This story deals with (highly) adult themes, and is really not at all appropriate for children. Copyright me.
The inspiration for my first foray into erotic fiction came from real life, unsurprisingly; after reading the character highlighted here likes to wear gold thongs. As the other principal character says in the story; 'boys will be boys', I guess. But, just for the record, this story is, apart from that one snippet, complete and unabridged fiction, and I have no knowledge of, or contact with (thankfully for them) the attractive but insipid boy-band/corporate cash-cow, 'One Direction'.
The product of my somewhat fanciful mind, this story follows the exploits of a man who is, quite simply, mad. As a result, aspiring to follow in his footsteps should itself be considered a sign of mental instability.
My first story, submitted after over a decade of dutifully reading the nifty archieves, I would be most grateful for any comments to be sent to: just_some_chap@hotmail.co.uk
But please, unlike the mad doctor, don't be too harsh :)
(Gay, celeb, auth, mc, adult/youth)
CHAPTER THE FIRST: HARRY STYLES: THE CUTE ONE
Prologue
I have a great job. Great, because it's a lot of fun.
Oh, don't get me wrong; I don't test park rides or anything like that. The life of a psychiatrist isn't supposed to be fun...but I guess as with a lot of things, enjoyment comes from what you make of opportunities presented, and of course, what it is that you enjoy.
Me? I enjoy young men. Being in my early 40s, I am certainly not 'past it', and keep myself in shape with frequent games of squash - but my wife and children prevent me from making any lasting sexual relationships with the younger male fraternity. My noted specialism in hypnotherapy, however, means I can sample their wares at my leisure. Which really is, for me, a lot of fun. I say 'noted', because thanks to making friends with the right people (quite unintentionally) whilst interning at St. George's, I have developed quite a reputation in the field. I can say, with some pride, that I have alleviated Michelin Star chef's of their insecurity; Prime Minister's of their uncertainties. Even a President of his insomnia. Of course, good citizen that I am, I also help troubled youths, for free. This adds to the aura of socially minded professionalism which ensures nobody will ever know that the majority of time I spend with such youths involves me exploring their firm arses and delectable cocks as much as their troubled minds.
But before detailing those experiences, I thought you might be interested to hear one of my more recent projects; so recent, it's still ongoing, in fact. I must admit, firstly, that whilst I am a man of considerable intellect, I am still attracted to more venal, low-arts programming that seems to dominate this country for several months at a time. One such programme, I am ashamed to say, includes 'the X-Factor'. I kid myself that I watch it so I have something to say to Simon Cowell when I see him for lunch occasionally, but I know that I watch it just as much for the mind-numbing sweetness of it all, as well as the firm, young flesh frequently on the show. This angers my wife; I tell her, honestly, that I have no interest in the girls on the show. She doesn't believe me...bless her.
When I did see Simon for lunch early last week, he mentioned that he was having trouble with one of his acts. A confidence issue. And might I be able to help? My ears, along with another part of my anatomy, immediately pricked up. He said ITV would pay me handsomely. I nodded sagely, so he'd be safe in thinking money was my largest concern here. "Which act are you having trouble with, Simon?" I asked, praying that it wasn't one of those whores he was mentoring. "Harry," he said simply. I smiled the smile of a predator on the inside. Harry was part of the boy band act, One Direction. "Well...bring him in. I'll see if I can sort him out."
Thursday 14th October, 2010
And so it began. I have a private practice in central London, where I see my exclusive clientele and my 'private projects'; it's a fairly simple affair, consisting of a small reception area, my large office, and a private bathroom directly off my office (which really is SO useful).My office consists of a workspace for myself, as well as a small consultation area for patients, consisting of two armchairs, and a class table. Last Thursday, Simon arrived bang on time, along with a show producer, with young Harry taking up the rear, so to speak. The young lad clearly wasn't happy to be there, and was acting every bit the petulant child. Like a lot of boys his age, he thought the whole thing was a waste of time, and that hypnosis was a namby-pamby wishy-washy load of bollocks. As soon as I saw his impish, angular face, big mop of dark hair and spot free complexion in person, I resolved to prove him wrong, and help myself to the load in his bollocks whilst I was at it. He was dressed in a dark grey hoodie, loose jeans, and slim, grey converse trainers; very different from the hipster clothes he wore onset. After exchanging pleasantries with Simon and the producer whose name is of no consequence, I invited Harry into my office, and explained to his two guardians that it would be better if they just waited outside, as their presence could provide a distraction and hinder my ability to help. Simon, eager for me to 'fix' his act, complied without any complaint, and I asked my receptionist to keep the both of them plied with coffee. I shut the door and locked it. He was standing in the middle of the room, like an attractive lemon, unsure of himself. Even in the lose jeans and without my distance glasses, I could tell he had a fine, hard ass. "Please, Harry, take a seat," I said, motioning to the leather arm chair to one side of the room. As he sunk into it, I sat in a more utilitarian office chair just to his left. I opened a leather binder sitting on a table beside me, and began making preparatory case notes. He still hadn't spoken since he had entered the room. After a couple of minutes of note taking, I looked up and began.
"So, Harry, what's up?"
He shrugged his shoulders impassively, and mumbled, "I dunno. I just...get nervous. Like, really nervous, before a show."
"Well, nerves are normal, Harry. What makes you think what you have is abnormal? Something requiring treatment?"
"I don't," he replied, pointedly.
"Oh, I see. Well, don't you think Simon is perhaps a better judge of what constitutes normal or abnormal levels of stress prior to performing?"
Another shrug. "I guess. I just...I just want to be better." He returned his gaze to me from the floor. "I just don't want to fuck up. I'm going to ruin everything, for the whole group."
I smiled reassuringly. "Now, don't be silly. You're very good, you know." He cracked a cute smile. "What I think you have Harry is a classic case of Social Anxiety Disorder. The bad news is, as its quite irrational, nobody can really say or do anything to 'fix' you. The good news is, I can help dampen the disorder, through some mild hypnotherapy." No matter what was wrong with him, my diagnosis was going to be hypnotherapy. But in this case, it might actually help him: so, win-win. In a way.
His little face scrunched up in confusion. "Hypnotherapy? What, like, mind control?"
I laughed. Laughter was always my reaction when people said that. Gave the impression they were wrong, whilst also being inadmissible in court. "No no, Harry, not at all. One of the biggest misconceptions of hypnosis is that one can control minds through it. You can't; what you can do, however, is lead the mind. I can't control your mind under hypnosis any more then I can now. No, what a hypnotic induction does is allow me to access a traditionally inaccessible part of your mind, and...well, make it see sense, really." I smiled what I hoped appeared to be a warm smile to him, rather than a rapacious one. He looked at the door briefly. Obviously wondering if he should have the two men waiting for him outside be present during the examination. Something which I expect would get in the way of me raping him, so I hastily tried to think of how to dissuade the cute fella. Thankfully, I am a psychiatrist, adept at bending people to my will, and he is a sixteen year old boy; possibly the simplest of creatures on God's Green Earth, with the possible exception of a rutting dog (with whom they have much in common). "Shall I get Simon? That's certainly you're prerogative, Harry. In fact, I know from speaking to him earlier in the week that he wanted to be present during the treatment, to make sure you don't act up. I'd better go and get him."
As I started to stand up, he oh-so-predictably snapped back, "what do you mean, 'act up'?"
I smiled, and replied as though I was trying to defuse the situation. "Calm down, Harry. You know; just acting the way young boys do. Simon thought it might be the reason for your mental problems."
"I don't have mental problems!"
"No, of course you don't - but prior to this examination, we didn't know that, now did we? Everyone was, you know...concerned."
Harry was somewhat unhappy at this (fictitious) turn of events, and sat in silence for a moment, the cogs in his mind moving ever so slowly. "Can I NOT have him in here?"
"Of course you can; this is your examination, and you call the shots from beginning to end." Except for the bit where your mind is laid open before me like an illustrated pop-up book, I thought. "But I recommend Simon being present; he really wanted to be here-"
"Fuck him. Let's just get it over with." With that, he closed his eyes and slumped down into the soft chair, placing his hands on his stomach and letting his long legs open delightfully. My eyes were naturally drawn to his juncture (whose wouldn't?) before I sat back down in my chair, looking as concerned as I could. His loose jeans meant I couldn't see anything. But I knew that would soon change.
I don't know what he was expecting, but given his posture I think Harry was anticipating me speaking directly into his cerebellum, possibly whilst holding a swaying medallion, bedecked in a cape. Alas, 21st century medicine isn't quite as romanticised as the 1950s retro-grandeur of 20th century hypnotherapy. I configured my iPad to display a fairly simple induction programme. The display doesn't induce a hypnotic state in-of-itself; rather, it makes the mind open for the conditioning required to develop such a state. "Harry," he opened his eyes, and looked at me. "Look at the screen here for me. It's important that you look at the very centre of the screen. Do you understand?"
He nodded glumly. "Yes." It seemed like he was already going under. It was certainly handy, from my point of view, that teenage boys seemed more susceptible to hypnotic induction then adults, or girls of a similar age. Literally like taking candy from a baby. "As you look at the screen, Harry, I want you to picture in your mind's eye, an elevator, positioned directly in-front of you. You need to use the elevator to get to the bottom, and go home, Harry. The elevator doors slide open. The light coming from the elevator is a warm light, and it is inviting. Enter the elevator now." I stopped to take a sip of water, whilst taking another glance at his form, still slumped in the chair. My erection was pushing against my slacks quite uncomfortably. I continued. "The elevator travels to 100 floors, Harry, and you are on floor 100. What floor do you need to go to?"
He mumbled, barely coherently, "The bottom."
"Yes, you do. So push the button for the Ground Floor. Standing in the elevator, Harry, you notice a dial, with the pointer slowly moving, indicating which floor you are passing, as you travel down. As a little game to keep yourself occupied, recite the floors, as you pass them."
"99..."
"As the elevator descends, you wonder, where you are more generally."
"98..."
"It is odd, that it hasn't occurred to you before, but you really only know where you need to go; not where you are."
"97..."
"But I know, Harry."
"96..."
"I am speaking directly to you now, and I know exactly where you are."
"95..."
"You are travelling deeper into your mind; into your subconscious."
"94..."
"As the elevator moves, you feel the physical world becoming more distant-"
"93..."
"-and the world of your mind becoming more real."
"92..."
"Easier to access. And I am travelling with you, Harry."
"91..."
"I am here to look after you. To guide you."
"90..."
"And as such, you trust me, Harry."
"89..."
"You trust me totally. I am your guardian, now, and as we travel into your mind together, when I speak-"
"88..."
"-you shall listen, and when I instruct, you shall do. "
"87..."
" I know your mind, Harry. I can navigate it in a way you are simply incapable of doing."
"86..."
" You need me, Harry. To help you. To help your mind, and to help return you from this state."
"85..."
"You. Trust. Me. Completely."
"84...83...82..." At that point, I left him to count down into his deep subconscious, with each number bringing him closer to subservience.
"How are you feeling, Harry?"
There was silence for a few moments. His eyes were open, but heavily lidded, and he stared in my general direction, but not physically at me. "Fine," he drawled. He physically appeared to be in a fairly deep trance. Lethargic, and generally unresponsive. "Harry, as you sit there, you become aware of your arm. You do not particularly wish to lift your arm. Yet, you feel it becoming lighter; so light, that the air you breath is heavier; denser. Do you know what this means?"
He frowned again. "No." Thank you very much, 13 years of Tony Blair's education reforms.
"It means, Harry, that your arm will rise into the air, purely because of its relative weightlessness." Sure enough, the boy's arm slowly crept up until it looked like he was wanting to answer a question in class, with his looking at his arm quizzically, as if not understanding why it was in the air. He was ready.
"Harry, stand up." He proceeded to stand to his full 5'10". Looking at him now, he oozed a sort of vulnerable sexuality I found intoxicating. I stood, and moved until I was about 4 inches from his unresponsive body. His face was as smooth close up as it was at a distance, and as I looked him up and down, I could smell a subtle scent of lynx deodorant, overlaying something more...primal. I liked it, and wanted him to produce more of that sweet boy-scent for me. Smiling, I took a couple of steps back. "Harry, close your eyes, and listen." He closed his eyes, and as ever, listened. "As you stand there, you feel yourself getting warm. Very warm. With each passing second, in fact, you feel the temperature getting hotter, and hotter. Don't you?"
His eyes opened, and h frowned. "Well..."
"You do. Don't you?"
"Y...Yes, I do." He started to take deep breaths and, after a minute, I could make out a sheen of moisture on his rosy cheeks.
"Take off your hoodie, Harry. That'll cool you down." His hands lazily reached up, and he removed the hoodie. I held out my hands, and he wordlessly handed it to me. I put it on the table beside me. He wore a baggy red T-shirt underneath, which made reference to some 60s band he probably hadn't even heard of. This aggravated me. "You still feel so hot, Harry. You must do something to cool down - take off your T-Shirt, as well." He frowned again; just as aggravating as the T-Shirt, was his continued grasp for independence. Bloody boys. "Harry! You trust me completely, and I am instructing you to take off the T-Shirt before you collapse from heat exhaustion! Do it, right now!" He looked at the floor, and proceeded to remove the T-Shirt for me, as slowly as he did the hoodie. His chest was adolescent, and undefined, and he hadn't lost all his babyfat. His abs were a bit more defined, but still boyish and slender. I could spy some hair under his arms, but his chest was totally smooth. Given his reluctance to take off the T-Shirt, I could only imagine the difficulty I'd have in getting him out of his jeans. The answer? Why, don't tell him, of course. "Close your eyes, Harry. You feel a lot cooler now. Thank goodness you did what I told you to do, or you might of fried to a crisp. The cool air feels pleasant on your skin..." as I spoke the words, his little nipples began to crinkle and tighten. "...infact, it feels numbing. You begin to feel the sensation of pins and needles all over your body, Harry. Now, touch your right shoulder, with your left hand." He did so. "Did you feel your hand?"
"Yeah...a little..." His voice was shaky. It was about to get a lot shakier.
"The pins and needles is increasing in intensity, Harry. It becomes stronger, desensitising your skin. You wonder if you could feel anything at all now. Can you?"
He touched himself again. "No!" He spoke with a panic in his voice. "Stay calm, Harry. Remain calm. I'm here, remember? You are perfectly calm. This doesn't worry you. Are you calm?"
He smiled dopily. "Yeah." I approached his standing body once again. This time, I couldn't resist, and leaned in to gently take one of his tits into my mouth, tonguing it first, and then biting it. He remained impassive. I reached down, unsnapped the waist of his jeans, and then began to unzip them. I only got half way before they collapsed, pooling around his legs. After having him raise his feet so I could remove them, I took a good look at him. His jeans out the way, I could see the finely muscled, firm football players legs of the boy, sprinkled with a fine dusting of dark hair. Looking to his feet, I could see in addition to his converse shoes, notable for their purple laces, he wore a pair of white lacoste sports socks. What was most prominent, however, was the silky gold thong used to hoist up his still floppy family jewels. Very...cute? Very something, anyway. I casually reached down and softly gripped his meaty package through the thong. I made out the thick tube, together with the slumbering, sheathed head; around four more then respectable inches in total. Reaching deeply between his muscled thighs, I cupped his fat balls, gently squeezing them, and yanking them down slightly. The numbness still pervaded his body, however, and for what I intended for him, I needed him to be a bit more responsive. So reluctantly, and temporarily, I released him, but before I had him sit back down, I strolled around the lad, taking in his physique. His arse was the sort of tightly defined creation I'd expect to find on a sporty, fit teenager. Standing behind him and looking at it, I couldn't help but sigh as I reached out and gently sunk my fingers into his fleshy cheeks. On a whim, I said "Harry, you need to do your exercises. But first you need to do some stretches. Touch your toes for me. " He did so, demonstrating the fine musculature in his upper legs, as well as splaying his arse open for me. I then knelt down on one knee, softly pulled the string down from his dark crease, and slowly ran my tongue up the expanse of his cavernous crack. All I could taste was shower gel - my nephew once told me 'a clean boy is a naughty boy', (whilst 'under'), but I don't think that maxim applied here. The prickly sparse hairs lining his crack tickled my tongue, and when I passed over his love button, I stabbed my tongue into his insides, good and hard, causing him to stumble forward a little - although he recovered, it kinda took the wind out of my sales, so I regretfully stood up, allowing his g-string to snap back into position as I did. I instructed him to sit back down, and then proceeded to have a more intimate discussion then he might otherwise like.
"Are you a virgin?" I asked.
"No." I wasn't surprised. He was, as you might of gathered, a good looking boy.
"Do you like girls or boys?"
"Girls," he said without hesitation.
"Are you sure?" Might seem like a stupid question, but my own life was testament to the fact that you can sometimes be confused, for quite a long time, and to quite a large degree. His answer both disappointed, and excited me.
"Yes!" He replied, with a sense of urgency in his voice.
I sighed deeply. "When did you last masturbate?"
"Yesterday."
As he was only sixteen, he'd of produced a respectable load since then; more than worth the effort. I took another look at the boy. He was staring impassively, as he has been for the entire session, and was once again placed deep within the chair, arms on his tummy, his legs spread. It was amusing to consider he was in a position very similar to the one at the start of the session...except now, he was only wearing his thong, socks and shoes. Now, as then, my gaze was drawn to the mass of meat between his legs. He really was quite impressive. He wasn't my favourite in the 'band', but since feeling his prodigious hang, he'd gone up in my estimations, and I could perhaps use him to get to others on the show. Yes, he would serve a number of uses.
I looked at my watch. It was hard to believe that only twenty five minutes had passed. I thought I'd better actually try and help him; Simon could harm my reputation if he chose to, so it was important he was a satisfied customer. So I began my 'real' work of trying to help calm his nerves, but not before reversing the numbness that was still pervading his body. As I spoke to him about his confidence, I stood behind him, rubbing my fingers deeply into his shoulders, and running my hands through his hair on occasion, simply because I imagined he'd hate me doing that. Most straight boys do. My hands slowly descended along his smooth skin until I reached those de-lish penny-sized nips; as they hardened again, I noticed his breathing was deeper; more pronounced. It wasn't the only thing that was more pronounced. Staring down his chest, his cock had plumped up appreciably. After leaning down and kissing his big mop of unruly hair (mmm, head and shoulders) I walked round the chair, placing myself between his spread legs, and knelt. "Right-o, hips in the air, please," I instructed. He complied, at which point I unceremoniously removed his skimpy thong; his cock, now coming in at a stiff six and a half inches or so with the glassy pink head very much awake and wondering what was going on, snapped back against his stomach appreciably, surrounded by a dense, spongy patch of pubic hair. His balls were similarly grateful for the breathing room, jostling each other for position in their hairy, moist sack; my 'heat' command from earlier clearly had physical, as well as mental, affects. Removing the pants from his feet and instructing him to lean back, I threw the thong over onto my office table, and immediately descended on the boys crotch like a pig rooting for truffles. I began slurping on his nuts, being attracted to them by both their weighty size and hairy bag. I ran my tongue around each ball, feeling the ridges of his crinkly sack, as well as the short prickly hairs covering them; whilst he hadn't had a particularly active day since his shower, his bollocks were still full of flavour, and coated with the taste of sexy teen-boy testosterone. Sucking each one into my mouth, I gave them a thorough basting; I note with amusement that his feet, still clad in grey trainers, have risen off the ground slightly as I go to town - extracting myself from his crotch, I take each hairy calf in my hand, put his feet over my shoulders, and get back in there. I don't know about you, but for me, there is nothing quite like the taste of straight teen cock. Starting at the base, I licked my way up the fat spike, savouring the taste of his translucent lube; swirling my tongue around the pink glans, I sucked up the more gamey residue I found there, before sliding my mouth down to the base of his cock, my nose resting in his fragrant dark pubes - after what felt like a few seconds of pistoning his cock in and out of my mouth, I felt his hips begin to buck against me. Looking up, I could see his eyes were still closed, his head, lolling back and forth on the back of the chair. He had slid down into the leather chair, and now, with his legs on my shoulders for support, both his arse and rigid tackle were arrayed before me. It didn't take him long to get to the point of no return, and this annoyed me; I assumed a hot little stud like him would be able to hold out for more than five minutes, but apparently not. Taking my mouth off him, I put my hand around his shaft, just barely making contact with the wet, velvet knob. He was now using his entire body to flex his groin up and down into my hand, his feet wrapped so tightly around my neck I had to move them down to my waist, for fear of him choking me - or at least aggravating my upper back injury. I gently gripped his cock, wanked it firmly for a few seconds (during which time a satisfied smile would crack on his sleepy face), and then just gently tickling the surface for a couple of minutes, running the lips of my fingers up and down his white granite dick. After about twenty minutes or so, he let out a bizarre, prolonged yelp/moan, which sounded a lot like 'cum', but that might of been my imagination. Either way, it actually made me feel sorry for the poor lad. I resolved at that point to help him cum. To this end, I took the blunt index finger of my right hand, up until now amusing itself by rubbing his chest and abs, and shoved it up his rose-hued arsehole. Even in a trance, he was pretty surprised by this turn of events, with both his legs unfurling from my waist and sticking straight up in the air, whilst emitting a louder, guttural moan. As I rooted my way up his tight rectum I observed his drippy cock pulse, and spurt out another few drops of pre. I spoke to him in hushed whispers. "Here's how its gonna be, Harry. You'll get up on the stage, and you'll be fine. You'll be fine, because this bullshit is all in your stupid fucking head, and as you trust me completely, if I say your cured, then what are you?"
I added another finger to punctuate my question for him. "UGHH...cu...cured"
"That's right." His legs began to wane, and return to the floor. "Keep your legs where they are, Harry. I like them there, because it makes you look more stupid and pathetic; like the little boy slut you are, sitting on a chair, legs in the air, with some bloke's finger up your pussy. Now, not only do you appreciate - and I mean REALLY appreciate - me taking time out of my busy schedule to make you spunk, Harry, but you actually enjoy it." I now had three fingers up the kid's arse, grazing his little love button, and moving so hard that it was pushing him back into the plush leather chair. "Don't you?"
"Hmmm," he replied, from deep in his stomach. I knew it was probably an affirmative, but I wanted more.
"What was that?" I asked, as I once again firmly took hold of his meat and steadily jacked him for all he was worth, stopping on occasion to roil his fat knob. "Ye-yeah-YES! YES!"
"Alright, shut the fuck up; there are still three people on the other side of that door." His legs now moving back and forth, was thrusting himself further into my slick, sweaty hand. "You know, Harry, I feel I know you really well now. When we first met, I wasn't sure we were going to get on; but now, looking at you here, jizzing on demand, I can't help but thing we have a real special relationship. I think I'd like to get to know the rest of the band. Get to see what makes them tick. It could be a fun experience, eh?"
"AH...AH...AGHHHHH!"
Taking in great, deep lung fulls of air as he did so, Harry's cockhead expanded, and with me aiming the end of his hose in the direction of his face, he catapulted array after array of fine, thick jizz pellets, with the first two smacking him on the face, the rest, over his chest and stomach, with a fine, syrupy drizzle running into his pubes. After a minute to get my breath back, I removed my hand from his semi-hard cock. It was now lazily slumping onto his left thigh, the head going back to sleep, slumbering until the next pair of panties gets tossed Harry's way. Leaning forward, I licked the spunk off his cheek and lips, gently tonguing his teeth as I did so, before making great, broad strokes across his chest and abs, hoovering up every bit. The taste was not particularly sweet, but tangy, distinctive, and as God is my witness, absolutely delicious. I finally descended on his pubes, where his cum was beginning to stick to his musky hairs. But I cleaned it up, trooper that I am, and was rewarded with a few pubes in my teeth for my trouble. Extracting my fingers from his steamy ass, I instructed him to open his mouth, which he did, at which point he proceeded to suck all the muckiness from my fingers for me, like a hungry cat. As he did so, I fingered the head of his cock, now only just poking out of its sheath, and plucked a few short hairs from his balls. When he'd finished cleaning his ass juices from my fingers, I told him to get dressed, minus the thong which I would keep as part payment for my services. I now became painfully aware of my own hardon, still trapped in my restricting trousers. Letting my thing out into the open was a great relief, but I intended to get relief of another, more carnal variety, whilst the boy was still here, entranced. Looking at him in his clothes, it occurred to me that I couldn't exactly fuck him or ejaculate all over him, as I really didn't have the time; 'our time is almost up', as I am often fond of saying to my female clients. So instead, I told him to get on his knees, open his mouth, and stick out his tongue. Lining my cock up to his pretty mouth, I began a nice, luxuriating wank; I told him to open his eyes, which he did. Whilst it was clear he was still in a trance (they had that deadened look to them), they were nice and sultry. Dabbing the head of my organ onto his moist tongue, it wasn't long until I felt my orgasm building. "Now Harry, I'm just going to give you some medicine, to help you with your pseudo-ridiculous anxieties. You know you don't need it, because I've told you your fine, but you know what? You'll gulp it down, because you think it's so fucking tasty." Firing once, twice, a third time, I pelted the back of his throat with my cum; this was apparently so unexpected by him, that he coughed, knocking my knob from his mouth, causing me to coat his face with the rest of my load. Oops. I watched as he drank down the protein that made it into his mouth. Using my fingers, I scraped the remaining jizz of his face, shoving them into his mouth when most of it was off him.
"Suck."
He did.
I took the hem of his grey hoodie, and used it to dry his face from the remaining strands of jizz that had slipped through my fingers.
Waking him from his trance, after putting his underwear in a drawer of my desk, I asked him how he felt. He insisted he felt great, even though he kept licking his lips, and walked with a slight gait as I led him to my office door. I instructed him to pass on my best to his band mates. "If there is anything I can do to help them", I said, "anything at all, please, let me know." He nodded, frowning as he did so.
When I opened the door, Simon was standing there, looking at his watch. "You took your bloody time," he said. "I sent Chris home." Ah, the other chap that was with him. Fairly unimpressive; no great loss.
"Do you want the job done right, or done quickly?" I retorted.
"So...he's fine, then?" Turning to the boy he asked, "You alright, Harry?"
He nodded, slowly. I was still adjusting seeing his eyes with life in them. "Yep. Fine. I think."
Simon nodded in response, and walked up to me. "I might have another job for you. This lot are proving...difficult to manage," he said, rolling his eyes.
"Well, boys will be boys," I replied. He looked at me for a second, laughed, and turned back to Harry, winking at me as he did so.
"Come on then, superstar," Simon said, putting his arm around the boy and leading him out the office. Harry looked at me over his shoulder, and smiled.