to his pelvis, choking but holding, not backing down even as her eyes squeezed shut with the effort. He groaned, the sound low and strangled, and reached for a fistful of her hair without even thinking. Rina let him, even guided his hand, then started bobbing her head again, faster, sloppier. Her tongue flicked out once, dragging along the seam of his shaft like she was savoring the taste.

A sick little wave of pride swept over Dua as she watched, the way Rina didn’t hold back, didn’t treat Logan like some delicate thing that needed careful handling. She’d always teased that her little sister was a freak, but she’d never pictured it quite like this. Her heart hammered, she let her hips rock, pajamas bunched at her thighs, the cool air tingling her bare skin and every swish of fabric stoking the wetness.

Logan pushed at Rina’s hair, choking out a warning, but Rina just doubled down, sucking harder, hands working him from root to tip. The noises, slurp, choke, wet pop, rattled around the kitchen, too loud to be possible, but the rest of the house stayed silent. He swayed, knees threatening collapse, and Dua watched, desperate for the moment he finally broke, unable to last a second longer against that kind of sweet, mean insistence.

Rina pulled off just in time, catching the first thick rope of cum on her tongue, another across her cheek, her hands never stalling until he was empty, milked out, panting. From the darkness, Dua let herself imagine the taste, the scent, the salt and heat of it. Her own fingers moved faster, slick and messy, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to stay quiet. She felt suddenly exposed, even though no one could see her.

She grinned up at Logan, then, in a single fluid motion, rose from her knees and reached for the edge of the kitchen island. Her shirt hiked as she bent forward, arching her back, planting her palms solid on the marble. The shape of her ass, round and insistent, left nothing to the imagination.

Logan blinked, brain rebooting as he reached down to squeeze the base of his cock, as if to convince it this was real, not some fever dream conjured by sugar and exhaustion. He stepped in behind her, his feet catching on the loose knot of her abandoned pajama shorts. She shifted her legs wider, and it was impossible to miss how she pressed herself back against him, like traffic merging on the motorway at rush hour, no space, no patience.

She shimmied her hips, looking over her shoulder, eyes glossy but alert. “Think you’re up for another round?” she whispered, loud enough that Dua could hear from the hallway.

He caught her by the hips, and guided himself to the slick, impossibly wet pussy of Rina. She was hot and smooth and already parted for him, and when Logan pressed in, she groaned, back arching double. The pressure made his feet flex on the tile. He braced one hand against the curve of her spine and pushed forward, not all at once, she was tight, much tighter than he expected, but slow, insistent, ratcheting deeper until he was flush against her ass.

She pushed back, almost daring him to go harder. “Don’t hold out just because I’m Dua’s baby sister,” she said.

Logan wrapped both hands around her hips, felt the heat radiating up from her skin, and moved, slow at first, letting her open up around him, then faster. Every time he pushed in, the wet echo of it filled the kitchen, louder than the hum of the fridge or anything else. The slap of skin on skin, the little yelps she tried to muffle with her arm.

Dua, still pressed to the wall, shivered at the sound, at the sight of Rina getting railed over the kitchen counter and not caring if they saw her. She stroked herself faster, hand slippery, wrist tired but unwilling to stop. There was a new electricity sparking between her legs, a kind of pride at the symphony her sister was wringing out of Logan, the hard pant and slam, the little gasps and stifled syllables spelling each other’s names.

He pulled her upright by the shoulder, wanting to see her face, the arch in her neck, the way her lips parted around a gasp. Her hair was loose, wild, and he brushed it off her shoulder so he could kiss her at the line of her throat. She rolled her head back against his, as Logan thrust harder into her.

“Oh fuck, that’s it,” she said, voice ragged. “Give it to me. I can take it. I want it all.”

Rina’s head dropped, cheek pillowed on her forearm. Her other hand splayed across the counter top. Logan fucked her relentlessly, hands gripping her hard enough she’d probably bruise, thrust after thrust making her gasp, then growl, then moan, like the pain was a dare and she was determined not to blink. She caught his gaze in the narrow window of cabinet glass, her lips curling around a snarl-grin, tongue out, like she was savoring the taste of her own depravity.

Every muscle in Logan’s back threatened to seize as Rina’s noises ratcheted higher, demanding and unashamed. He gripped her, feeling the fine tremor in her thighs, the way she took each thrust and shoved herself backward for more. The tempo was ridiculous now, feral and obscene, and he knew he couldn’t hold on much longer. He tried, because some thin voice in his head said he owed her that, owed Dua who was probably only a bedroom away, but Rina was determined to drag him over the cliff with her.

Rina’s body stiffened, her breathing breaking into ragged, uneven stitches. She clamped down around him and shook with a guttural moan, face mashed against the crook of her own elbow, hips not letting up for a second. Logan dug his nails into her hips and tried to hang on through the vibrations. She kept milking it, each ripple in her body jerking him closer and closer to the edge.

Logan exploded inside of his girlfriend's younger sister, as his knees buckled underneath him but he didn’t let go, riding out the last few spasms until he slumped forward across her back, sweat tacky between them.

She glanced over her shoulder, mischief sharp as ever. “Guess you’re gonna have to clean that up, huh?” Then she straightened, legs barely steady enough to catch herself on the fridge handle, her legs quivering beneath her. Rina reached down, swiped two fingers along her inner thigh, and scooped up a viscous white stripe of cum, before sticking her cum coated fingers in her mouth.

“Not bad, Logan,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper that stretched across the kitchen like plastic wrap. “You live up to the hype.”

Logan tried to reply, but his mouth worked around words that didn’t form. Rina’s sly little smile didn’t ask for an answer. She padded past him, the soft drag of her bare feet on the tiles, and stopped at the door.

Rina turned, just before disappearing into the bleared, dark hallway. “See you at breakfast,” she said. Then she was gone.

To Be Continued

[TheLW]

Behind the Lens #8
With Dua and Rina Lipa
Written by TheLW
Codes: MFF, Blowjob, Incest, Oral
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

Morning light spilled through the kitchen’s wide windows, pale and washed-out, the kind of gray glow only London could offer. The smell of bacon grease, fried eggs, and fresh tea leaves hung heavy in the air, clinging to the curtains. The table was dressed for a traditional full English breakfast, rashers of bacon stacked on a platter, golden fried eggs, roasted tomatoes that hissed faintly, mushrooms glistening in butter, toast piled high beside a jar of jam.

Logan entered first, hair damp from the shower, wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans. He carried himself like nothing was out of the ordinary, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders, a faint hitch in the way he pulled out his chair. He’d rehearsed this moment in his head... walk in calm, don’t overthink it, eat breakfast like everything was fine.

Rina was already there. She sat cross-legged in her chair, oversized t-shirt hanging loose over her frame, her phone in one hand, fork in the other. She looked entirely at ease, scrolling between bites of buttered toast. When she lifted her eyes to him, the look was quick, just a flicker of recognition, gone as fast as it arrived. But Logan caught it. He always would now.

“Morning,” she said, like nothing at all had shifted between them.

“Morning,” Logan replied back to her.

Dua appeared next, hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, dressed in a soft sweater and leggings. She moved with that effortless poise that came from being used to an audience, even here, even at her parents’ table. She slipped into the seat across from Logan, close enough that he could smell her perfume beneath the scent of breakfast.

“Smells good,” she said, reaching for a piece of toast. She spread butter across it slowly, methodically, the knife scraping against the bread. Only then did she lift her gaze to Logan. “So,” she said lightly, “how’d you sleep last night?”

The question was simple.

Logan froze for a half-beat, glass of orange juice in his hand. He forced a smile as he set it down. “Fine. Took me a while to get there, but... yeah. Slept fine once I did.”

Rina sipped from her coffee mug, hiding her mouth, but her eyes glimmered.

Dua didn’t blink. She tore her toast in half, popped a corner into her mouth, and chewed slowly, as if she were considering something heavier than bread. “Funny,” she murmured, “I thought I heard movement in the night. Footsteps, maybe. I almost got up to check.”

The words floated across the table, deceptively casual. But her eyes never left his.

Logan cleared his throat, cutting into a sausage to buy time. “Jet lag, maybe. I got restless. Went for some water.”

“Water,” Dua repeated, voice feather-light, but her tone didn’t rise or fall. Just flat.

Rina stabbed her fork into a roasted tomato, the juice spilling across her plate. She leaned back in her chair, one corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Maybe he was just hungry,” she said. “Nothing wrong with a midnight snack.”

Logan glanced at her sharply, but Rina kept her face neutral, eyes fixed on her plate as though she hadn’t said anything layered at all.

Dua’s mouth curved, the smallest flicker of a smirk. She picked up her teacup, held it with both hands, and took a sip. “Well,” she said softly, “I hope you found what you needed.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was crowded. Every scrape of cutlery against porcelain rang louder than it should have. Logan cut into his eggs too forcefully, the yolk spilling across his plate like a slow bleed.

He glanced at Rina. She was chewing calmly, eyes down, but her foot brushed against his under the table, once, lightly enough that he knew it wasn’t an accident.

He flinched, shifted in his chair. Dua noticed. She didn’t say a word.

Instead, she buttered another slice of toast, her movements calm, almost surgical like. Her eyes flicked between the two of them, then dropped to her plate again, as though she were keeping her conclusions to herself.

Logan tried to steady his breathing. He tried to match the normal pace of conversation, asking about plans for the day, about whether they’d visit any of Dua’s favorite London spots before heading back to the States. Her answers were polite, measured, but there was something in the pauses, in the little hums of acknowledgment, that made his skin prickle.

Rina chimed in here and there, asking questions about his work, laughing too easily at his responses. She tilted her head at him once, fork dangling loosely between her fingers, her eyes full of private amusement.

And through it all, Dua just watched. Calm. Collected. Her words few, but her silences louder than anything else in the room.

By the time the plates were nearly cleared, Logan wasn’t sure if he was more full from the food or from the weight of unspoken things pressing down on him.

** Afternoon Time **

The house had settled into a soft lull by mid-afternoon. Rina had disappeared upstairs with her headphones, and Dua’s parents were out running errands. For the first time all day, the house belonged just to them.

Logan stretched out on the sofa, Dua curled against him with her legs draped across his lap. She wore one of those oversized sweaters that swallowed her frame, sleeves dangling over her hands. Her hair was loose now, strands brushing against his jaw when she tilted her head back to look at him.

They had been scrolling aimlessly on her phone, swapping memes, letting laughter spill easily, when the mood shifted. Dua clicked the screen dark and set the phone aside. Her fingers traced circles over his chest, her eyes sharp in a way they hadn’t been at breakfast.

“You know,” she said softly, “you’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are.”

Logan blinked, a smile twitching nervously at his lips. “Sneaky?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “I woke up last night. When you weren’t in bed, I got curious. Followed the sound of voices.” She paused, her lips curling at the memory. “And what do you know? I ended up seeing my boyfriend bent over the kitchen counter with my baby sister under him.”

Logan stiffened, though only for a second. Surprise flared across his face, then softened. He exhaled and shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “Of course you did.”

“Of course I did,” Dua echoed, voice smooth, certain. She sat up straighter now, her legs still across his lap, one hand resting on his thigh. “You didn’t see me. I stayed just around the corner. Watched long enough to know it wasn’t just a kiss or some teasing. I saw everything.”

He studied her face, searching for anger, for jealousy, but there wasn’t any. Just a glint in her eyes, something darker, something knowing. “And... you’re not upset?” he asked carefully.

Dua’s laugh was low, throaty, almost cruel in how unbothered it sounded. “Upset? Logan, I was touching myself while you were fucking her. Do you think I’d be upset when I was standing in the hallway with my hand between my legs, trying not to moan out loud?”

Logan’s brows rose, and then the tension in his chest eased. He leaned back into the cushions, a grin spreading. “Well... that makes two of us who weren’t sleeping then.”

“Exactly.” She dragged her nails lightly along his thigh, just enough to make him twitch. “I didn’t expect it, honestly. But the way you had her bent over like she was made for it...” She let the words hang, her smirk sharpening. “I couldn’t look away.”

Logan’s hand slid up her back, resting at the nape of her neck. “Guess that explains why you were so smug at breakfast.”

“Mm. Maybe.” She pressed closer, her lips brushing his jaw as she whispered, “You looked so good, Logan. The way you lost yourself in her. It turned me on more than I thought it would.”

He chuckled, his hand tightening at her waist. “Then maybe you should’ve stepped in.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Dua murmured, her mouth grazing his ear now. “Because next time... I just might.”

** Evening Time **

Dinner had stretched into the evening, the plates cleared but the warmth of family still hanging in the air. Eventually, everyone drifted off, Dua busying herself with the dishes in the kitchen, her parents retreating upstairs. Logan lingered near the doorway, not quite ready to call it a night, when Rina slipped up beside him.

She cornered him without it feeling forced, her shoulder brushing his arm as she leaned in, the faintest scent of her perfume trailing close. “So,” she said lightly, her eyes glinting with something more than casual mischief, “been thinking about last night.”

Logan stilled, heartbeat skipping. He turned his head, studying her carefully. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” Rina’s lips curved into a smile that wasn’t innocent at all. She tilted her head, her hair falling over one shoulder, and let her fingertips graze the inside of his arm. “I can’t stop replaying it, honestly. The way it felt. The way you...” Her eyes looked to his mouth, then back up, daring him to fill in the blank.

Logan swallowed, forcing a smile. “You’re bold, you know that?”

“Maybe,” she whispered, brushing her hand down his sleeve until it stopped at his wrist. “But I’m not the only one. Dua and I... we talked.”

That caught him off guard. His brow arched. “You talked?”

Rina nodded, her smirk deepening. “Mmhm. About you. About us. And let’s just say...” She leaned in until her lips nearly brushed his ear. “...we have a surprise planned. Something you’ll definitely enjoy.”

Logan exhaled slowly, caught between curiosity and the unmistakable tug of her flirtation. “Should I be nervous?” he asked, his voice low.

“Not at all.” She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again, her fingers still circling his wrist in a teasing motion. “Excited? Definitely.”

Before he could answer, Dua’s voice carried from the kitchen, calling his name. Rina let go, straightening, her expression flipping back into casual ease as if nothing had just passed between them. But the spark in her eyes lingered, promise, temptation, and the shadow of whatever surprise was waiting.

** Bedtime **

After Dua and Rina’s parents were asleep, Logan found himself on the edge of Dua’s bed, both sisters down on their knees in front of him, all three as naked as the day they were born. They were relentless, the two of them kneeling thigh to thigh, shoulders pressing close, their hands and mouths moving in a choreography that should have been impossible, or at least unsustainable for mere mortals. But Dua and Rina weren’t normal, not in any way that mattered to Logan.

Rina led the way, her tongue licking along the thick underside, leaving a shivery path as she traced every ridge and vein. Dua hummed in approval, matching her movements, lips parted in anticipation. Her breath fanned hot across the crown, and when her mouth closed around the head, the pressure short-circuited any attempt at composure.

He watched the muscles in her jaw work, her cheeks hollowing as she took him deeper. Rina, not to be outdone, mapped her own route along his shaft, lapping at the base, planting open-mouthed kisses that turned wet and hungry. Their hands overlapped, stroked together, fingers intermingled in a rhythm that didn’t care about boundaries.

Dua set the pace. She used her tongue like a velvet vice, swirling and suckling, letting thick strings of spit spill down her chin, matting dark on her lips and skin. Rina nudged closer, her hand cupping the root, urging him deeper inside Dua, her other hand squeezing Logan’s thigh for leverage.

The push and pull between them, the friction of their rivalry and kinship, played out in the way they traded places, Dua relinquishing him with a shimmer of spit, Rina taking over, lips plush and perfect, tongue greedy and deliberate. She choked herself on him till her tears wet his lap, smiling around the obstruction like she wanted the pain, needed it as much as he did.

Logan groaned, fingers tangling in her hair, the reality of it almost enough to unravel him. Dua’s hand landed on Rina’s back, stroking circles between her shoulder blades, almost comforting. But Logan could see the pride in her eyes, the way she watched her sister take him, a spark of satisfaction humming behind her soft cooing. “That’s it, Ri,” she murmured, “show him.”

Rina redoubled her efforts, bobbing faster, hand twisting and turning, a slick slide up and down his shaft. She pulled off suddenly, gasping for air, spit stringing from her chin like a badge of honor. “Bet you didn’t think I could do that, did you?” Rina said. She grinned up at him, then shot a glance at Dua, daring her to match it.

Dua didn’t pause, didn’t even blink. She slotted seamlessly into the moment, tongue already searching for the taste of him left behind on her sister’s lips. Logan watched as she kissed Rina, both of them savoring the obscene connection, the sharing of him between them like a secret language.

Dua’s hand was soft but certain as she gripped Logan at the base, guiding him to her mouth again. She swallowed him with a practiced certainty, her eyes never leaving his. He could read the challenge in the set of her brow, the refusal to blink or look away. She wanted him to feel it all. To know she was in control, even as her cheeks hollowed and her throat worked to take him deeper.

Rina’s teeth grazed his hip bone as she steadied herself, fingers kneading into his thigh. She nestled her face against Dua’s cheek, their skin almost fused as they worked in tandem, mouth and hands and tongue. Logan felt the room swirl, colors bright and hot and unsteady, the world warping around the hard geometry of their mouths and the soft graze of skin.

Dua’s grip tightened, her nails biting his hip. She let him slip from her lips with a pop, the head of his cock shiny with spit and her own gloss. She looked up, her gaze liquid and unreadable, then leaned to Rina, brushing her mouth against her sister’s as if they had all the time in the world and nobody would catch them. Rina’s tongue peeked out and they kissed, slow and passionately, Rina giggling into Dua’s mouth before eventually turning her attention back down.

Hands everywhere now, a tangle of arms and hair. Rina licked the dark crease at the base, mouthing him like she was memorizing every detail. Then she opened wider, trading with her sister in a rhythm so coordinated it felt rehearsed. They took him together, lips meeting around the head, their tongues colliding. They drew back in sync, leaving him throbbing in the cool air, then dove down again, the heat of their mouths enough to make his legs tremble.

Dua didn’t let up until Logan’s hips bucked involuntarily, the promise of release sudden and dangerous. Her hand curled firm and slow, just under the crown, as Rina dove for his balls, taking one into her mouth with a lewd, slurping pop. Dua locked her eyes on his as she swallowed him whole, her lashes catching the lamplight, daring him to come apart right there.

He nearly did. It took every atom of willpower to keep from exploding down Dua’s throat, but Rina’s fingers curled around the base and pinched, hard, just for an instant, stalling him on the knife-edge of climax.

Dua let him slide from her lips, the shaft glistening, her mouth a glazed red. She pressed her cheek to Rina’s, the two of them panting, expressions mirror-bright. Without a word, they shared him, tongues twining, spit and precum mixing, both sets of lips working in feverish alternation.

Rina broke the pattern, gripped Logan’s cock at the base, and slapped it hard against her tongue, keeping her mouth open so the tip of his tongue quivered beneath the weight. She held up a thumb, pinched the tip of him, and let Dua lean in for a wide, filthy lick, the two of them laughing in a way that made his stomach drop, like it was all a dare between them.

Logan couldn’t breathe. He’d never felt this helpless, wrecked by a pair of sisters who seemed entertained only by their own capacity to turn him inside out. He caught Rina’s gaze as she smeared the head along her tongue, coating it in clear, viscous strings. Her lips peeled back in a predatory little smile, eyes flicking up, a flash of all her intentions on display. Then Dua caught him by the chin, pulling him close enough that he could taste himself on her lips when she kissed him, drinking the sweetness of their collusion.

“Lie back,” she whispered, her command low but ironclad.

He did, spine hitting the mattress, arms falling useless at his sides.

They followed, barely a second’s pause as Rina straddled his chest and Dua curled between his legs. The warmth of their bare skin pressed in from all sides. Dua’s mouth found him again, slower this time, her hair spilling in a dark fringe along his thigh. Rina’s pussy hovered above his face, flickering with heat and shadow. He couldn’t move for a second, just watched the way Rina hovered, hands braced on the headboard, her thighs caging his shoulders. Her hair spilled forward, the ends brushing his cheeks.

Dua was gentle at first, more so than he expected. She pulled him into her mouth in slow, weighted sucks, letting him feel every careful contour, every sweep of her tongue. Her hand stayed at the base, firm and steady, squeezing in a rhythm that matched the curl of her spine as she rocked. She looked up sometimes, checking his face. He tried to speak, to say her name, but all that came out was a groan and the shudder of his hips.

Above, Rina’s thighs tensed, the skin soft and trembling where it pressed his jaw. She didn’t move right away, just watched Dua work, her mouth open and her breath catching every so often. Logan wondered for a half-second if she’d just stay there, some tease only half-committed. But then she braced herself lower, her palm gentle on his hairline, and eased herself down until the heat of her pressed against his mouth.

Rina was already wet against his mouth, the flavor heady and unfamiliar but sharp with want. It should have felt strange, the little tremors of her thighs bracketing his temples, but instead it lodged in his chest, a pulse that throbbed and kept time with his tongue. He licked along her slit, slow at first, tasting her, and was rewarded with a subtle roll of her hips. She kept one hand fisted in his hair for balance and leverage, the other planted to the headboard.

He buried his tongue deeper, lapping her from slick entrance to her clit in slow strokes, then flicked at the tip, using pressure and heat and the faintest suction. Rina writhed above him, the muscles of her abdomen rigid, her breaths stuttering until the whole length of her pressed down against his face. Her thighs nearly smothered him, and he let it happen, hands clutching the backs of her legs, keeping her rooted over him.

Every time he circled her clit with a broad stroke, she answered with a little shudder, a tightening of her grip on his scalp. He found a rhythm. Two languid laps deep, then a third that settled at the top, and kept it, refusing to stop.

Dua’s focus had shifted, mouth working him in slow, tight spirals, and Logan could taste the salt of his own precum on her tongue when she licked in twining passes with her sister. But Rina’s grip was merciless, thighs locked around his ears, scent thick and electric. Logan tried to keep up, if only to prove something to himself, keeping his mouth slick and mobile even as his lungs burned for air.

Below, Dua had slowed to almost nothing, just the warmth of her cheek pressed against his thigh and the head of his cock caught between her lips, tongue working in lazy, slow-motion circles. Her hand stroked him with gentle insistence, the kind of grip that threatened to undo him but kept him pent-up, every nerve raw and sparking. Occasionally, she’d look up, her lashes sticky with heat, mouth swollen with the effort. Logan thought he might die from it. He let his eyes flutter, trying to memorize the pure sensation, Rina’s taste on his tongue, Dua’s lips relentless, the tug-of-war in his gut that threatened to tear him in half.

Rina’s thighs trembled, the skin prickling under his palms. She’d gone silent except for that shaky little gasp every time his tongue flicked just so. For a second, Logan almost lost track of Dua, her pace so patient and measured that he’d started to imagine it was his own heartbeat he felt. Then she pulled off, cool air shocking him, and stroked him slowly with her hand, the pads of her fingers sticky but soft.

She looked up at Rina, who now hovered above Logan’s mouth, knees set wide, hips canting had almost faded, she’d become background. Working over the head of his cock, Dua’s hands gentle and insistent as she coaxed every drop of sensation up his spine. But then her grip shifted, her knees braced on either side of his hips, and the change was immediate, the warmth of her pussy hovered above his cock, wet and almost unbearably close.

Dua didn’t say anything, didn’t warn him, just pressed the tip of his cock inside of her pussy, with one slow, pointed shift of her weight. Logan’s vision fuzzed at the edges, the ]grip of Dua’s snatch sealing him in place. He fucked upward instinctively, hips rising to meet her, but Dua kept total control, swallowing him inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside her.

Rina made a noise above him, a caught breath that almost sounded like jealousy, or maybe just anticipation. The pressure of her thighs against his cheeks grew punishing, as if she needed to outpace her sister, to win something. Logan tried to focus, but every muscle in his body thrummed with the desperate urge to move, to thrust against Dua’s tight, flexing pussy.

Rina leaned down, her hair brushing Logan’s cheeks, and started moving her hips in a shallow, quivering rhythm. Wetness slicked his upper lip, the taste headier now, as if Rina’s body was broadcasting its need in salt and heat. She grinded herself down against him, first tentative, then urgent, clutching at the headboard hard enough that it creaked in protest. Her breathing turned desperate, every exhale a tremor, until she lost the strength to hold herself up and dropped her full weight on his mouth.

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. He let his jaw relax, tongue slipping deeper, caught in the way Rina writhed and bucked and lost herself. She started talking, little fragmented nothings that stuttered out between gasps, “fuck, fuck, oh god, don’t stop, don’t...” until she finally broke, her thighs bearing down like a vice. She didn’t scream, but it was close, a strangled whimper pulled from someplace deep. Wetness flooded his tongue, and he realized she’d come, her whole body twitching against him in tight, uneven pulses

Dua, meanwhile, rode him with slow, throttling precision. Every time Logan’s hips jerked up, trying to seize control, Dua met each of his bucks with a counter-move, her muscles rippling against him, slick and impossibly snug, her hands splayed across his chest as she braced for the next wave. The heat of her cunt gripped him, the kind of pressure that made him feel like he was going to break apart, and didn’t want it any other way. Logan reached for her, clutching her thighs, but she planted her hands on his chest firmly and pinned him down, her nails digging into his skin in sharp little crescents.

Rina, still riding out spasms above, slumped forward so her whole body draped heavy and hot against Logan’s face. Her hair curtained his sight, her little gasps muffled by her own arms braced above his head. He kept licking, even as sensation threatened to overload every nerve, even as his breath came ragged and shallow. There was something primal and necessary about the way she didn’t let up, grinding her cunt over his jaw, chasing the aftershock. He let her do it, let her take everything she needed; he had nothing to offer except his tongue and his will.

Dua pumped herself up and down, picking up speed as Rina’s weight climbed toward its crest. Logan tried to keep his mouth working, but when he finally ran out of air, Dua’s bucking her hips, forced the last little gasp from his lungs and he let go, every muscle seizing as his orgasm hit like a car crash. Heat rushed up from the base of his spine, he felt, somehow, every contraction inside Dua’s pussy, the clutch and drag of her walls as she milked him. Rina slumped against his chin, her cunt still dragging wet and needy across his tongue as if she could wring something more from him.

Logan made a noise, really a moan, and tried to pull oxygen through the tight wedge of Rina’s thighs. Above him, Dua rode each thrust with a slow, insistent grind, her gaze fixed somewhere above his head, midsentence, her lips parted, all composure gone. Logan felt the shudder as she came, a muted but seismic tremor in the way her hips collapsed and her head dropped back. She clenched down on him, skin fever-hot, and for a moment the world shrank to nothing but the throb and burn of muscle and slick and want.

It took eons for the aftershocks to let him loose. Rina rolled off, legs folding bonelessly, hair a snarl around her cheeks. She collapsed next to him, cheek pressed to his hip, barely breathing, eyes glassy with exhaustion. Dua leaned over his torso, the whole length of her still pulsating with aftershocks, and pressed her lips to his stomach, a slow, loving, almost dazed gesture. For a while they all just lay there, a tangled heap on the bed, every breath and heartbeat amplified in the hush.

Dua rolled onto the mattress beside him, propped herself up on an elbow, surveyed the wreckage. Her mouth was a dark crescent, hair tangled around her face, but her eyes, brighter even in the half-light, studied him with a detached sort of satisfaction. Like she’d just finished assembling a difficult puzzle and was admiring her work.

“Bet you can’t do that two nights in a row,” Rina said, voice slurred and distant.

Dua smirked. “He can if he skips the full English tomorrow.”

To Be Continued

[TheLW]

Behind the Lens #9
With Miranda Cosgrove
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.[/size]

A couple of days later, Logan was back in the air, boarding a first-class flight from London to Los Angeles. The past weekend had left its mark on him, but the world didn’t stop for reflection. The cabin doors shut with a quiet thud, and the muted hum of the aircraft filled the air. He settled into his wide leather seat, grateful for the space, grateful for a little privacy.

First class wasn’t full. A few business travelers buried themselves in laptops, one older couple was already sipping champagne, and across the aisle, a young man was adjusting a camera bag at his feet. Logan glanced over them all once before leaning back, stretching his shoulders. It was then that someone else caught his eye.

She was seated one row ahead, by the window, the morning light pouring through the glass and spilling across her. It lit her up in a way the cabin’s lamps couldn’t hope to. She wore a yellow dress with thin straps and a soft ruched pattern that clung gently to her figure. The color suited her, bright against her smooth skin, making her seem like she’d stepped out of a summer morning rather than an airport terminal.

Her hair was the first thing that drew him in, rich, dark brown, half pulled back while the rest tumbled in loose waves over her shoulder. The sunlight caught on the shine of it each time she moved, a small shift, a tilt of her head. When she turned, he noticed her eyes. They were sharp and striking, lined with bold winged eyeliner that gave her gaze a certain weight. And then there were her lips, soft and inviting, shaded a rosy pink that stood out against the cool, sterile backdrop of the cabin.

She smiled faintly as the attendant stopped by, taking a glass of sparkling water with a nod. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t posed. There was a warmth to it, like she was used to carrying herself with quiet confidence. Not trying to draw attention, but impossible to ignore.

Logan looked away, pretending to study the in-flight menu, though his thoughts weren’t on food. He was used to seeing people with presence, people who drew eyes in a room, but something about her stood out differently. She looked relaxed, grounded, even as the world outside rushed by at thirty thousand feet.

For a moment, Logan let himself wonder. The weekend in London had been its own storm of moments he hadn’t expected. Now, mid-flight, in the middle of nowhere between two continents, he felt that spark of curiosity again.

Logan hesitated for a moment, debating whether to stay put or take the risk. Curiosity won out. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he stood and stretched like he was just loosening his legs, then angled himself down the aisle toward her row.

She looked up as he stopped beside her seat, her eyes catching his in that way that felt deliberate even if it wasn’t.

“Sorry to bother you,” Logan said with a small smile, leaning lightly on the headrest in front of her. “I just figured since it’s a long flight, introductions aren’t the worst idea.”

Her lips curved, soft and amused. “Not at all. Go on then.”

“Logan,” he offered, extending a hand.

She slid her fingers into his, a gentle but confident shake. “Miranda,” she replied, her voice carrying that blend of warmth and poise he’d already sensed from watching her earlier.

“Miranda,” he repeated, tasting the name. “Nice to meet you. I was starting to think I’d be spending the next eleven hours talking to the in-flight magazine.”

That earned him a laugh, quiet but genuine. “They don’t make for great conversation,” she said. “Unless you’re into crossword puzzles.”

“Not my strongest skill set,” Logan admitted. “I’m more of a people-watcher.” He tilted his head slightly, adding just enough weight to the words that she caught the meaning.

Her brows lifted, eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. “So you’ve been watching me?”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Only in the least creepy way possible. It’s hard not to notice someone who looks like they belong anywhere but an airplane.”

Her smile widened, a hint of color brushing her cheeks. “That’s a line,” she said, though she didn’t sound annoyed.

“Maybe,” Logan allowed. “But it’s true.”

She shifted in her seat, resting her elbow on the armrest, chin balanced lightly on her hand as she studied him. “Well, Logan the people-watcher, you’ve officially made the flight more interesting.”

“And here I was just hoping for an upgrade in conversation,” he replied.

Their eyes held for a moment, the hum of the engines a low backdrop. The small talk was easy, unforced, carrying just enough spark to suggest that eleven hours in the air might not feel so long after all.

The hours slipped by more easily than Logan expected. He and Miranda had settled side by side, and it felt natural, like they’d been assigned that way from the start. Their conversation meandered through favorite cities, embarrassing travel stories, and random little confessions that only seemed to come out when two strangers were tucked away together at thirty thousand feet.

Miranda’s laugh came often, soft but unguarded, and every time she leaned in to make a point, her shoulder brushed lightly against his. Logan caught himself watching the way her hair framed her face when she turned, the subtle shine of her lips as she smiled.

“You know,” Miranda said at one point, swirling the water in her glass, “I didn’t think this flight would be entertaining at all. Usually it’s just me, a book I won’t finish, and my headphones.”

“Guess I’m the in-flight entertainment then,” Logan teased.

“Not bad for a stranger,” she shot back with a grin.

By the time the cabin lights dimmed, their voices had softened to match the quiet. Around them, first class had gone still, every other passenger either cocooned under blankets or fully reclined, lost to sleep. Even the attendants had disappeared behind the curtain.

Miranda let out a slow breath, glancing around at the hushed cabin before her eyes returned to him. There was a hesitation there, like she was weighing the thought against the silence.

“This is crazy,” she said finally, voice barely above the low hum of the engines. “And maybe I shouldn’t say it, but...” She paused, biting her lip before blurting it out. “I’ve always wanted to join the mile-high club.”

Logan’s eyebrows lifted, his surprise melting into a slow, amused smile. “Is that so?”

Her cheeks colored instantly, but she didn’t look away. “I can’t believe I just admitted that to you.”

He leaned in, keeping his tone low. “If you’re being serious, Miranda... we could definitely make that happen.”

Logan nodded subtly toward the small lavatory at the front of the cabin, its faint light still glowing above the door.

Her eyes followed the motion, then looked back to him. She didn’t answer right away, but the spark in her gaze said more than words could.

Miranda didn’t say another word. She set her glass down quietly, glanced once more around the cabin to make sure the coast was clear, then rose from her seat. Logan expected her to hesitate, maybe second-guess herself. Instead, she slipped her hand around his arm and tugged firmly.

“Come on,” she whispered, the corner of her mouth curling with mischief.

Before he could even react, she was pulling him up beside her. Logan caught the quick swing of her hair as she moved, the faintest whiff of her perfume lingering in the narrow aisle. He followed without protest, heartbeat quickening with every step toward the front of the cabin.

The cabin was still, the only sound the steady drone of the engines and the occasional rattle from the galley. A quick glance told Logan every other passenger was still dead asleep, their reclining seats turned into little cocoons of blankets and shadows.

Miranda stopped just short of the lavatory door, her hand still on his arm, eyes flicking toward the glowing “Vacant” sign. Then she looked back at him, her lips parted as if she were about to laugh, but her eyes were serious, burning with that mix of nerves and thrill.

“You ready?” she asked softly.

Logan’s grin came easy. “I’ve been ready since you said the words.”

She shook her head, amused, then pushed the door open and tugged him inside with her, the narrow space swallowing them both in an instant.

A moment later, with the lavater door now closed, Miranda pressed her back to the narrow panel as the tiny lock snicked home. The space was barely enough for two, they had to tuck in tight, shoulders angled, chests nearly flush. Logan felt the jolt of turbulence thunder through the floor but ignored it, entranced by the way Miranda looked up at him, face so close he could see every fleck of gold in her iris.

She moved first, lips parting in a silent dare, one hand drawing his collar forward until their mouths collided with impatient heat. There was nothing coy about it, no slow tease, just out-and-out hunger, tongues unfurling against each other, a messy, exhilarating clash of want. Logan braced a palm on the stainless wall, the other banded her waist, fingers winding into the soft material at the small of her back.

Miranda dug her nails into his shoulder as she leaned up, deepening the kiss. Logan’s head spun. The cramp of the quarters made their bodies line up seam to seam, her hip against his hardening cock, the press of her breast against his chest, their thighs tangled as if rehearsed. Light strobed through the tiny frosted window above the door, illuminating her skin in blue and orange flashes, and Logan thought for one wild moment that they’d combust right there, two desperate bodies burning up before the landing gear even touched the ground.

Miranda was already at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling a bit with the closeness, then giving up and slipping her hand straight underneath to splay fingertips over his chest, as she sucked at his lower lip, tugging it between her teeth before letting it snap loose.

He found the straps of her dress and dragged it down, slow at first until her hips rolled against him, impatient, her breath hot and frantic in his mouth. The yellow fabric slithered to her waist, and she shrugged forward to shuck it down over her hips, exposing the delicate curve of her bra, the pale skin beneath. Logan traced a finger beneath the lace, savoring the tremor that ran through her.

“We have about fifteen minutes before someone comes looking for us,” she whispered, her voice gone half an octave lower. There was a realness to it, a scratch at the edges, like she was fighting to keep control.

Logan grinned, then slid both hands under the underwire, thumbs catching the hot skin beneath, lace crumpling. Miranda hissed, back arching, knees closing briefly around his hips, just enough pressure to remind him she was running the show, even if her body said otherwise. She yanked his shirttails loose from his slacks, hands hungry and methodical now, mapping the sharp lines of his stomach, nails dragging slow like she was scoring him.

With no space to maneuver, Logan whose pants were already hanging at his ankles, bunched and tangled and wholly superfluous, muscled Miranda up by the hips and drove her down, until his rock hard cock vanished inside her. No hands free to muffle, she bit a smear of his damp shoulder, yanked his shirt so the buttons scattered along the faux-wood floor in a tinsel of white. He pulsed inside her with a tension that made her thighs twinge.

Miranda rocked her hips once, twice, showed him she could take it, and took more, his snarled curse in her ear, the way he pressed her up against the door. There was nothing polite about the way he fucked her, no gentle negotiation, only the urgent, animalistic rhythm of bodies, as he repeatedly thrust into her hard and fast. Miranda clamped around him in desperate intervals, feeling the shape of his cock like a weapon forged only for her.

He kissed her mouth, then her jaw, then the vein in her neck, open-mouthed, as if threatened by the possibility she might vanish. Miranda was panting now, shallow and animal like, every nerve raw and sparking. It was selfish, how she held his cock tight and worked him deeper, grinding until her clit caught on the hard muscle of his thigh and her head hit the stall door with a dull thud.

Logan watched her eyes flutter and roll back, saw her teeth flash under the overhead light, felt her nails rake down his side, a tinge of pain that almost sent him over the edge. She made a sound, a choked, low sound, and for a moment he thought the whole plane might hear her, but the drone of the turbines drowned her out even as she tried to stifle it with her fist.

Then her hand was on him, not just gripping but clawing, her arm wound behind his neck, breath hot in his ear. “Harder,” she hissed, and Logan listened. He gave her the full weight of his body, muscle forced in where the cramped space allowed, his hands locked around the bones of her hips, and drove into her like he was never coming out.

Miranda’s head fell forward, hair damp and plastered to his cheekbones. Her eyes blurred at the edges with each slam of his pelvis, and the searing stretch between them. Her knees wobbled, then locked straight, back braced only by his hands and the lavatory door as she let him consume every inch, every wet smack echoing off the tiny walls.

He didn't let up not for a second, as his hips snapped with bruising force and Miranda thought, maybe for a split second, she might black out. She clenched around him again, a sound torn from her as she shattered silently, shaking apart in his arms. Logan slammed against her one last time, choking out her name into her neck as he came, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.

He held her, trembling, until their heartbeats slowed. They slid together down the wall, her knuckles white on his shoulder, Logan's chest slick with sweat and her lip gloss ghosted along his jaw. For a minute, neither moved, bodies flinching in aftershock with each bump of turbulence, breaths high and uneven in the tiny, used-up air.

Finally Miranda roused first, blinking up at him with a grin that bordered manic, hair all wild, most of her dress bunched around her waist. "Best fifteen minutes I’ve ever spent," she whispered.

The knock at the door, when it came, was so polite she thought she’d hallucinated it. Logan touched his lips to Miranda’s temple, muttered “Shit, wait,” and shuffled with her deadweight still in his arms to twist the lock. He tried to right her dress, half-hearted, but the yellow fabric was hopelessly wrinkled and soaked through with sweat. Miranda tucked her bra back around, crooked a finger at him, smoothed his hair. It didn’t help; they looked like car crash survivors.

The attendant waiting outside blinked at them, Logan saw her take in the state of his shirt, the dishevelment, the fact that Miranda was somewhat out of breath. If the woman cared, she didn’t show it. "If you could return to your seats?" she asked, voice steady as a line of laundry on a windless day.

They nodded, stepped out into the blue-lighted aisle. Everything in the cabin was quiet, two dozen strangers sleeping off their melatonin or bourbon. Only one passenger was awake. They locked eyes for a split second, an understanding between men with secrets to keep and stories to tell.

Miranda sank into her seat, legs quivering under the blanket she yanked up to her chin. Logan took his time, folding himself back into place, humming with spent adrenaline. She stared out the window for a while, watched the sky,  Logan toyed with the tray table, mind blank except for the afterimage of Miranda’s hair, the taste of her sweat still at the corner of his mouth.

“You okay?” Logan whispered, not quite looking at her.

Miranda tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He stifled a laugh. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been better.”

She stifled her own smile, but it broke through anyway, dazzling and unrepentant. “You’re incorrigible,” she whispered, just as the lamp over her seat flicked on, throwing her face into sharp morning focus. He watched the color return to her cheeks, saw the thrill still running, just beneath the surface. The image of her against the silver wall, trembling in his arms, replayed in flashes when he closed his eyes.

She pulled the scratchy airline blanket higher, burrowed down. It took a moment for the glow to recede from her skin, her breathing evened, but her wrist kept a faint tremor as she reached for her phone, and the two of them eventually exchanged numbers.

The End

[TheLW]

Behind the Lens #10
With Stella Hudgens
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Anal, Blowjob, Rough Sex, Sex Toy
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

A week passed.

Logan Fitzpatrick returned to routine with the discipline of someone who understood how easily work could lose its edges if left unchecked. His days filled with the familiar cadence of professional life. Client calls. Location scouting. Licensing follow-ups. The kind of work that sustained a reputation built over time.

The footage from the Hudgens assignment was handled no differently than any other sensitive commission. It was logged, labeled, and delivered according to the terms discussed. The final video was transferred directly to Vanessa Hudgens, intended solely for her husband’s private collection. Not for publication. Not for circulation. A personal artifact, created with full consent and clear boundaries, and meant to remain exactly where it belonged.

Once delivered, Logan closed the file.

Discretion had always been his currency. That hadn’t changed.

Midweek, an email arrived that briefly interrupted the rhythm of his routine.

The sender was Stella Hudgens.

The message itself was composed and direct. Stella outlined her interest in commissioning new visual material for her OnlyFans account, specifying production quality, aesthetic control, and confidentiality. She detailed her expectations clearly, including scope, timeline, and compensation, communicating with the ease of someone accustomed to managing her own brand rather than outsourcing it.

Only at the end did she add a note of context.

Her sister Vanessa, she wrote, had spoken highly of his professionalism and suggested she reach out.

Logan read the message twice, attentive to its tone more than its contents. There was no assumption of familiarity, no attempt to trade on proximity. Just a referral, cleanly offered.

He took his time before replying.

When he did, his response mirrored the professionalism of the inquiry. He thanked her, outlined his standard process, and emphasized consent, structure, and clearly defined boundaries. A draft agreement was attached. Several dates were proposed.

Stella replied promptly. Terms were agreed upon.

After confirming the booking, Logan updated his calendar and filed the correspondence away.

Still, later that evening, as he prepared his equipment, he found himself more deliberate than usual. He checked his gear with care, reviewing setups and contingencies, approaching the assignment with the same rigor he reserved for work that carried added scrutiny.

Some jobs expanded your reach. Others reminded you exactly where you stood. Logan suspected this one would be the latter.

The day of the job, Logan positioned the tripod at the foot of the bed, adjusting height and angle until the frame felt balanced. He checked the monitor, fine-tuned exposure, and made a small note about the way the light fell across the room. Nothing rushed. Nothing improvised.

Stella, who was already naked, moved with ease, entirely comfortable in her own space. By the time Logan gave a final nod, she was already on the bed, presenting herself for the lens with practiced confidence. This wasn’t hesitation or exhibitionism. It was controlled.

“Rolling,” Logan said, voice even.

The camera’s indicator light blinked on.

Stella shifted slightly, settling into the frame. Her movements were unhurried, intentional, designed for the viewer she had in mind. Logan watched through the monitor, not directly at her, tracking composition, focus, and rhythm. He made small adjustments as needed, keeping the shot clean, steady, and exactly within the boundaries they had discussed.

She reached for the purple wand with an easy, unhurried motion. She turned it over once in her palm, thumb running along the ridged control, then clicked it on. It pulsated in her hand, alien-bright against the darkness of her thigh as she settled back on the covers. The sound, high, eager, a little anxious, stitched through the hush of the bedroom. Logan kept the camera wide at first, letting the full frame settle, her limbs, her stomach rising and falling, her face half-lit with the cold gold of the ring light.

Stella didn’t turn her eyes to him. She didn’t need to. The performance, if it was that, was for herself first, or maybe she just liked the way the act asserted the perimeter of her control. She let the vibrator glide up her inner thigh, teasing herself with a brush along the seam of her sex but skimming past, planting the device just below her navel. The vibration passed through her pelvis, a surface ripple, and she let herself breathe into it, feeling her cunt swell and pulse under the indirect assault.

The bedspread bunched beneath her as she arched and splayed, knees open, heels grinding the duvet. She pressed the vibrator to her clit, her hips bucking in a reflex of need she didn’t bother to suppress. She went loud, not theatrical, but full-voiced, letting the sound fill the room.

Logan’s hands stayed loose on the tripod, he only moved when he made a subtle tilt, down to the angle of her pelvis, up to her jawline as she tossed her head back, hair splayed like a dark fan. Logan caught it all through the lens, the way her stomach clenched, the damp glisten at the crease of her hip, how her nipples went hard.

Logan’s own breathing slowed until it was barely perceptible, the camera an extension of his hand and eye. He dialed in the focus for a close shot as her free hand slid up her body, squeezing her breast so hard the skin pebbled under her touch. Stella’s jaw set on a moan, her hips such a blur of tension that her thighs quivered like a held note.

The vibrator climbed settings, a stutter in the motor, a more insistent thrum. Stella leveraged the torque of her wrist to lock it down, grinding the head against her clit until the ache radiated out into her thighs and up behind her eyes. She didn’t blink. Her face gone slack except for a tightness in the brow, lips parted, pupils wide. The ring light picked up every tremor along her jaw and collarbone, every near-invisible twitch as her body closed in on itself. She’d been close from the start, she liked it that way, never dragging out the finish, always riding the first crest, shooting for the peak and splintering apart as soon as she reached it.

She writhed, not like a model performing, but like a boxer in the moment of landing a body blow. She punched her hips up, catching the trembling crest as it crested and receded, staved off the climax, then let it flare through her body, an ugly, beautiful flood.

Stella caught her breath, eyes looking to the tripod, then to Logan, who waited, for her cue. When her body finally slackened, she let the wand tumble to the mattress, thudding once, then spinning off toward the footboard.

Stella didn’t look away from him when she spoke. “There was something else we talked about,” she said, her tone measured, as if this were just another item on an agenda. “What you did with my sister.”

Logan paused, long enough to acknowledge the weight of it, but not long enough to suggest uncertainty. “Yes,” he said.

“Good, because I want you to fuck me, like you did my sister.”

With that said, Logan didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate. He unbuckled his belt, let his pants slide to the floor, and in the same movement, gripped a handful of Stella’s hair. The gesture was rough, but it wasn’t new, he’d understood from one glance at her message that she expected him to skip the tender theater and get on with it.

“On your knees,” he said.

She slid off the bed, naked and kneeling, her mouth set but ready. He guided her head down, cock pressed to her lips, and she parted them without fuss, the heat of her mouth immediate. She took him shallow at first, he could feel her calibrating, not just her jaw but the angle, the stretch, the pressure. He kept his fist tight at the base of her neck, using her hair as a handle, and taking him to the base, breath steady until he nudged the back of her throat.

Stella kept her gaze fixed upward, unswerving. Saliva slicked along the shaft, the mess deliberate. She let herself lose elegance, made a sloppy show of it. Her bare knees pressed to the hardwood. Logan watched the line of her spine, how her shoulder blades flashed beneath the skin, sharp and beautiful as cut stone. He used his hips, slow and then not, letting her feel the momentum build.

Logan glanced at the camera. It caught everything, his hand in her hair, the hollow of her cheeks, the smear of moisture glinting along her jaw. Stella’s hands gripped his thighs, holding herself steady, nails digging in, planting a row of crescent marks. He guided her through, barely needing to correct, she yielded to his pace, not in submission but in perfect, kinetic agreement.

Logan worked her jaw like a tool, using the full leverage of both hands, one at the base of her skull, the other clamped proud around his shaft, guiding it with precision. He set a pace, then broke it with sudden, deeper thrusts, pushing her until her lips mashed the base of his cock, until spit ran in ropes onto her chin and breasts.

He watched her eyes each time he drove forward, the wetness at the back of her throat, the desperate pinch of breath forced out her nose. Stella didn't flinch or draw back. She braced her spine and held him unblinking, hunger pronounced, calculation flickering in the way she anticipated his every shove.

Logan let the words come, cold and weighty. “Is this what you want? To be your sister’s little replacement? The good, eager slut on her knees?” He bunched the hair at the crown of her head, winding it into a fist. “You wanna see who takes it deeper?”

Stella moaned around him, the sound vibrating up his cock like an illicit confession. Logan rocked his hips, feeling the smooth slide glide and catch as the gag reflex fought back. “Open wider,” he commanded, voice flat. “You said you wanted the whole thing.”

She wrenched her jaw, opened beyond what he thought possible, the grind of her teeth against the base, the wetness of her tongue brushing every inch. He leaned over, one hand at the back of her head, the other clasping her jaw until it was locked wide, cheeks distended, lips stretched impossibly around him. She looked back, face smeared and beautiful, and gagged on command, a shudder rolling up her chest.

He face fucked her like that, using her mouth as a socket, each plunge measured, a test of her nerve, her hunger. Her nose flattened against his crotch with every push, and he could hear the drag of her breath, airless and urgent, but she never flinched or turned. When she gagged for a third time, tears slicked in the corners of her eyes, Stella let them streak down, never blinking.

On the next thrust, Logan held her down, pinning her head flush to his pelvis. He watched the involuntary panic start in her shoulders, a micro-spasm of resistance, but she stayed locked in place, fists tight to his thighs, the convulsive swallow of her throat milking him. Only when her nails bit deeper did he ease off, let her pull back, strings of spit chasing his release from her lips.

A slick string of saliva stretched between her lips and the tip of his cock as he pulled her the last inch off. Stella gasped, spit bubbling on her tongue, then wiped it away using the back of her hand, defiant. She didn’t break eye contact, she looked hungry, as though the oxygen was a rip and he’d just let her off the leash.

“Get up,” Logan said, as he spun her to face the mattress before she could catch her breath. She braced for him, ass up, elbows sinking into the bedspread.

Logan’s hand went to the dresser almost without thought. The cuffs lay where Stella had placed them, wide black leather, padded, a short length of chain linking each pair. They weren’t hidden and they weren’t ornamental. They were part of the setup, as considered as the lights and the camera lens.

He crossed back into frame and set them on the bed beside her, the metal making a soft, unmistakable sound against the white sheets. Stella glanced at them over her shoulder, her expression unreadable but steady. No surprise. No hesitation.

When Logan fastened the cuffs at her wrists behind her back, the chain settled against the curve of her lower spine, anchoring her posture. The matching restraints at her ankles limited her range just enough to shape the pose, drawing her into stillness rather than forcing it. The effect was immediate and intentional, a composition rather than a struggle.

Through the camera lens, the image resolved into something stark and controlled. The restrained posture. The turn of her head. The contrast of dark leather against pale bedding. Vulnerability and authority held in the same frame, neither overpowering the other.

A moment later, Stella found herself face down and ass up, as Logan came up from behind, pushing his cock into her pussy. She was so wet it barely registered as friction, the head of his cock pressing against the farthest point inside her while her cunt gripped him like a living thing. Logan’s hands anchored to her hips. The chain of the cuffs bit a shallow groove into her skin, every thrust moved it, a tiny percussive rattle.

He was in her hard, with the first thrust she jolted forward, and Logan could feel the quick shift in her breathing as he set the rhythm. He didn’t waste time ramping up, just hammered straight in, one, two, three, so deep it was all the way, the head of his cock slamming her cervix and her body answering him back, pelvis swinging up to meet him, each brutal motion loud with the flesh slap of their hips colliding. Her cunt kept him locked in, hot and slick, but greedy, he had to fight the urge to pause, to savor, when what she wanted was nothing elegant. Just speed and force and surrender.

Stella’s arms, twisted behind her, gave her no leverage to push up or back, so she took every thrust of his cock, her body a live wire. He bent over, gripped the chain at her wrists for extra leverage, pulling her up by the cuffs so her face lifted off the bed. Now he could see her expression, mouth open, hair flung wild, sweat fogging on her cheekbones. She didn’t try to pull her legs in tighter, left herself splayed as wide as the restraints would allow, back arched like a bowstring.

Logan gave it to her fast, short piston thrusts drove into her with the urgency of pent-up need. Each thrust dragged a fresh noise out of her, guttural, choked, raw. The bed squeaked in protest. The cuffs creaked. The smell of sweat and sex thickened the air.

He leaned over her until they were one bent line, the bed frame groaning as he braced himself for another push. Stella’s hands, double-cuffed behind her, twisted and flexed, the skin at her wrists turning pale where the leather squeezed. She tried to arch up to meet him but could only squirm in the tiny space the restraints gave her. Logan gripped her hips hard, fingers digging deep until he was certain she’d feel the bruises tomorrow.

He wanted her to. He wanted her to see them on the playback, frame by frame. Remember, in the hot clarity of daylight, exactly how she’d opened to the roughness of it.

Logan changed his angle, slamming forward and up, each impact driving her harder into the mattress. She was wet enough that the slide never snagged, but the tightness bordered on pain. He loved the way she clenched around him, as though her body meant to drain him dry.

Stella bucked and howled, voice ragged and elemental, the taut line of her back threatening to snap. Logan felt the pressure building in his gut. He rode the feeling, barreling toward the brink, and heard her voice slash through the static.

“Harder. Don’t stop.”

He bore down, every thrust a punchline, and let his mind blank out for a second, the world narrowing to the sounds of flesh and friction and the deep undertow of her breath. Stella came hard all over Logan’s shaft, as her knees dug into the mattress, the tight grip of her cunt almost shutting him out, like the act itself wanted to spit him back.

And then just like that, Logan pulled his cock out of the younger Hudgens sister, before burying it into her asshole. He didn’t slow down for the switch. A half second of spit on his fingers, then the head of his cock dug into Stella’s asshole, the sliding pop of resistance as she yowled. Not a protest, at least not quite. Logan gripped the cuff chain and used it to lever her hips higher, giving himself full view as he lined up for the drive.

He took Stella with a heavy, measured shove, feeling the muscle give and then clench, her whole body tensing and then, abruptly, adapting. The sound she made was a warble, ugly and bracing, the kind that would stick with him long after he was done fucking her.

Stella’s asshole wasn’t tight so much as practiced, it held him in a vise, each time he bottomed out. Logan knew what she needed, to be treated like a threshold. He fed her short, hard thrusts, the pace stomach-pounding and relentless, and Stella took it, her back bowed, her mouth pressed to the mattress.

Logan fixed his hands on her waist and rammed her down onto him, the force vibrating up his arms. The slap of skin echoed against the walls. Stella didn’t ask for mercy, didn’t want it. She wanted the bruises, the marks, the memory of it all.

Every push buried him deeper, locked in by the ring of muscle. Stella’s noises guttered into a croak, not pretty but honest, her mouth pressed to the cotton sheet, breath coming in animalistic moans. He fucked her until her thighs trembled, until she bit down on the pillow hard enough to leave a wet print, and still she started backing into him, meeting each thrust with the stubborn, greedy energy of someone who refused to quit before she was split open or emptied out.

There was a point where all the slickness and friction seemed to burn at the edge, jelly-slick but so tight his whole body tightened in response, the sweat and ache and prickling climax crowding in his muscles. And still he kept the camera in his mind, the framing, the light, the story she’d want to see after, a record of what happened when she handed off her image to someone with real calluses and no hesitations.

Logan felt the pressure spike, pressure gathering at the base of his cock, ready to rip everything loose. He set his jaw, riding the edge, keeping his grip iron-tight on Stella’s hips as her asshole cinched around his length, squeezing every last inch. The shudder started low in his gut, a full-body convulsion that snapped through his thighs, and then he was past the point of restraint.

He buried himself, balls tight to her skin, and came harder than he had in months, ropes of cum spurting into Stella’s ass, the sensation so intense it buzzed in his teeth. He watched as her asshole twitched around his cockhead with each burst, the mess slick and obscene, exactly as she’d wanted. Logan held, not pulling out just yet, letting the throbbing wring him empty, letting the memory etch itself into the muscle of his back, the stone of his knuckles, her skin hot and splayed under his hands.

When he finally eased out, slow and unsparing, his cum oozed from the open, abused ring of Stella’s asshole, thick and white and unmistakable. It welled up, dripped in globs onto the backs of her thighs and the chain of the cuffs, sticking to her skin. He thumbed the rim, smearing the mess further, shoving what dripped out back in with a slow twist of his finger. Stella twisted against the sensation.

Logan grabbed the phone from his pants pocket, one-handed, and snapped a handful of shots, the streaming cum pooling where her cheeks met, the red welt of the cuffs on her wrists, the dark shadow where sweat and sex waxed. Stella stayed where she was, half-collapsed, head sunk into the mattress, legs trembling but still spread wide for him.

He watched for her cue, knowing the moment would come when the act was no longer the thing and she’d reclaim the space as her own. Her back flexed as she caught her breath, she licked at her lips, and then her eyes snapped to the camera, sharp and hungry, daring him to flinch.

The End

[Alaire]

I can't recall the last time I read a story featuring Stella Hudgens, it must be years ago, but I'm glad you decided to include her in this series of yours.

That aside, I don't understand why this series has gotten no replies, so let me just say what I've said many times before.

I've been a fan of your writing for a long time LW, your skill with words has not diminished over the years and I'm glad you're still writing as this community would be lesser without you.

[TheLW]

Thanks Alaire.

I actually have a couple of Stella stories, not sure how many of them, got posted on here. With that said, I do plan on doing so, hopefully sooner rather than later.

[TheLW]

Behind the Lens #11
With Sydney Sweeney
Written by TheLW
Codes: Handjob, Rimjob, Tit Fuck
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes

The call had come in mid-week, slotted neatly between a handful of routine edits and a client debrief. Sydney Sweeney herself on the line, direct, no intermediaries. "Logan, it's Sydney. I've got this promo shoot for my new lingerie line, Syrn. 'The Seductress Drop 01.' All about the assets. I need someone who gets the vision, no bullshit. You in?"

Logan paused for half a moment, processing. Sydney founding her own brand? It definitely tracked, bold, unapologetic, just like her. "Absolutely. Send the details."

Syrn wasn't just another label, it was her baby, launched with fanfare and backed by heavy hitters. Pronounced "siren," it screamed allure, starting with 44 sizes and designs that blended luxury with real-world wearability. Sydney had poured herself into it, from the lace details to the inclusive sizing, making it clear this was her empire.

The location was an old Hollywood theater, rented out for the day, its velvet seats and ornate carpeting evoking a bygone era of glamour. The crew milled about when he arrived, stylists fussing over racks of black lace and feather-trimmed robes, lighting techs adjusting rigs to cast dramatic shadows, assistants darting with coffee and clipboards. The air smelled faintly of aged wood and fresh makeup. Sydney was hands-on, directing tweaks to the setup with the authority of a founder who knew exactly what she wanted.

She turned as he approached, her smile immediate and genuine, blue eyes sharp, lips painted a deep, inviting red. "Logan Fitzpatrick. Founder privileges mean I get to pick my team. Glad you could make it."

Logan shook her hand, noting the easy confidence in her grip. "Sydney. Founder, huh? Congrats, this setup looks killer. Syrn's got an edge."

"Thanks. It's all me, from the designs to the vibe. 'All About The Assets,' right? Let's make sure we deliver."

The shoot started smoothly. Logan directed with minimal words, small adjustments to her pose, a tilt of the head, a shift in the lighting. Sydney moved like she owned the space, striding down the aisle in that feather-trimmed robe, letting it slip just enough to tease the camera. Click. Click. She paused mid-stride, glancing over her shoulder with a sultry gaze that screamed seduction. The lace bodysuit hugged her curves perfectly, high-cut legs, intricate patterns accentuating her figure, feathers brushing her thighs like whispers.

"Arch your back a bit more," Logan called from behind the lens. "Let the light catch the feathers, show off those assets."

Sydney complied, her ass lifting subtly, the pose emphasizing every line. The theater's red seats framed her like a stage, the ornate carpet underfoot adding texture. Logan captured it all, the mystery of the mask, the allure of the lingerie, the way her body commanded attention without effort.

Between setups, the flirtation crept in, subtle at first but building like the heat from the spotlights. Sydney would catch his eye during breaks, a playful smirk playing on her lips as she adjusted a strap on her corset or smoothed the feathers of her robe. "Are you always this focused?" she'd ask, her voice carrying just for him, low and teasing amid the crew's chatter.

"Only when the subject's worth it, and the founder knows her brand inside out," he'd reply, echoing lines from shoots past but meaning it here, his eyes lingering a second longer on the way the lace hugged her curves, the theater's dim glow turning the moment electric.

By the third outfit change, a white corset bodysuit with long gloves, garter straps, and thigh-highs, Sydney was owning the space fully. The corset cinched her waist like a second skin, pushing her breasts up into a perfect, teasing swell, the lace detailing intricate and sheer enough to hint at what lay beneath without giving it all away. The long white gloves climbed her arms like elegant vines, ending in delicate cuffs that caught the theater's dim glow, while the garter straps clipped taut to her thigh-highs, drawing the eye down her toned legs. She perched on the arm of a red velvet seat, a classic popcorn bucket in hand, tipping it back dramatically as popcorn spilled into her open mouth, tongue out in playful defiance, some tumbling down her chin, others catching on her lace like accidental confetti. The white lace contrasted sharply against the theater's dark reds, her curves on full display, feathers from a draped robe adding a bridal-yet-seductive twist, as if she were a siren stepping out of a forbidden fairy tale. She dropped the robe mid-pose, letting it pool at her feet in a whisper of fabric, then turned her back to the camera, hands on her hips, ass on full display, the high-cut thong framing it like a work of art, feathers trailing behind her like a dark invitation, brushing the ornate carpet with each subtle shift of her weight. Logan snapped the shots, feeling the energy shift from professional to charged, the air thickening with unspoken tension as the crew's chatter faded into the background, the theater's empty seats watching like silent spectators.

As the crew wrapped the final setups, the theater emptied out gradually, the bustle giving way to quiet echoes. Assistants packed gear with efficient clatters, coiling cables and folding backdrops, while lighting techs dismantled rigs, the harsh spotlights flickering off one by one until only the house lights remained, casting long shadows across the rows of red velvet. The stylists gave Sydney a final once-over, touching up her makeup and adjusting a stray feather before heading out with waves and "great job" calls. Soon it was just them, Logan breaking down his equipment methodically, unscrewing lenses and packing tripods, the zipper of his camera bag slicing through the newfound silence, Sydney lingering in the aisle, still in that last set of lingerie, her skin glowing under the dimmed lights like she was the only spotlight left.

"You nailed it today," he said, zipping his camera bag with a final tug, the sound echoing faintly off the high ceilings.

Sydney stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the patterned runner. "We nailed it. But... I was thinking. Off the clock now, want to grab a drink? Or... we could stay a bit? Founder's perks include private after-hours," she added, her tone laced with that same playful defiance from the shoot, but now laced with something deeper, her eyes scanning his face as if reading a script only she knew.

Her eyes held his, the invitation clear, hanging in the air like the lingering scent of her perfume. Logan set the bag down slowly, letting it thud against the carpet. "Here?"

"Why not?" she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that seemed to vibrate through the empty space, her hand brushing his arm lightly, sending a spark up his spine. "The theater's empty. Stage is set, and it's my brand's playground," she murmured, stepping even closer, the heat from her body cutting through the cool theater air, her lace-clad form inches from his, the feathers of her discarded robe still pooled nearby like a forgotten prop in their unfolding scene.

Logan didn't need more convincing. The energy from the shoot lingered, electric and palpable, humming in the air like the faint buzz of the theater's old wiring. The spotlights had dimmed to a soft amber glow, casting long shadows across the rows of empty red seats, turning the space into their private arena. Sydney's hand lingered on his arm, her touch warm and insistent, pulling him deeper into the aisle as the last echoes of the crew's departure faded into silence. She glanced back at him with that same sultry smirk from the poses, her blue eyes gleaming with unspoken promise, the lace of her outfit whispering against her skin with each step.

Sydney led him down the aisle, her ass swaying with each deliberate stride, the high-cut lace thong framing it perfectly like a masterpiece on display, the curves round and firm, the garter straps taut against her thighs. The ornate carpet muffled their footsteps, but Logan's pulse thrummed louder in his ears, anticipation building as she guided him toward the front row, the stage looming empty above them like a forgotten audience.

She stopped at the front row, turning to face him with a slow, teasing spin that let the light catch the sheen of her skin. Her hands found his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as she backed onto a plush red seat, pulling him with her. The velvet cushioned her descent, her legs parting slightly in invitation, the thigh-highs stretching taut as she settled. Logan towered over her for a moment, drinking in the sight, her breasts heaving gently in the corset, nipples pebbled against the lace, her lips parted in a breathy smile that dared him to close the distance.

Logan dropped to his knees between the rows, the carpet rough under his jeans, his hands sliding up her thighs with deliberate slowness, feeling the heat radiating from her skin, the slight tremble in her muscles as he parted them wider. Sydney leaned back against the seat, her gloved arms draping over the armrests like a queen on her throne, lifting her hips with a fluid arch that made the garters snap taut. He hooked his fingers into the thong, the lace scraping lightly against her as he slid it down her legs, exposing her fully, the smooth, inviting curves of her ass, the faint glisten of arousal already evident.

Sydney's ass was perfect, round, firm, begging for attention, the kind of sight that made his mouth water and his cock strain against his pants. He spread her cheeks, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, opening her up as his breath ghosted hot against her skin, sending a visible shiver up her spine. Sydney bit her lip, her eyes locking onto his with that mix of defiance and need, her gloved hand reaching down to tangle in his hair preemptively.

"God, Logan," she murmured, her voice husky and low, echoing faintly in the vast emptiness of the theater as his tongue traced the rim, slow circles at first, teasing the sensitive skin, tasting the faint salt of her sweat mixed with her natural musk. She arched further, pushing back against his face with a needy grind, her moans starting soft but building, echoing off the walls like a private performance. He devoured her, tongue flicking and probing deeper, savoring the taste, the intimate, forbidden flavor that made his head spin, the way she trembled under him, her thighs quivering as he delved in with relentless pressure.

One hand reached up to knead her breast through the lace, fingers pinching the nipple through the fabric, eliciting a sharp gasp from her that bounced off the high ceilings, while the other held her open wider, thumb pressing just below her rim to heighten every sensation. Sydney's body responded greedily, her hips rolling in subtle circles, chasing his tongue, the feathers from her robe forgotten on the floor brushing against his knees like teasing reminders of the shoot.

Sydney's fingers tangled tighter in his hair, pulling him closer with a desperate tug that bordered on demanding, her breaths coming in ragged pants. "Don't stop... right there... fuck, Logan, yes..."

He didn't. He worked her relentlessly, his tongue plunging deeper, circling faster, the wet sounds of his efforts mixing with her escalating moans, the theater amplifying every gasp and whimper into a symphony of desire. He felt her body tense, muscles coiling like a spring, her breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps as she teetered on the edge, her ass clenching in anticipation around his tongue, her whole frame shuddering with building need, thighs clamping down on his head like she never wanted to let go, but he pulled back just in time, leaving her trembling, frustrated, aching for release.

Breathless, chest still heaving from the near-release that had left her thighs trembling and her voice raw, Sydney pulled him up by the collar of his shirt. Her gloved hands fumbled at his belt with impatient urgency, the leather whispering as she yanked it open. Logan stood, his pants and boxers dropping in one heavy slide to pool around his ankles, his cock springing free, already rock-hard and aching from the taste of her.

Sydney wrapped her hand around him instantly, fingers curling tight in a possessive grip that made him hiss through his teeth. "My turn," she whispered, her voice husky and commanding, eyes gleaming up at him through the dim theater lights. She pumped him slowly at first, deliberate twists of her wrist that dragged her palm along every ridge and vein.

Logan groaned, hips bucking forward into her fist, the heat of her palm and the firm pressure sending sparks up his spine. Sydney leaned forward on the velvet seat, her blonde waves cascading over one shoulder as she parted her lips and let a thick strand of saliva drool slowly onto the swollen head of his cock. It dripped in a glistening trail down the shaft, warm and obscene, and she worked it in with long, twisting strokes, her hand gliding smoother, wetter with every pass.

"Fuck my tits," she said, her eyes locked on his, blue eyes dark with hunger and a hint of that founder's control.

Logan didn't hesitate. Sydney arched her back, pressing her breasts together with both hands, the white lace corset framing them perfectly, full, heavy, and begging for him. The soft, warm valley of her cleavage enveloped his cock as he slid between them, the spit making everything slick and effortless. He thrust upward, slow at first, savoring the plush give of her tits, the way they jiggled with each motion, the lace rasping lightly against his skin.

Sydney spat again, a generous, messy glob landing right on the head, then added more with a deliberate drip from her tongue. She flicked the tip on every upstroke, her warm, wet tongue teasing the sensitive underside, swirling around the crown before pulling back to let another string of saliva connect them. The sight was filthy and perfect, her lips parted, eyes never leaving his, the theater's silence broken only by the wet glide of skin on skin and their ragged breathing.

The sensation was overwhelming, the incredible softness of her tits enveloping him completely, the slick heat, the way she looked up at him with parted lips and that wicked little smile, like she knew exactly how close she was driving him. Logan fucked harder, hips snapping upward with increasing urgency, the wet slide echoing softly in the vast, empty theater. Pressure built fast in his balls, a heavy, tightening ache that made his thighs tense and his breath hitch.

"I'm close," he grunted, voice rough.

"Do it," she urged, squeezing her breasts tighter around him, voice dripping with command. "Cum all over me."

He pulled back just enough, gripping his cock and stroking himself furiously as the orgasm crashed through him. Thick, hot ropes of spunk erupted across her tits, painting the white lace in messy streaks, splashing up to her chin and dripping down her cleavage in slow, glistening trails. Sydney moaned low in her throat, the sound vibrating through the empty rows, her fingers immediately rubbing the cum into her skin, tracing circles over her nipples, smearing it across her collarbone. She caught a thick drop from her chin with her tongue, tasting it with a satisfied hum, eyes still locked on his the entire time

The End

[TheLW]

Behind the Lens #12
With Kim Kardashian
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Anal, Blowjob, Spanking
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.


The studio filled with the low hum of fans and lights, setting the raw, athletic edge for Kim Kardashian's Complex Magazine February 2026 spread. The concrete walls loomed in that signature cool blue, textured like aged steel, casting long shadows that danced across the floor with every flicker of the overhead rigs. Kim stood center stage, her long black hair whipping wildly in the artificial wind generated by industrial fans positioned just off-set. She was clad in the SKIMS x Nike belted sports bra and leggings ensemble, a sleek, black number with buckles that cinched her waist and accentuated her figure, screaming power and seduction in equal measure. The fabric hugged her like a lover's grip, the glossy material catching the light and highlighting every curve, from the swell of her breasts to the pronounced arch of her hips.

Photographer Logan Fitzpatrick adjusted his lens with precision, his fingers steady on the camera body despite the storm brewing inside him. His mind couldn't help but flash back to that insane shoot with her sister Kylie just months ago, the Khy x Frankies Bikinis collab in Malibu, where the sun-drenched estate had turned from a professional paradise into a playground. It had started innocently enough, Kylie in those barely-there bikinis, water beading on her skin like diamonds, teasing him with underwater poses that led to stolen kisses below the surface. But it escalated fast, her bold moves in the pool, the way she'd pulled him into the penthouse suite at the Mandarin Oriental, where the marble counter became their battlefield for rough, unrelenting sex. Kylie had been fire, all teasing glances, wet hair, and demanding thrusts that left him wrecked, cum spilling inside her as she gasped and clenched around him. The memory still made his cock twitch, a craving that hadn't fully subsided. But Kim? Kim was a storm, dark and electric, and Logan could already feel the pull, the way her presence charged the air like impending thunder.

Logan cleared his throat, trying to refocus. "Arch your back a bit more, Kim, yeah, like that," Logan directed, his voice steady despite the heat building under his skin, a slow simmer that started in his chest and radiated downward. She complied without hesitation, striding forward with that commanding presence that had made her an icon. Her fingerless gloves added an edge of athletic dominance, her curves on full display as she moved with the grace of someone who knew exactly how to own a room, or a lens. The camera clicked rapidly, a staccato rhythm that captured the intensity in her eyes, those deep brown pools that seemed to pierce right through him. But Logan's thoughts wandered traitorously to how Kylie's wet bikini had clung just like this, the polka-dot fabric translucent against her skin after that pool dip, how she'd baited him into the water and beyond, her lips brushing his in a forbidden underwater kiss that shattered all boundaries. He shook it off, or tried to, this was business. Or so he told himself, even as his jeans felt a little tighter.

They moved through the poses seamlessly, the shoot flowing like a well-choreographed dance. First, the striding shots in the black outfit, her hair fanning out dramatically, wind machines roaring to mimic motion and energy. Then, transitioning to the next setup, Kim slipped into a loose black top over the sports bra, standing against the blue backdrop that evoked a sense of infinite space. With a sultry glance at the camera, she gripped the fabric, slowly pulling it down to tease the reveal of her bare breasts, full, pert, nipples pebbling in the cool studio air. Her hair flowed like a dark river, cascading over her shoulders in wild waves, and Logan felt his breath hitch, the click of the shutter almost automatic now as he captured every nuanced expression, every subtle shift of her body.

The energy ramped up as they hit the third look. Logan's heartbeat quickened, pounding in his chest like a distant drum, as she dropped to her knees in the glossy pink bodysuit, a form-fitting number that gleamed under the lights, hugging her like liquid latex. She arched her back dramatically for the shot, head thrown back in mock ecstasy, her ass presented perfectly, round and firm, the fabric stretching taut over her cheeks. Her eyes locked on him with a knowing smirk, those full lips curving in a way that sent a jolt straight to his groin. It was impossible not to draw parallels. "Reminds me of your sister's shoot," he muttered under his breath, half to himself, the words slipping out before he could reel them back in. The memory of Kylie by the pool, water dripping from her curves, her ass grinding back against him in the penthouse, flooded his mind unbidden.

Kim caught it immediately, her sharp ears missing nothing amid the hum of the equipment. She tilted her head slightly, her long hair shifting like a curtain, curiosity flashing in her eyes. "Kylie? What about it?" Her voice was curious, laced with that unmistakable Kardashian edge, smooth as silk but with a razor-sharp undercurrent that demanded honesty. She held the pose but turned her gaze fully on him now, one eyebrow arched in challenge, her body still arched in that provocative kneel, ass high, the pink material leaving little to the imagination.

Logan paused, lowering the camera just a fraction, feeling the weight of her stare. The studio seemed to shrink around them, the crew having stepped out for a brief break earlier, leaving just the two of them in this charged bubble. He set the camera on burst mode on a nearby tripod, the lens angled to capture whatever came next. Stepping closer, he met her eyes, the air thickening with unspoken tension. "She pushed boundaries. Made it... personal." His voice dropped lower, gravelly, as he recalled Kylie's taunts by the pool, her invitation to the penthouse, the way she'd stripped her robe and pulled him into a kiss that led to her bent over the counter, taking him deep and hard.

Kim's lips curved into a smile, her eyes darkening with intrigue. "Did she now? Well, I'm not one to be outdone." The words hung in the air like a dare, the electric shift palpable. Without breaking eye contact, she rose slightly from her kneel, her hands reaching for his belt in a move that echoed Kylie's bold advance in the suite. Her fingers worked efficiently, unbuckling and unzipping with practiced ease, freeing his hardening cock from the confines of his jeans. It sprang out, already thick and throbbing from the buildup, and Kim wrapped her hand around the base, giving it a firm stroke that made Logan hiss through his teeth.

She leaned in closer, her full lips hovering just inches from his throbbing cock, her breath hot and teasing against his sensitive skin, carrying the faint scent of her vanilla lip gloss mixed with the studio's sterile air. Those deep brown eyes locked onto his, a mix of challenge and desire flickering in their depths, as if daring him to stop her, or beg for more. Kim's lips parted, soft and plush, to take him in a slow, deep blowjob that started with just the tip. Her tongue swirled around the head teasingly at first, tracing circles along the ridge, lapping at the salty precum beading there like it was the sweetest nectar, savoring every drop as she hummed softly in approval, and making Logan's knees weaken slightly.

Gradually, she enveloped him fully, her mouth stretching to accommodate his girth, cheeks hollowing with powerful suction that created an exquisite vacuum. She bobbed her head with rhythmic intensity, starting shallow and building deeper, her pace unhurried yet insistent, taking him inch by inch until the tip nudged the back of her throat. Logan groaned low in his chest, a primal rumble that echoed off the concrete walls, his fingers threading through her wind-tossed hair, strands still wild and flowing from the fans' earlier gusts, gripping just enough to guide her without controlling, letting her set the tempo. The camera whirred away on burst mode from its tripod perch, capturing the forbidden shift in vivid, unfiltered detail, just like it had with Kylie during that heated Malibu encounter, but this felt deeper, more commanding, more intoxicating. Kim's expertise was evident in every expert flick of her tongue along the underside, every deliberate twist of her head, every hum that vibrated through his shaft like an electric current, sending waves of pleasure radiating from his core.

Her free hand joined the act, wrapping around the base where her lips couldn't reach, stroking in sync with her mouth, twisting gently to heighten the sensation. She varied her technique masterfully, sometimes sucking hard and fast, other times slowing to a torturous tease, her tongue pressing flat against him as she withdrew almost completely before diving back down. Her eyes watered slightly as she deep-throated him repeatedly, pushing her limits with each plunge, tears smudging her mascara just a touch, adding to the raw, messy allure. Saliva dripped messily down her chin, coating him slickly and spilling onto her pink bodysuit, darkening the fabric in wet patches that clung even tighter to her curves. The wet, slurping sounds filled the studio like an erotic symphony, punctuated by Logan's ragged breaths and occasional curses under his breath, the fans' hum providing a distant underscore to their private performance.

The pleasure built fast, a relentless tide rising within Logan, his hips twitching involuntarily as he fought the urge to thrust deeper into her warm, welcoming mouth. His balls tightened, the pressure coiling like a spring, but Kim craved control, she could sense him nearing the edge and wasn't about to let him finish like this, not when she had more in mind. With a final, deep suck that made his vision blur, she pulled back with a gasp, her lips popping off him audibly. A thick string of saliva hung from her swollen, glistening lips to his cock for a lingering moment, stretching taut before breaking and dangling briefly from her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, smirking up at him as she caught her breath, her chest heaving slightly under the bodysuit.

Standing fully now, her movements graceful yet charged with intent, she turned her back to him, presenting her form like a gift wrapped in pink gloss. Her hands hooked into the waistband of her leggings, fingers sliding under the elastic with slow, teasing precision, peeling them down over the curve of her hips. The fabric dragged against her skin, revealing her ass, round, smooth, and inviting, perfectly toned from countless workouts, the cheeks firm and begging to be touched, just like Kylie's had been pressed flush against that cold marble counter in the penthouse during their frenzied encounter. The pink bodysuit bunched around her thighs, restricting her movements just enough to add to the erotic tension, and she glanced over her shoulder at him, her hair wild and disheveled, strands sticking to her sweat-dampened neck. "Show me what you did to her," she demanded, her voice husky and breathless, thick with arousal, her ass cheeks parting slightly as she bent forward against a nearby prop wall for support, bracing her gloved hands against the rough surface, arching her back to accentuate the invitation.

Logan didn't hesitate, the memory of Kylie's gasps and pleas fueled him like adrenaline, igniting every nerve as he stepped up behind Kim, his cock still slick from her mouth, throbbing with need. He spat into his palm once, then again, rubbing the saliva along his length for extra lubrication, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet studio. Positioning himself, he pressed the swollen head of his cock against her tight entrance, feeling the initial puckered resistance, the heat radiating from her body. He pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, savoring the exquisite tightness, the way her body clenched instinctively before yielding, gripping him fiercely in a vice of scorching heat that made him grit his teeth.

Kim moaned deeply, a long, drawn-out sound that started low in her throat and built as he filled her, her fingers digging into the prop wall, nails scraping against the material as she adjusted to the intrusion. The fullness stretched her deliciously, a mix of pressure and pleasure that had her biting her lower lip. She pushed back against him insistently, her ass cheeks pressing into his hips, urging him deeper, her body language screaming for more. Logan obliged, his hands finding purchase on her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her bunched bodysuit, pulling her onto him with each forward motion. He thrust slowly at first, establishing a rhythm that allowed them both to feel every nuance, the slide in, the grip, the retreat, building like a slow-burning fire. The slap of skin on skin began to echo through the studio, sharp and rhythmic, like the chaotic, wet echoes from Kylie's poolside tease that had escalated into their penthouse frenzy, each impact sending ripples through her body, her breasts jiggling slightly under the tight fabric.

As he picked up speed, his thrusts grew firmer, deeper, his hips snapping forward with controlled power, the fans' wind still tousling her hair and adding a surreal layer to the scene. Kim's moans intertwined with the sounds, her voice a symphony of gasps and whimpers, pushing him to go harder, the connection between them electric and unbreakable.

"Spank me," Kim urged suddenly, her voice a intoxicating mix of command and plea, breathy and demanding, her eyes flashing over her shoulder with that signature Kardashian fire. Logan didn't need to be told twice. His hand cracked down on her right cheek with a sharp, resounding smack, the impact reverberating through the studio like a thunderclap, leaving a vivid red imprint that bloomed across her smooth skin like a rose unfurling its petals. The sting was immediate, sharp and electric, making her body jolt forward slightly before she pushed back harder, her ass clenching tighter around him in response, squeezing around him, that sent sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine.

He drew a guttural groan from deep in his throat, the sensation overwhelming, his free hand gripping her hip tighter for leverage as he continued thrusting. Crack. The next spank landed on her left cheek, even firmer, the sound crisp and echoing, her flesh jiggling from the force. Crack. He alternated sides methodically, spanking her repeatedly, firm, rhythmic strikes that built in intensity, each one timed with his thrusts, creating a symphony of pain and ecstasy. The slaps echoed in the vast space, mingling with her cries, each impact sending jolts of pain-pleasure coursing through her veins like liquid fire, heightening every sensation, making her nerves sing. Her ass cheeks glowed a vibrant pink now, flushed and warm to the touch, matching the glossy hue of her bodysuit perfectly, the heat radiating from her skin as if she'd been branded by his desire. Her full breasts bounced wildly with each combined impact and thrust, straining against the tight fabric of her top, nipples hard and visible through the material. The anal penetration was deep and relentless, his cock driving into her with unbridled force, stretching her, filling her completely, her hair flying in disarray as she tossed her head back in pure, unadulterated ecstasy, strands whipping across her face and sticking to her sweat-glistened skin.

The camera rolled on tirelessly from its tripod vantage, framing it all in unflinching detail: the shift in their bodies, the sweat-slicked gleam on their skin, the raw intensity of the moment. Kim, ever the performer, shifted positions fluidly, lowering herself to all fours on the cool studio floor, the pink suit now damp and clinging like a second skin, riding up her thighs as she spread her knees wider for stability. Her hair formed a wild halo around her flushed face, tousled and untamed, framing her parted lips and half-lidded eyes. Her ass, reddened and marked from the relentless spanks, was thrust upward invitingly, quivering slightly with anticipation as Logan repositioned behind her, sinking back in with a single, powerful thrust that elicited a sharp cry from her throat. She took him deep in those relentless anal thrusts, her body absorbing every inch, every slam, her cries growing hoarse and desperate, fingers clawing at the thin mat beneath her, nails digging in as if to ground herself against the overwhelming waves of sensation crashing over her.

Sweat slicked their skin profusely now, beads trickling down Logan's chest and abs, dripping onto her back where it mixed with her own perspiration, creating a slippery sheen that made their movements even more fluid, more primal. The air in the studio hung thick with the heady scent of arousal and exertion, musky and intoxicating, a blend of her perfume, his cologne, and the raw essence of their bodies in heat. Logan's mind blurred the lines between the sisters in that haze of lust, Kylie's counter climax in the penthouse, her legs shaking violently as she came undone around him, her pussy clenching in spasms while he filled her, now it was mirrored in Kim's shuddering release as she tensed beneath him, her entire frame quaking, her ass clenching rhythmically around his cock in powerful, milking waves of orgasm that gripped and released him like a velvet fist. She cried out Logan's name, or something incoherent, lost in the fog, her body convulsing, thighs trembling, the climax ripping through her like a storm, drawing him inexorably to the edge, his balls tightening in response.

Logan followed suit mere seconds later, the pressure building to an unbearable peak, a white-hot coil snapping inside him. With a final, deep thrust and a roar of release, he pulled out at the last second, his hand pumping his slick cock as he shot out hot, thick ropes of cum across her spanked, glowing skin. The sticky white streaks painted her ass in erratic patterns, some landing on the reddened imprints from his spanks, others dripping languidly down the curve of her cheeks and onto her thighs, pooling slightly on the floor beneath them. The sight was mesmerizing, primal, her marked body now adorned with his essence, a testament to their shared frenzy.

After a moment, Kim glanced back at him over her shoulder with a satisfied, mischievous grin, her full lips curved in triumph, her chest still heaving as she drew in deep breaths, nipples pressing against the fabric. "Better than Kylie's?" she teased, her voice husky from the cries, eyes sparkling with post-orgasmic haze. Logan chuckled breathlessly, a low rumble in his chest, collapsing fully beside her on the floor, his body spent but buzzing with the afterglow, muscles aching deliciously. "Different. But yeah... legendary." Kim rolled onto her side gracefully, propping herself up on one elbow, her curves shifting enticingly as she traced a lazy finger along his sweat-dampened chest, nails grazing over his pecs and down toward his abs. Her eyes gleamed with that post-climax glow, dark and satisfied, a hint of playfulness dancing in them. "Good. Because I'll organize a threesome with me, you, and Kylie soon. See if we can top both." The photos, still capturing the aftermath from the camera's unblinking eye, would hold it all, a twisted, erotic echo of both shoots, secrets buried deep in the digital frames, with even hotter, entangled promises simmering on the horizon.

The End