Being a paparazzi is a thankless job, you muse as you sit outside the swanky Manhattan hotel. You are considered the slime of the earth by the celebrities you photograph and loathed by their fans, even if those fans are the very ones fueling the frenzy that requires said celebrities’ photo to be snapped. Being a woman doesn’t make it much easier. It’s a man’s business, and sometimes it gets violent but you can scrap with the best of them.
So this wasn’t your first choice of job but a photography degree doesn’t get you far in New York City and this pays the bills that your bullshit waitressing job doesn’t. Its hot and sticky and you would much rather be in your bathroom developing your latest rolls from the photoshoot you did in Central Park this morning but you were assured that Justin Timberlake would be arriving back at his hotel any time now. It’s a lucky tip from an old friend that is putting his painting degree to good use by doing laundry for swanky hotels, and it looks like you were the only one that received it, because there are no other paps hanging around the entrance. They are most likely in the front because apparently the Justin Timberlake always uses the front entrance because he doesn’t want a fuss. Whatever, your painter friend is always right.
Well the Justin Timberlake is late. You check the lense on your camera for the umpteenth time, making sure it’s clean and smudge free.
Just then a large black SUV pulls up. You jump to your feet and begin snapping as a tall lanky frame unfolds itself from the passenger seat. He rounds the car and you note the extremely pissed off look on his face that will up the price of these pictures by a couple thousand bucks.
“I didn’t know pussy was takin’ pictures now,” he growls and your jaw drops but you recover instantly, flicking the flash button.
“Just for that you get the flash,” you snark and snap away, the white light causing him to slow his pace due to temporary blindness. The flash bleaches him out but your money shots were earlier and even though you usually don’t like to waste film, you’ve been sitting in the heat for an hour and feel like being a bitch.
“Why don’t you get a real fucking job,” he spats as he reaches the door.
“Soon as you do, Sparkly Dance Boy,” you counter, finally lowering the camera and replacing the lens cap.
“What the fuck did you just call me?”
You look up and find yourself toe to toe with the Justin Timberlake. He’s taken his sunglasses off and is glaring at you, his stormy blue stare causing you to shudder. He’s so close you can smell him, flowers with a sharp hint of musk that is utterly intoxicating. Your breathing goes shallow.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Timberlake?” a man in a red suit jacket is popping his head out of the door, eyeing your camera.
“No, leave us alone,” he barks, not taking his eyes off you. The man retreats and you are alone in an ally with an extremely pissed off pop star.
“Look dude I don’t know who the fuck you think you are-” you start but his laughter cuts you off.
“Somebody really fucking important,” he replies, grinning at you lopsidedly. “Or so you seem to think.” He gestures towards your camera.
“Whatever. I’ve got what I want so go fuck yourself.” You turn to walk away but one of his large hands closes around your bicep and whips you back to face him, pulling your body flush against his. Your eyes widen when you feel him, hard and pulsing against your thigh.
“But what about what I want?” he asks huskily, his lips brushing yours as he forms the words.
“I-I” You can only stutter. This is not happening. This is just insane!
He chuckles lowly, his chest vibrating against yours. “What’s the matter, baby?” he drawls, licking his lips. “Cat got your tongue?” His smile fades into a look of predatory lust. “Now, you know that’s my job.”
Before you even have a chance to respond, he’s crushing his lips with yours, his hands cupping your ass and pressing you harder into him, creating a sweet, torturous friction that has you panting.
A car horn blares and he pulls away, glancing down the street where apparently someone was almost run down by a town car. You follow his gaze.
You barely have time to focus on the fight that is about to ensue twenty yards away because you are suddenly whipped off your feet. You squeal from the speed of it and find yourself pressed against the wall of the hotel, hidden from view by the stairwell leading up to the back entrance.
His lips are on your ear, neck, collarbone, everywhere all at once, his hips grinding his dick steadily into the sweet spot between your legs.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” you question weakly.
“What?” he whispers into your ear as he hikes up the gauzy material of your skirt. “The only pap around is pretty fucking occupied.”
With this you feel two long, slender fingers, penetrate your aching center, his thumb circling your clit. You allow your head to fall back against the brick as his mouth sucks on your throat and his fingers fuck you, slow and steady, his hips grinding impatiently against you.
“You want it?” he whispers and you can only groan in response. “How bad?”
You look at him and he has his head cocked to the side, smirking at you, his fingers reaching deeper. Your eyes flutter as he curls them, making a come hither motion, stroking your g-spot effortlessly. At this his motions slow to a stop and he removes his fingers, a whine echoing from your throat.
“I asked you how bad?”
He brings his hand to his lips and smiles before his tongue snakes out to suck your juices from his digits, his eyes never leaving yours. You cannot speak, because this is the single most erotic thing you have ever seen. Instead you grind harder against him, working that bulge in his shorts as best you can with the way his body has you trapped against the wall.
His eyes slide closed and his mouth goes a little slack as you work him through his pants. It’s only for an instant, then his eyes snap open again and his hands are up your skirt, tugging your panties down. You reach between you, unbuckling his belt with trembling fingers. He slaps your hand away and does the rest quickly, positioning himself. You can feel the velvety head pressing against your wet heat.
“Still don’t have an answer,” he mocks, nipping at your bottom lip.
“Will you just fuck me already!” you exclaim, your fist smacking his chiseled shoulder ineffectually and he laughs in your face.
“Keep your voice down,” he whispers. “well actually…don’t.”
He slams into you hard, and you cry out, not really ready. Apparently he has a reason for being a cocky, arrogant ass. After a few thrusts he holds steady inside you and you feel the ache down to your toes.
“Can you take it?” he breathes into your ear.
You’re adjusting quickly and decide that his reign of power is going to be over very soon.
“I can take anything you got…” you say and he leans back to look you in the face, challenging you with a raised eyebrow. “Sparkly Dance Boy,” you add and watch him scowl.
You raise both hands over your head, planting them on the wall and using the leverage you grind against him. His eyes shut and he groans deep in his throat, letting his head fall back.
Your pace is slow, teasing but it feels oh so good to you and he certainly isn’t complaining. Your entire body is tingling, as you strain for release. You are so close…
But suddenly you find yourself unable to move. His hands are cupping your ass again, holding you still, his body still buried deep within you. You struggle to move, to get any kind of friction but he’s so much stronger.
“What’s the matter baby?” he asks, his eyebrows knitting with mock concern. “Oh I’m sorry were you close?”
You whimper pitifully, nodding like a child. You really hate him right now and if he didn’t feel so fucking good you’d tell him so. You can feel your orgasm slipping away leaving an unsatisfied ache in the pit of your stomach.
“Don’t worry baby,” he grins, taking your legs and securing them around his waist. “We’ll get you there.”
He plants his hands on the wall on either side of your head and your hands grip his shoulders as he begins to work you at a pace so frantic you can barely tell when he’s entering and leaving your body. All you can feel is the glorious friction of him inside you and his mouth sucking on that spot just below your ear, occasionally whispering things, dirty things that normally would make you slap a man.
Your orgasm hits you like a bus, your entire body trembling, every muscle going rigid, moaning his name, hell you may even be screaming it. He works in and out of you as you tighten around him and with one hard thrust he groans deep and you feel him spill into you.
Your arms encircle his neck as he falls against you, the wall behind you supporting you both. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his heart racing against yours, his breath panting at your pulse point.
He sighs pulling out of you and you let your legs unclench from his waist, your feet finding the ground unsteadily. You close your eyes pushing the hair back from your face and exhale deeply, still euphoric and tingly all over.
You open your eyes and find him doing his belt.
“Thanks,” he mutters, giving you a brilliant smile as he slides on his sun glasses. Its then that you realize he’s still holding your panties. He holds them out to you, dangling from the tip of his index finger.
Blushing, you reach to grab them but he pulls back and balls them into his hand once more.
“I think I’ll keep ‘em,” he grins, shoving them in his pocket. “Oh wouldn’t wanna lose this.”
He bends down to pick up your camera, which apparently you dropped at some point during your tryst. He holds it out to you and you snatch for it quickly, but this time he does not try to pull back. He laughs at you. You scowl.
Shaking his head he brushes past you, making his way up the stairs.
“Justin!” you call and he stops, looking over his shoulder. You hold up your camera and say rather cheekily. “Smile.”
He does and you get a quick shot before he disappears inside.
Later in your dark room you call different agencies, telling them how you got pictures of the Justin Timberlake outside his swanky Manhattan hotel.
“Yes,” you say, “they are from today.”
“Yes,” you reply as you pull a smiling photo of the flushed faced, disheveled pop star from the bath, “he’s scowling.”
