— RAW FOOTAGE — a.hotchner x female reader
PREMISE: When you land an audition for one of the industry’s top adult films, you know exactly who you’re hoping to impress: Aaron Hotchner — porn legend, known to everyone else as “Hotch.” But when the lights go up and the director gives the nod, it’s not just an audition anymore. You take control, tease the untouchable star, and turn a routine scene into something no one on set will forget.
WARNINGS: porn industry AU | oral sex | cum play: swallowing + facial | unprotected sex | ball sucking | boob slapping | tit fucking | dirty talk | light choking | mutual teasing | mild public sex (on-set) | creampie mention | crew voyeurism implied | aftercare | no real plot just filth.
WORD COUNT: 3.3K
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The lights are hot on your skin, but you don’t flinch. You don’t fidget, you don’t shy away from the glare of the camera, and you sure as hell don’t ask them to dim it down. This is your audition tape — your first one for this studio, the kind of place known for their slick, high-production films and even higher standards. No amateur shit. No soft moaning and bad angles.
If you’re gonna make your mark, it’s gonna be on your terms, with your legs spread, your confidence sharp as a knife, and every single person in that room remembering your fucking name by the end of it.
You sit at the edge of the leather couch, back straight, thighs parted just enough to tease but not enough to give it all away. Black lace lingerie clings to your skin — a delicate little nothing of a thing that barely covers your nipples and leaves your pussy peeking out from behind a scrap of matching lace.
You can feel how wet you are already, slick gathering between your folds, a soft sheen catching in the light when you shift your hips. You drag a finger up your thigh, slow, letting your nails graze your skin, before slipping it beneath the waistband of your panties.
You don’t rush it. This isn’t about being quick.
It’s about being memorable.
Your fingers part your folds, and you’re soaked. Pussy lips glistening, soft and plush, your clit already swollen and begging for attention. You trace circles around it, letting your middle finger dip lower, teasing your entrance.
You glance at the camera with a smirk, licking your bottom lip like you’re about to tell a secret. “You getting this?” you ask, voice low, throaty. The cameraman mutters a yes, but you’re not really asking him. You know who’s watching.
The door opens behind the set wall, and you hear the low murmur of voices. Then a name: Aaron Hotchner. And yeah, you knew he was on set today, but hearing it out loud sends a little thrill down your spine.
They call him the best in the business. Serious. Brutal. Has this reputation for breaking in newbies and making them beg for a second round. You were hoping it’d be him.
You don’t turn immediately. Instead, you tug the strap of your lingerie down your shoulder, exposing more skin, fingers still lazily stroking your clit. “Good,” you purr. “I was hoping he’d be the one to watch.”
His voice hits you like a fucking shot of whiskey — smooth, dark, and dangerous. “Is that so?”
You glance over your shoulder, and holy fuck, there he is. Black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, lean muscle beneath expensive fabric. His face unreadable, eyes dark and sharp, but you can see it .. the flicker of interest, the way his gaze drops to your hand between your legs before flicking back to your face. He’s already undressing you with his eyes.
“I do better with an audience,” you tease.
He doesn’t even blink. “Then perform.”
You shift, sliding two fingers through your folds now, gathering slick and lifting it to your mouth, sucking them clean with an exaggerated moan. You don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, or how the front of his pants starts to strain. “Thought this was an audition,” you say with a lazy smile. “Didn’t realize it was a solo act.”
The director pipes up. “It was. But Aaron’s requested… a more hands-on demonstration.”
Your grin widens. “Is that allowed?”
Aaron steps forward, close enough for you to smell the clean spice of his cologne. “It is if you want the part.”
You don’t hesitate. “Then come and take it.”
He moves in a second: no rush, all control. One big, warm hand closing around your throat, not tight, but firm enough to tilt your head back and make you shiver.
His thumb strokes your jaw as he leans in, voice a low rumble in your ear. “I’ve seen a hundred girls try to impress me,” he murmurs. “You think you’re different?”
You slide a hand down his chest, feeling hard muscle beneath the fabric, nails teasing the edge of his belt. “I don’t need to think it, Hotchner. You’re the one who stopped the shoot.”
His eyes darken, and then he’s kissing you — slow, possessive, claiming you like he has every right. You moan into his mouth, arching into him, the heat between your legs turning molten. His hand palms your breast, thumb flicking your nipple through the lace, squeezing just hard enough to make you gasp.
“On your knees,” he orders.
You obey with a smirk, sinking down in front of him, knees hitting the cool floor. He unbuckles his belt, pops the button, and unzips — and Jesus fucking Christ, it’s even better than you pictured.
He’s thick. Long. Smooth skin, clean-shaven everywhere, not a hint of hair on his groin. The base heavy, veins running up the shaft, the head flushed dark and already leaking.
You wrap a hand around him, stroking slow, feeling the weight and heat of it. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” you murmur, leaning in to press a kiss to the head, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of precum. He groans, hand fisting in your hair.
You start slow. Your lips wrapping around the tip, tongue swirling, taking him in inch by inch. His cock stretches your lips, thick and hot, and the way he grunts low in his throat when you gag a little around him makes you even wetter.
You hollow your cheeks, hand stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and he starts moving, hips thrusting slow and controlled, like he’s savoring it.
“Look at you,” he rasps, voice tight. “Taking me so fucking good.”
You hum around him, feeling him twitch against your tongue. You pull off with a wet pop, stroking him, then ducking lower to suck one of his balls into your mouth.
Clean-shaven, smooth, heavy against your tongue as you swirl and suck, hand still working his shaft. He curses under his breath, a string of filthy praise you’re too drunk on him to fully catch.
“Fuck, baby… shit, you’re gonna make me cum..”
He tries to pull back, mumbling something about protection, but you lock eyes with him, nails digging into his hips. “Uh-uh,” you smirk, voice rough. “You finish in my mouth.”
And he does. Hard.
His hips jerk, cock throbbing against your tongue as he spills down your throat, thick, hot spurts you swallow greedily. You don’t stop, don’t pull away, sucking through it, milking every drop until he’s groaning, fingers tight in your hair.
When he finally lets you go, you lick your lips, panting a little, a satisfied, smug smile on your face.
“Welcome to the team,” he breathes.
And the camera’s still rolling.
Your throat’s still warm, tasting of him when you hear the director’s voice cut through the haze of heavy breathing and the low hum of the camera.
“Don’t stop now,” he says, like he’s reminding you both this is still a job, even though neither of you are acting anymore. “We’re still rolling. Get her up on the couch, Hotchner. Let’s see what else she can take.”
You flick your gaze up at Aaron and hummed. This was just Hotchner, the studio’s biggest name, the one whose scenes you used to watch late at night with your hand between your thighs. And now you’ve got his cum in your mouth and his hand still tangled in your hair.
He smirks down at you, that sharp, cocky glint in his eyes now fully unleashed, no buttoned-up pretense. He jerks his chin toward the couch. “Up. Ass out.”
You rise, swaying your hips as you go, tugging the scrap of lace lingerie down your legs and tossing it aside without a second thought. You hear the cameraman mutter a curse behind the lens when you bend over, bracing your hands on the back of the couch, presenting yourself without shame. Your pussy’s soaked, lips slick and swollen, glistening in the studio lights. You know exactly how you look — cock-drunk and ready for more — and you fucking love it.
Aaron’s hands are on you in seconds, one spreading your ass while the other palms your lower back, pressing you down. “Look at this pussy,” he murmurs like it’s a fucking masterpiece, running his fingers through your folds, gathering slick and smearing it over your clit. You moan, arching into his touch.
“Camera’s on you, sweetheart,” he says, voice rough now. “Show ’em how much you want it.”
You bite your lip, glancing over your shoulder. “I’m fucking ready, Hotchner. You gonna stretch me out or waste time talking?”
That earns you a sharp slap to your ass — loud and stinging, making you gasp. He lines himself up, cock thick and heavy against your entrance, nudging at your hole.
He pauses, rubbing the head through your slick, teasing, before pushing in slow. God, the stretch burns in the best way, your walls fluttering around him as he sinks in inch by inch.
“Shit,” he grits out, both hands gripping your hips now. “Tight little rookie cunt.”
You can barely breathe, already so full, the pressure perfect, making your thighs tremble. “F-fuck… yeah, fill me up.”
He bottoms out with one sharp thrust, your body jerking against the couch, a cry ripping from your throat. You hear the cameraman groan again, muttering, “Holy fuck,” like he can’t believe the show happening in front of him.
Aaron wastes no time, pulling back and slamming in again, hard enough to knock the breath out of you. His pace is brutal, hips snapping against your ass, balls slapping your clit with every thrust. You’re already a mess, moaning shamelessly, one hand squeezing your tit while the other braces against the couch.
“You like that?” he growls, leaning over you, his hand sneaking around to palm your breast, thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple.
“Y-yeah,” you whimper, clenching around him. “F-fuck, you feel so good, Aaron...”
He slaps your tit, making you cry out again, pace only getting rougher. His cock’s thick and perfect, rubbing that spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your vision blur. You don’t care that the camera’s on you. You don’t care that it’s your first tape. You just want more. You want to cum on him, around him, for him.
And judging by the way he’s panting, low curses spilling from his lips, he’s right there with you.
“You gonna cum on this cock, rookie?” he snarls in your ear, teeth scraping your neck. “Gonna soak me for the whole fucking room?”
“Yes— fuck, yes! Right there, don’t stop..”
You feel it hit, that wave crashing over you, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around him so tight he groans, slamming in to the hilt and staying there. You sob through it, body trembling, nails digging into the couch as you cum harder than you’ve ever managed alone.
And he’s still fucking going, chasing his own finish, one hand yanking your head back so he can kiss you filthy and deep while his cock pounds your oversensitive pussy.
“I’m close,” he mutters, pulling out slightly, like he means to pull away.
But you grab his wrist, glaring up at him. “Don’t you fucking pull out.”
His eyes flare, and then he’s groaning, cock twitching deep inside you as he spills himself, thick and hot, painting your walls. You feel every pulse, every filthy spurt of him inside you. It’s obscene and perfect.
When he finally pulls out, it’s a slow drag, his cock shiny with your slick and his cum. He leans back, watching it drip out of you, still panting.
“Shit,” the director says again. “Cut. That’s the opener right there.”
You glance back at Hotchner with a satisfied grin, licking your lips. “Told you I was gonna be the best you’ve ever had.”
And judging by the way he’s still staring at you, cock twitching even now, you fucking were.
Neither of you even pretend to care when the director claps his hands and starts mumbling about packing up. The cameraman’s already fumbling with the tripod, and some poor production assistant is nervously gathering up stray pieces of your lingerie off the floor like it’s hazardous material.
But you ? You’re still dripping, thighs sticky and trembling, and Aaron’s still half-hard, cock twitching like it’s got unfinished business.
You crawl onto his lap, straddling him right there on the couch while the crew starts shuffling toward the door. “Leaving so soon, boys?” you purr, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “The show’s not over.”
Aaron grins, this lazy, cocky thing, settling his big hands on your ass as you grind against him, already feeling him harden under you again. “They can go,” he mutters, voice low and rough, “but you’re not going anywhere.”
“Good,” you whisper, leaning in, your lips brushing his ear. “I’m not done with you yet, Aaron.”
His cock twitches at that — you feel it — because no one calls him that. Not in this place. To them, he’s Hotch. Untouchable. Stoic. The top cock in the room. But you? You’ve earned it. And he fucking loves it.
One of the crew stifles a laugh when you shove Aaron’s shoulders back against the couch, straddling his hips and guiding his slick cock back inside you with a slow, filthy slide. You both groan in unison, your nails digging into his chest.
“Jesus, look at her go,” the cameraman mutters, halfway to the door, but no one’s stopping you.
You ride him slow at first, teasing, rolling your hips with purpose, feeling every inch stretch you again, still sensitive but too greedy to stop. His hands find your tits, squeezing, thumbs brushing your nipples until they’re tight and aching. Then he slaps them — sharp, stinging — making you gasp and clench around him.
“Fuck, you love that,” he growls, one hand cupping the back of your neck to drag your mouth down to his. He kisses you filthy, all teeth and tongue, while you start bouncing harder, the wet, obscene slap of your hips meeting his filling the room louder than the shuffle of crew leaving.
“Yeah, I love it,” you pant, breaking the kiss, dragging his face to your chest. “Now suck ’em.”
And he does — mouth hot and hungry, lips closing around a nipple as his tongue flicks and sucks, his teeth scraping just enough to send heat pooling low in your stomach again. His cock’s hitting deep, thick and perfect, and you ride him faster, chasing it, your fingers in his hair.
“Fuck, Aaron, I’m gonna cum.” you whimper, and his hands clamp down on your hips, forcing you to grind deeper, slower.
“Cum on my cock, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “I wanna feel you soak me again.”
You break with a cry, pussy clenching tight, thighs trembling as the orgasm rips through you, your whole body arching against him. The hot rush of it makes him groan, fucking up into you as you ride it out, your slick making a filthy mess of both of you.
But he doesn’t cum. Not yet.
You feel him slow, then ease you off his cock, glistening and rock hard, still flushed dark with need. His eyes meet yours — feral, smug, desperate — and he jerks his chin toward your chest.
“On your knees. Wanna fuck those tits.”
You bite your lip, grinning as you slide down, pressing your breasts together around his cock. He groans at the sight, both hands in your hair as you work them around him, the slick of your spit and your own cum making it easy.
His cock slides between them, the head smearing precum against your throat as you squeeze tight, teasing him with your tongue when he thrusts.
“God, you look so fucking good like this,” he grits out, hips snapping, balls slapping against the underside of your tits.
The last few crew members are pretending to leave, pretending not to watch from the doorframe.
“Oh my god,” one of them mutters under his breath. “Fucking legend.”
You smirk up at Aaron. “Bet they don’t get this show every day, do they, Aaron?”
His groan’s guttural, eyes locked on yours, and you feel the twitch just before it happens — thick, hot ropes spilling across your tits, your throat, your chin, streaking your face as you open your mouth and let him paint your tongue too. You swallow what you catch, licking your lips as he shudders through it.
“Fucking hell,” he rasps, dropping his head back.
You swipe a finger through the mess on your chest and suck it clean, smirking as the room finally empties out.
“Guess I passed the audition, huh?”
Aaron grins, still breathless. “You’re hired.”
The door finally clicks shut. No director barking orders, no cameraman pretending not to be hard behind the lens, no half-interested PA gathering your lingerie like it’s some casualty of war. Just you and Aaron, both wrecked, both grinning like you got away with something you shouldn’t have.
He’s still sprawled on the couch, chest rising and falling, face flushed, cock softening against his thigh, streaks of his own cum drying on your tits and chin. And for a second, you just watch him — watch how good he looks like this. Stripped down, unguarded, all that controlled, stoic porn king bullshit melted away. It makes you want to climb him all over again.
But you don’t. Not yet.
Instead, you grab the pack of wipes from the side table, the one no one ever remembers until the end, and crouch down between his legs. His eyes crack open when he feels the cool wipe against his skin, cleaning him up with soft, slow strokes. You’re gentle about it, deliberately so, watching the way his lashes flutter when you cup his balls one last time with a clean swipe, then drag the cloth up the soft curve of his cock.
“Mm,” he murmurs, voice gone scratchy. “You’re good at that too.”
You flash him a grin. “Full-service package, Hotchner.”
His lips twitch. “Aaron,” he corrects, quietly, like it’s just for you.
You linger there for a second, wiping down his stomach, the mess on his thighs, then tossing the used wipe onto the side table. You crawl up into his lap, settling over him again, your bare skin sticky against his but neither of you caring.
“C’mere,” you murmur, cupping his face in your hands. You kiss him soft this time — no teeth, no tongue, just a warm press of lips. He hums against your mouth, one hand sliding up your back, fingers threading into your hair.
You pull back just enough to look at him, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “You okay?”
He huffs a little laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re asking me? After that?”
You grin. “Gotta take care of my scene partner.”
That gets you another kiss, slower this time, and when you finally climb off him, you grab a fresh wipe for yourself, cleaning off your chest and face. You catch him watching you, his eyes dark but soft, and you toss a towel at him with a smirk.
“Catch.”
He chuckles, dragging it over his face, then through his hair. It leaves him looking rumpled and boyish, which is fucking dangerous considering how wrecked your pussy still is.
You grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and hand it to him before taking one for yourself, unscrewing the cap and leaning against the arm of the couch, one knee bent up.
“You wanna stay awhile?” you ask casually, pretending not to care, even though you do. “We can order shit food, watch bad movies. Or you can go, y’know, be a brooding porn god somewhere else.”
He raises a brow, taking a long drink before setting the bottle down.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”
You smirk. “Didn’t think so.”