Disclaimer: the usual. Sex with men and boys. Well, a man and an 11 year old boy. Leave if you want or need to, stay and read if you like.
A humble request: for more than a decade now I've written stories for the Nifty archive. As with all of the authors here I've never recieved a penny for my work. Given the countless thousands of words I have penned, I don't think it unreasonable to ask for something in return. Please, if you are able to do so, donate to Nifty to keep it up and running, so you can keep enjoying stories like the one below. Thank you.
If you want to get in touch: zackmcnaught@hotmail.com
Now, on with the show!
Meeting Josh Harkness
A few years ago I somehow became entangled in the world of celebrity, without having any particular wish to be. Oh yes, I know, there are plenty of people who would jump at the chance to be around the rich and famous, and perhaps become just a little popular themselves, but for me it's always seemed like a very bad idea. I think that has a lot to do with being a boylover - any discovery of my proclivities would be disastrous as it is, but doubly so if I were, for any reason, in the public eye. Not that there aren't certain perks to being famous...
At the time of this little episode, I was working as a script adviser on a popular family sitcom, which had a habit of bringing in one guest star each week. These guests were brought in from all over the world of popular celebrity - film, pop and sports stars were all popular additions to the cast. It was all fairly hollow and not exactly high quality work, but it was an easy gig, and my friend who recommended me for it got reflected glory, because it turned out I wasn't at all bad at the occasional (albeit very dry) moment of wit. I know, it doesn't show in my stories, does it?
One of my duties was writing lines for the incoming guest stars. They somehow had to be woven into the script, and then it was my job to work with said celebrity to ready them for their moment in the comedy spotlight. Which explains why I was so often found in the green room at the studios, sitting and waiting for the week's star to turn up and be coached through their part. Some of them were better than others - I always gave a slight cheer when I found out the special guest was an actor or comedian, because then half the work was done for me. Performers were usually not too bad, unless they were the kind of vacuous pop starlet chosen for their look or voice rather than their personality. And of course, as you would expect, the sports stars were comfortably the most inept, but unsurprisingly the most fun to work with.
Some of my happiest memories come from my time on that show. The very happiest of all of them began on an otherwise uneventful Thursday afternoon. It was four hours before filming was due to start - even the most ardent fans still weren't waiting outside in the freezing cold to claim their place in the audience. We gave filming tickets away free, but there were always a few rows of seats reserved for those willing to queue up on the day. But at this point, with the weather increasingly inclement and snow threatened for the evening, I had no crowds to fight my way through to get into the studio. I nodded to John on security, who waved me through without bothering to check my credentials, and felt the heat of the place wash over me, instantly misting my glasses.
By the time they had unfogged, I was face to face with a rather sharp suit, into which had been poured the most astonishing women, into whom it appeared had been poured an equally impressive quantity of alcohol for two o'clock on a Thursday afternoon.
"'scuse me," she slurred, rocking back and forth, her eyes trying desperately to focus on my face. "D'you know where we're meant to be?"
She waved a hand around, and for the first time I noticed a boy to her left, leaning against the wall with an expression somewhere between mortified embarrassment and hatred. He had a guitar case next to him, which leaned against the wall in much the same attitude as he did. It struck me straight away who he was - after all, I had been waiting all week for this moment, the moment when I got to meet Josh Harkness, the British answer to Justin Beiber, or something like that. All of eleven years old, Josh was a bit of a sensation already. He didn't pen his own stuff, but he could play the guitar and sing like an angel, and it was fairly apparent he was a talented little guy. Talented in another way, too - he was absolutely, drop dead gorgeous. Milky white skin, messy blonde hair, deep, deep blue eyes, and a perfectly proportioned face - a little button nose, pouting red lips and flawless skin. It's fair to say he had already invaded a couple of my fantasies, and meeting him in real life was hardly a disappointment. I nodded to him, and he gave me a vague, half smile and raised a hand, stopping short of an actual wave.
"Mrs Harkness?" I inquired of the woman, assuming it was the boy's mother who had accompanied him.
"That'sh right," she replied. "This is the famous Josh Harkness," she continued, pointing needlessly to her son. There was more than a hint of bitterness in her voice. "He's meant to be on some program or something here today, but no-one seems to know where we're meant to be. Fucking idiots."
I assumed the last was meant to be said under her breath, but she failed magnificently to conceal her words, breathing them into my face. At least that confirmed one thing - she had been drinking so much that her breath came close to giving me a free chemical peel.
"Well, I work on the show. Why don't you come with me?"
The woman nodded, and I heard Josh utter 'finally'. He picked up his guitar, and he and his mother followed me down the rabbit warren of corridors to the dressing rooms, one of which had already been set aside for Josh to use. I showed them into the room, then told them I would find one of the producers, or at least a runner who could tell them what to do. Chaperoning wasn't really my job, although I had to admit I would've made an exception for Josh...
It was half an hour later when I returned to the room. I knocked on the door, expecting to hear Mrs Harkness' gravely voice within, but was instead greeted with Josh's high-pitched, melodic answer.
"Come in!" he called, and I did exactly as requested, pushing through the door and letting it close automatically behind me. I scanned the room quickly, and could see no sign of the boy's mother. She didn't appear to be in the little en-suite, either. I raised an eyebrow at Josh, and he cottoned on immediately.
"Mum's gone out for a while," he said. "My agent got here, and they went off to..."
He stopped and gave me a little lopsided grin, then raised both his hands, making a ring with thumb and forefinger of one, and poking through the index finger of the other in an instantly-recognisable gesture.
"Oh!" I replied, genuinely shocked by his candour. He shrugged.
"Yeah, well, at least someone is getting some, eh?" he said with a laugh. I laughed, too, but it was a reflex action. I hadn't expected this from him. What had I expected, though? Eleven year old boys are a lot more worldly wise than I was at the same age, and those in the entertainment industry more so than others. Josh had obviously had a lot of growing up to do in the last few months.
"Well, if you need I can organise a girl to come in here and sort you out. There are all sorts of privileges of being famous, you know."
It was his turn to shock, then he cottoned on and burst out laughing.
"Yeah, OK," he said, still giggling. "Maybe afterwards. We could get you one, too."
"Sure, that would be good. But first, we need to make sure you know your lines. Did they get sent through earlier in the week?"
It turned out that Josh knew his lines very well, and could even act a little. I gave him a few pointers I'd picked up while working on the show, and then a little while later one of the regular actors turned up so they could practice the scene they'd be doing together. I left them together and wandered out to a last minute script meeting just as his mother, apparently more sober but no less astonishing in appearance, re-entered the room. She gave me a warm but vacant smile, and passed by in a cloud of alcohol vapour.
Just as the door was closing behind me I happened to glance back into the room, and found myself making eye contact with Josh. He stared at me a moment longer, then looked quickly away. I couldn't quite work out what was in that stare, but by the end of the evening I would know.
Filming went well enough. There was a small, live re-write when a scene really didn't gel, but the audience were in good spirits and didn't seem to mind the delay. We finished slightly ahead of schedule, and though normally we would try to squeeze two recordings into one night, this was the last in the series and therefore stood alone. Of course, the series wrapping up meant a bit of a party, and Mrs Harkness' eyes lit up when one of the producers mentioned the stash of alcohol the production company had provided. Someone - it might well have been me - raised the question of what Josh would do, and whether perhaps he needed to be getting home, but his mother dismissed the concern with a wave of her hand.
"He can fall asleep on the sofa in the dressing room or something. The car can wait for us. I pay him well enough."
And that, apparently, was that. The party got into full swing, and for a while I was distracted by the merry making all around.
An hour or so later I was a little bit tipsy, and feeling a little out of my depth. Most of my colleagues were well used to the lifestyle, but when I walked in on a couple of executives being an utter cliche and snorting lines of coke, I began to wonder if this really was the right place for me. The work was great, but the people weren't all to my liking.
I absently wandered through a door, thinking it was the room where I'd left my coat and bag. I intended to get the hell out of there, and get home while the going was good; perhaps, I reasoned, I might even be able to get a few more hours' nocturnal writing done.
But it wasn't the right room at all - it was Josh's changing room, and there he was on the sofa with the TV on, watching the football. He glanced up at me and grinned.
"Looks like you found something to stop you getting bored," I said, hoping that I sounded a lot more sober than I felt. Something about being in the room with him made me even more lightheaded.
"It's 'cause you never got me that prostitute," he shot back, quick as you like. Witty kid.
"It's still not too late, mate. I can get you one of the lovely local ladies. Or a lad if you'd prefer."
It was only meant to be a joke, but I obviously hit a nerve.
"Piss off. I'm not a poof like you," he growled at me, the smile disappearing from his face.
I stood there utterly abashed, not even bothering to wonder how he knew I was gay. Shit, hardly anyone knew that, but obviously he did, and how he had come to that conclusion hardly mattered, really.
"So, come on then, gay boy," he said suddenly, his voice light again. "Sit down and watch a bunch of men running around. Bet it gets you all horny, doesn't it?"
"You wish," I said, plonking myself down on the sofa next to him, delighting in throwing him off balance a little, so that he bounced into the side of me before he could right himself. "Not exactly my type."
"Is that 'cause you like little boys instead?" he asked, his words edged with laughter.
"Got it in one!" I said, hoping to disguise the fact that it was the truth by simply being blatant.
"Fucking pedo," he muttered, then turned his attention back to the television. He was smiling, though.
We sat in almost silence for a while, other than the odd exclamation of joy or anger at the way the game was unfolding. I was genuinely interested in the football, as it happened, and had decided to content myself with sitting next to Josh, nothing more. But then he broke the silence, once more pushing the boundaries of acceptable banter from a little boy.
"Bet you want to suck it, don't you?" he asked, slyly.
"Suck what?" I said, playing stupid.
"My dick, idiot," he shot back, grabbing his crotch through his jeans for effect. It didn't look like much of a handful, but that suited me just fine.
I shrugged, trying to play it cool, convinced that he was trying to trap me.
"Doesn't look like there's enough to bother with," I replied airily, not letting my eyes stray from the screen.
"Yeah, right. I bet you like it that way. I bet thinking about my little hard dick makes you all horny."
Jesus, what was this kid playing at? If he wanted to get himself raped, he was going the right way about it! I wouldn't do anything against his will, but I've met plenty of guys with fewer scruples than I have over the years, guys who would pin him down and fuck him for being so provocative.
"Let's just leave it, OK?" I said. "It's unkind to take the piss out of someone for their sexual orientation, you know."
He looked abashed, and blushed beautifully.
"Sorry," he muttered, and sounded every bit of it. "I was only having fun."
"Yeah, well, let's just watch the game, OK?"
We did just that, for a while. But Josh became fidgety, and more than once I saw him out of the corner of my eye grabbing at his crotch. Under the cover of darkness I risked a proper look his way, and was surprised to find that in the light from the TV I could see a little lump in his jeans. OK, he wasn't going to poke anyone's eye out just by standing up, but it was certainly visible, sitting to the left.
"Need some alone time?" I asked, teasingly. I hadn't intended to provoke him, it just sort of tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it. The effect of the alcohol, no doubt.
He spun his head to face me, and opened his mouth to fire back a retort, but nothing came out. He gave me a strange look, as if trying to work something out, but said nothing and closed his mouth once more. He turned back to the TV, and I sat there feeling like an utter dick.
"Can I ask something?" he said a few minutes later, in a very small voice.
"Sure, mate. What is it?"
"It's kind of personal."
"Right, well ask anyway, and if I don't want to answer I won't."
"Um... OK. Do you... are you really... you know."
"What? Gay?"
"Um, no. Well, yeah, but like... a pedo."
I stared straight into his eyes. He didn't look poised to run, which meant whatever the answer, he was prepared to accept it. But he was nervous.
"Josh, I happen to find young boys like you very attractive. I don't go round attacking them or anything. Don't worry, I won't make you do anything with me. And I'd appreciate you not telling anyone."
"Oh God, no! No, I won't tell, I promise," he blurted out. "It's just..."
"Go on."
"Well, let's say I wanted to find out what it was like if someone sucked my dick."
I was surprised. Actually, that's a bit of an understatement. Gobsmacked is probably a better description. You might have been able to see that coming, but I sure as hell hadn't. It was pretty clear what he was about to ask me to do.
"You want me to suck your dick? You think that just because you're some incredibly attractive boy who's just the right age for me that I'm just going to walk over to the door and lock it, then come back over here, kneel between your knees and suck your dick until you have an orgasm?"
As I'd spoken, his initial terror at my tone of voice had turned into amusement, as it became ever clearer that I was winding him up.
"Yep," he said, beginning to unbutton the fly of his jeans. "Because you want this."
As he said 'this', he raised his hips off the sofa, and in one fluid movement pushed his jeans and pants down to mid-thigh.
"Jesus Christ!" I breathed, as out sprung the most gorgeous little uncut willy I'd ever imagined possible. I raced to the door and flicked the lock shut, not caring what anyone might think, and then bounded back to the sofa and knelt down in front of him, pulling off his trainers and easing the jeans and underwear off his feet.
I then had time to examine the marvel before my eyes. He wasn't especially big, or chubby down there. About three inches, fairly typical for a boy his age, or so I had read. His foreskin was long enough that even quiveringly hard as he was it bunched over the end. It was sheathed in the palest skin, with a pink scar running down its underside and across his balls. They were just beginning to grow, slightly plumper than they might have been a few months before, and in a sack perhaps a little darker in tone these past weeks. There was not a hair in sight on his crotch, if you discounted the faintest peach fuzz which he'd probably sported for years.
I took it in hand, and grinned as he jumped at the contact.
"Ever had anyone else touch it like this?" I asked, and he shook his head emphatically. There was more than a hint of first time nerves in his eyes, but now we'd started I wasn't going to stop unless he asked me.
I gently wanked him a little, enjoying the feel of the soft, silky-smooth unblemished skin of his boyhood gliding effortlessly back and forth over the steel hardness beneath. The little ridge which marked the flare of his glans was a particularly lovely spot to caress. My God he was hard, so hard that when I released his spike it vibrated.
Then, because preteen boys don't want exquisite teasing and just want to cum instead, I leaned forward and with no ceremony at all engulfed it right to the base. I hollowed my cheeks and stroked back up with my lips, and gloried in the sight of him clenching his eyes shut as the pleasure overwhelmed him. His hips came up, trying to fuck his willy into my mouth once more, but I pressed them down with my hands, and with suction still applied I began to bob rapidly up and down on his quivering spike.
I wish I could have made it last longer, but even with alcohol clouding my judgement I knew this had to be quick; we wouldn't be left alone forever. I reached up a hand and pulled down on the skin of his shaft, exposing the smooth bulb of his glans to my tongue, then applied my strongest suction to just the cherry tip, flicking the tip of my tongue back and forth across it.
It had the desired effect. His eyes clamped tightly shut, his mouth dropped open, and panting and writhing beneath me in pained pleasure he ejaculated a spray of salty droplets into the roof of my mouth. I released him, watching another, much smaller jet splatter out in a wide arc as his boyhood sprang upright and pulsed once more, then took him back into my mouth to nurse him through the aftershocks.
He lay panting, his t-shirt mottled with sweat and a few precious droplets of his boyish essence. I let his still-throbbing shaft slip from my lips, re-sheathing it with his foreskin as I went, enjoying the sensation of one final little spurt squeezed from his shaft.
"Good?" I asked, and he nodded, gazing at me through hooded eyelids, apparently ready to fall asleep.
Then, he grinned, and sat bolt upright, making no move to put his pants and trousers back on.
"Stand up!" he ordered, his voice a curiously mirthful.
I obeyed, and then marveled, as with a practised air he undid my belt and the fly of my jeans and pushed both to the ground. He grinned as my dick bobbed in the air in front of him. Standing up next to me, with his still half-hard little willy poking out from beneath his t-shirt, he took me in his hand and began to wank me.
I was already worked up from having sucked him off, and now I was experiencing the hand of a boy on my manhood for the first time ever. I came all too quickly, splattering my much thicker load all over the sofa and the carpet below. He milked the last few droplets of of my penis and shook them onto the floor. Lightheaded, I leaned on his shoulders for support, and he snaked both arms around me in a boyish hug.
"That was fucking amazing," I said, breathlessly,
"You're not meant to swear in front of me!" he laughed, and I laughed along with him; after what we'd just done, swearing was the least of my worries.
In the end, after all my concerns about being discovered, it was more than a couple of hours later when he finally left, by which time he'd fallen into a contented slumber on the sofa with a cute little smile playing across his lips. His mum was in no state to deal with him, so I woke him as gently as I could, and carried his guitar out to the waiting car while he stumbled along like a zombie next to me. He was asleep again almost as soon as I had fastened the seat belt around him, but just as I was withdrawing from the car he caught my arm with his hand, and pulled me back in. Ever so gently, he kissed me on the cheek, and whispered into my ear,
"Thank you."
I watched the car pull away, and wondered if I would ever see him again.
Zack T. McNaught
www.asstr.org/~zack/
zackmcnaught@hotmail.com