Shawn Mendes LENGTH: 1,231 words
WARNING: This story contains sexual acts between young adult males and/or females. If you do not enjoy this type of material, or if it is illegal in your country or place of residence, please stop reading immediately. This story is not in any way an accurate depiction of reality, and any relations to real persons or acts that may appear within are unintentional. THIS STORY IS FICTION.
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There is just something about Shawn Mendes. His six foot two inch frame, his perfectly proportioned torso, those thick arms, the sculpted pectorals, that chest, which teases you through the top of a partially unbuttoned shirt, dusted with only the slightest hint of hair. The contrast that seems almost intentional, between his body, the body of a man, those thick thighs, that beefy ass glimpsed only in that rare Instagram post, between that raw breeding masculinity and that youthful innocence. The colorful personality, the authentic emotion. People point to his voice, his mannerisms, his unadulterated joy, and say he must have a secret. He seems like the ideal boy, the boy every girl dreams of taking home to her parents, the boy she wants to marry. In reality, he is that boy, that's what the pictures, the evidence, tells us. He's the boy who sits at home at night dreaming about his future wife and penning songs filled with his passion. He's the boy who might date Camila Cabello, or Hailey Baldwin, or any lucky girl. The boy who has been known to cuddle his girlfriend in the patient snow of a frigid December day. These are the facts.
But people want to believe he is hiding something. Because a boy can't be that perfect, can't be that incorruptible, that straight and emotional and sensitive and handsome all at the same time. So they corrupt him. They read his gestures as the desperate plea of a repressed homosexual. They tease him online and then tease him against when he posts videos insisting people recognize his heterosexuality. They see a picture of two faceless boys fucking on a hotel bed, one with a muscular back that looks all too familiar, and they know that it must belong to Shawn Mendes, because this must be a picture of Shawn Mendes riding a cock, because that's what he was born to do. They corrupt him. As for the truth, we can never know.
But Nick Jonas knows. He knows because he is tracing the beads of sweat as they crawl down the muscular back captured in that photograph, making the long journey from his thoracic to the cleft of his naked ass. He knows because that ass, Shawn's ass, which one short hour ago was nestled safely in his jeans while he sat at a table eating dinner with Hailey Baldwin, which ten minutes ago was covered by nothing more than a pair of navy Calvin Klein boxer briefs, which five minutes ago was fighting to keep out even Nick's finger, is now accepting a cock in slow, deep thrusts. Shawn's embarrassment was almost tangible, in the red of his cheeks, in the shaking of his body, as Nick slid his t-shirt off, unbuttoned his jeans, as he dug his fingers into the waistband of Shawn's boxer briefs and teased them down. Sure, Shawn had probably made love to a woman, multiple women even, but had any of them bent him over the edge of a bed and spread his ass cheeks and glimpsed this tight pink hole, surprisingly smooth for a boy walking around in the body of a man, with nothing but a scant landscaping of thin brown hairs around the rim barely visible to the naked eye?
Nick knows because he feels the muscles tense below him and hears quiet moans escape into the silence of the room as his penis sinks deeper into Shawn, as he stares down and watches the thick forest of his own unkempt pubes lay claim to the white globes of Shawn's twink ass with each thrust, imagining what the teenager must be feeling right now, with each movement, being a dude in his prime believing that you love women, with a girlfriend texting your abandoned phone from the couch of her hotel room just a few blocks away off Madison Avenue, while your ass is stretching to accommodate the thick cock of a man for the first time. It surprises Nick, how little time it takes for the ass of the horny teenage boy to submit to his dick, to beg to be stuffed full of meat after resisting even the most gentle finger for so long.
Nick knows because Shawn Mendes is positioned on his hands and knees on a king size bed in a hotel room in New York city, completely naked, with a huge hard cock hanging between his legs and bouncing with each thrust, remnants of his clothing littering the floor. Shawn's own navy blue Calvin Klein underwear sit at the bottom of his field of vision, at the foot of the bed, as he stares at the mirror in the corner, at his own reflection, at a boy bent over doggystyle, begging to be fucked harder, hair disheveled and running with sweat, mouth open in ecstasy as his butt submits to the man whose hairy chest is visible behind him in the mirror.
Nick knows because the room isn't silent anymore. Shawn knew he couldn't take it, from the moment Nick slid off his boxer briefs and discarded them on the edge of the bed, from the moment he saw that thick penis for the first time. He knew it when the tip slid it into his ass with an audible popping sound, when despite his clenching the lubed and condom-covered cock slowly slipped deeper and deeper. It just wasn't natural. His ass wasn't meant for this. He could feel himself stretching and knew that he couldn't handle any more. He would never be able to take it all, not even one more inch. But the room was inhabited by the filthy sounds of his lies, the sound of sweaty skin on sweaty skin, and he could feel it. Nick was a man. He had chest hair and pubic hair. That feeling wasn't just a huge cock plowing his ass. It was the friction of Nick's pubic hair grinding against his stretched asshole, bottoming out.
Nick knows because when he places one large hand on each ass cheek and squeezes them together as tightly as he can while pistoning his cock in and out, Shawn moans even out louder. Because when he places his right hand on Shawn's upper back and pushes down until Shawn's face is buried in the sheets of the bed, he can still hear muffled sounds of pleasure as he stuffs that cute little butt full of cock. Because when he finally removes his hand from Shawn's back and watches the reflection of Shawn's face in the mirror as it resurfaces from its place in the sheets, Nick's used white underwear are dangling from his mouth, the waistband clenched between his teeth as eight inches of meat pump in and out of his ass.
Nick knows because when he pulls out his cell phone and starts recording the ass swallowing his cock, and when he finally pulls out and rips his condom off and starts spewing cum, on Shawn's back, on his hair, on his right ass cheek, on his loose, gaping hole, and when he circles the tip of his cock around the rim of Shawn's popped cherry and starts pushing the remnants of his warm load into Shawn's hole with his still hard cock, Shawn, still chewing on the waistband of his underwear, drops a load of semen all over the hotel bed untouched.