The only thing you can think about is that this just might be your big break. After several months of calling and sending resumes and running all over the damn city stalking celebrities just to take their picture you have finally, FINALLY, gotten a job as an assistant. Okay so it’s not a steady job, just some last minute temp work for a photographer who you are not even sure of his name. The only thing that the temp agency gave you was an address.

Its some huge warehouse in the Soho District. You brought your camera because you heard that sometimes if they get good shots early the photographers may let you shoot some. Even in your excitement you still are aware enough of your surroundings to notice the black SUVs parked around the warehouse. You thrill goes through you as the memory of a tall lanky man unfolding himself from the front seat hits you full force.

Its been nearly three months since your close encounter with the Justin Timberlake and yet your mind still wanders to it at least once a day. The way his blue eyes flashed angrily at you, the menacing tone of his voice, the way his dick felt inside you. You shake your head. You cannot think about this now. You have to concentrate. This is for real. This could be the rest of your life.

Stepping into the room you see that it’s a pretty simple set. White backdrop, heavy lighting. The camera is ready to go on a tripod, back farther away is the computer where all the frames can be viewed. A privacy screen is set up near the rack of clothes by the far wall, three women scurrying around. The man you assume is the photographer is discussing lighting with another girl about your age. You stride up confidently, holding out your hand and introducing yourself. He sneers down his nose at you and says to go sit somewhere out of the way until he needs you.

You turn away and sit down in front of the computer, grabbing the light meter to test it and make sure you know how to use it.

“This thing is fuckin’ ridiculous!”

You jump slightly and turn in your seat to see – your jaw practically hits the floor – Justin Timberlake emerging from behind the privacy screen wearing black trousers and a large puffy white jacket. He’s fingering the silver buttons, not paying any attention as he slides walks past you to talk to the director. You watch him, your jaw still slack as he struggles to keep the collar of the jacket under his chin as he speaks. You’re still slightly disoriented and only break out of your reverie when the photographer loudly exclaims.

“I could sure use a light reading!”

You scramble from your seat and stagger reluctantly forward. Justin is sitting on a box, still struggling with the jacket. You hold the light meter in front of his face and only then does he look up at you. Your eyes connect and stare for a minute.

“You know how to work that thing?” he asks you after a second, nodding to the light meter and you snap out of it.

“Oh yeah, got it. Sorry.”

“Its cool,” he says to your back as you walk away and give the photographer the reading.

You walk dejectedly back to your chair. He didn’t even recognize you. Your tryst has been floating around in your head since it happened and he doesn’t even remember your face! You chide yourself silently for your stupidity. Of course he didn’t remember! He was Justin fucking Timberlake. He probably had hot, sweaty, amazing, up-against-the-wall, pounding so hard you felt it in your teeth, sex everyday.

The sting of your rejection fades quickly as you watch him work. His poses are innovative and sexy and god how the camera loves him. How you would love to get him in front of your camera. Your mind wanders back to that day when he was in front of your camera and in front of you, and inside you. You press your thighs together feeling a flush of want as you watch him tug animatedly at the collar of the jacket he’s wearing.

After several shots, he’s sent back behind the privacy screen to change and when he comes back out in grey pants, white tee, and black suspenders. It is the stupidest fucking outfit you’ve ever seen but damn him if he doesn’t look like sex on a stick in it. You scurry to take your light reading again and you can feel him eyeing you.

“Have we met?” he asks and you look at him, accidentally erasing the reading so you have to take it again.

“Um-”

“I’m waiting!” the photographer drawls and you hurry to his side, avoiding Justin’s eyes as you go back to your seat.

Another amazing set, another outfit change, another uncomfortable light reading in which he doesn’t say anything, just watches you. When he comes out for his final outfit you nearly fall out of your chair. Low riding jeans and a black hoodie, eyes obscured by aviator shades. He sits on the white block again and you step out to do your thing, becoming a real expert and pressing the little button that gives you a reading.

“You’re sure we haven’t met?” he raises his sunglasses, blue eyes piercing you and you feel a tug of longing in the pit of your stomach.

“Um-”

“Light reading please!”

You could smack that photographer, but you think about the $50,000 in student loans you’re sitting on and bite your tongue, reminding yourself that this is how you get in the door. Assisting dickwads like this, who take pictures of men you’ve had sweaty, unbelievable sex with in allies behind expensive hotels.

You sit down again, watching as he works the camera. His tongue peeks out to lick his lips at one point and you almost come right then and there. A few more shots and the shoot is over. Justin is standing around talking to a few of the crew and you are about to make your way over to him when the photographer stops you and tells you that you will be cleaning up the space and you are to wait for all of the photos to render through the computer and bring them to his office when they are done.

You go back to your seat and see that 50% of 1 of 769 images has rendered and sigh heavily. You look around the room, watching the designers’ assistants gathering their clothes and making their way to the exits. Justin is still standing near by, chatting with one of the lighting girls, who is throwing herself shamelessly at him. You can’t help but feel jealously burn in you as he smiles back.

“So I hear they call you Trousersnake?” the girl giggles and Justin nods his head, looking down at his sneakered feet.

“Yeah I have a lot of nicknames,” he sighs and you seethe silently watching as image 2 of 769 begins to render. “The most innovative of which, I would have to say, is Sparkly Dance Boy.”

Your head snaps up and you find him looking at you, the other girl so caught up in her fake laughter that she doesn’t even notice. He smiles at you, predatory and knowing, his hands still in the pockets of his black hoodie he wore in the last set of pictures.

“Excuse me,” he says to the girl who pouts as she watches him walk toward you.

You do nothing but gape at him as he leans over the table. The flowery yet masculine scent of him hits you and you’re suddenly up against that wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he pounds into you like there is not tomorrow. You swallow hard.

“Now I know we’ve met before,” he says, leaning on the table, elbows locked, wrists facing you. His eyes are playful but dark with lust. “Was it the charity event last weekend?”

“Um-”

“Justin?” the girl behind him is standing there impatient.

“What?” he barks over his shoulder and her pout deepens.

“Did you wanna go back to my place,” she says, her eyes sweeping maliciously to you.

“No,” he states simply, turning back to you and you watch the other girl huff and stomp away.

“See you found a real job,” he grins, dropping the act finally and you smirk back at him.

“Looks like you still haven’t, Sparkly Dance Boy.”

His eyes narrow and as he opens his mouth to retort:

“Justin!”  You both look up to find the room completely empty, except for the large dark man in a tailored suit standing near the door. “Ready to go man.”

“Nah ya’ll head back without me.”

You watch as the man, leery but apparently unwilling to argue, exits the building. You are once again alone with Justin Timberlake. How you have dreamed of this moment, fantasized about this moment for the past three months. You are practically trembling with want for the man in front of you. His head is turned, watching the door where his bodyguard just exited, seemingly listening.

“I knew it was you all along,” he says and then slowly turns his head to face you. You look at him blankly. “What? You think I wouldn’t recognize you darlin’?” he asks, reaching a hand out to cup your chin, setting your skin on fire. “I don’t forget faces,” he says, smudging your bottom lip with his thumb. “And I never-” he slips his thumb in your mouth “-forget a great fuck.”

You stand immediately, his hand falling from your face and round the table. You grab handfuls of his jacket and pull his body to yours, your lips crushing his hard. He kisses you back, his tongue sliding hotly against yours, his hand moving to the back of your neck, holding you steady, slowing you down.

“Calm down, baby,” he says pulling back slightly, your breath panting in his face. “We’ve got time for this.”

His hand slides down your body, pressing his palm against the front of your gauzy skirt. You moan, gripping on to his shoulders as he massages you through your clothes.

“Damn baby,” he sighs, pressing his hardening cock against your hip. “I can feel you through your skirt.”

“I want you,” is all you say, your hands going immediately to the hem of his shirt, pulling both the hoodie and the white tee underneath over his head.

He grins wickedly at you, wrapping both arms around you to press you fully into him, slipping one leg between yours, pressing his dick into your hip while pushing his hard thigh against your aching center.

“You know I couldn’t help but notice,” he says as you pull your tank top over your head and lets out a soft growl as you unhook your bra, exposing yourself to him. “that only one of the pictures you took the day we met,” he pauses to cup both your breasts, massaging them with his large hands. “ever made it to print.”

You’re savoring the sweet twinges of pleasure his hands are giving you and it takes you a minute to comprehend his words. He’s watching you through heavy lidded eyes, and you can feel yourself calm a little. Something about the way he’s looking at you, smoldering yes, but also curious. He genuinely wants to know.

“I could only sell the one,” you pant, as his fingers pluck at your nipples.

“What about the last one?” he asks, pressing his thigh harder between your legs, causing you to gasp in pleasure. “Surely the one of me post-fuck would have fetched a pretty penny?”

You hiss and think about that picture, him smiling, flushed faced back at you. You only ever made one copy and you burned the negatives. It’s back at your apartment in your underwear drawer…right next to your vibrator.

“Look do you wanna talk…” you ask stepping back from him, and hooking your thumbs in the waistband of your skirt. “…or fuck.” You let your skirt puddle around your ankles.

His tongue snakes out to wet his lips as you saunter closer to him, your thumbs hooked in the waistband of your panties. His hands reach out and grip your hips, as you undo his belt and button, easing down the fly. You wait for him to slap your hand away like last time but when he doesn’t you slide him out of his boxers, , running your fingertips along his length, educing a shiver from him.

Your fingers grip him tight and his mouth falls open in a silent moan. You take the opportunity to kiss him deep, exploring his mouth with your tongue, tasting every last inch of him until your lungs are screaming for air. You pull away panting and find that your hand has begun stroking of its own accord. You swipe your thumb over the head and listen to him hiss, just like you’ve dreamed all this time. Suddenly his fingers grip your wrist and squeeze until you release him. His other hand finds its way to your waist as he dips his head to kiss your shoulder.

“You know I still have your panties,” he murmurs against your skin, his finger tracing the lacy edge of your underwear. “I sometimes use them to get myself off,” you gasp at this, his thumb hooking in the waistband, tugging down. “I wrap them around my cock and pretend it’s your pussy.”

His words set a fire inside you. Your hands grip his shoulders again pushing him back until he is sitting on the white crate they used in the photoshoot. You climb on top of him and straddle his hips, fully ready to plunge yourself onto him but his strong hands hold your hips steady. You look at his face and find him staring at you, a myriad of emotions playing across his face. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear as he says:

“You’re all I think about.” The words sound as if they are pulled from the back of his throat. Then it’s as if he snaps back into focus and he grins at you, positioning you over him. You gasp as you feel him rub the velvety head in your wetness, listening to him suck air through his teeth. “Have you been this wet for me the whole time?” he asks, pressing against you clit and you nod biting your lip. If he only knew…

He slips in, guiding you down slow. You are fighting his control, wanting nothing more than to slam your body hard onto him and feel him deep inside, hitting that place no one has been able to touch since. But he’s too strong. So you wrap your arms around his neck and grip his shoulders trying to get as close to him as possible, doing the only thing you can do: flex your inner muscles. The first time you do it you feel his cheek, which is pressed against yours, twitch. The second time you do it, he holds you steady, his dick halfway in and lets you pulse around him, tightening and contracting your pussy walls around him.

Your nails are digging into his shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his flawless skin. You’re pretty sure than in a few moments you could get there, just by doing this, milking his cock. You’re pretty sure with the way low moans are bubbling from his throat that he could too. But its not what you want.

His hands are resting lightly on your hips now and you take the opportunity to slide the rest of the way down, eliciting a “oh fuck” from him. Once you are sitting flush against him you begin to rock gently, grinding your clit against his hip bone in a way that makes you dizzy.

His hand slides up around your back, guiding you, holding you steady as you fuck him. He’s panting hard against your ear he’s begging you “harder,” “faster,” “god please,” and you oblige because even in your wildest fantasies of him wanting you so bad that he begs it was never this good.

His face buries in the crook of your neck as you rise up and slam down on him again, setting a pace that you, yourself can barely keep up with. His hands are on your hips again, shifting you slightly and then you feel it, his dick hitting that perfect spot. You are thrown head first with no warning over the edge and the scream of pleasure that rips from your lungs echoes off the walls. He groans deep and you feel him spill inside you, biting your collarbone hard as he comes.

Once your breathing goes back to normal you lean back and he grins at you sheepishly.

“I think I bruised ya there,” he mutters, brushing his fingers along your collarbone which stings from where his teeth sunk in.

You shake your head, smiling and after a moment of looking at each other you slip off him.

Its awkward as you search for your clothes and pull them back on. You turn around to find him pulling his hoodie over his head, situating it on his slim frame. Part of you wants to rip it off him and fuck him again. He’s looking at you again, his face a mask of something you can’t place.

“Hey,” he says, suddenly and you cock your head at him, showing your listening. He waits a beat before saying anything. “You wanna maybe get something to eat?”

Your jaw drops open and he smiles at you in a boyish way. You close your mouth and instead of saying “yes” like you want to, you ask:

“Why?”

He shrugs, scuffing his sneakers on the ground. “I dunno. Pretty strange coincidence you being here today.”

You nod.

“Kinda like fate or something.” He’s not looking at you, still watching his shoes. When he does look up he’s grinning mischievously. “And after all after that fuck, the least I could do is buy you dinner.”