Coc-Sucer: Justin Thyme

'That was totally awesome' breathes Justin Thyme, smiling up at me.

Damn. Why does he have to say 'awesome'? Why 'totally awesome'?

He's laid on his back. My balls resting lightly on his forehead. The full length of my drooping cock slanting across his face, tip-tilted on his upturned button-nose, so my urethra is dribbling drool onto his dimpled chin. He's nude, like every Gay man's dirtiest fantasy. With that luscious slick tongue curling out between those pearly-white orthodontics-expensive teeth to lap the underside of my messy glans.

'That was totally awesome' says Justin, like he's totally besotted.

'Sure it was, Justin' I reassure him. 'Sure it was.' And yes, it was pretty damn good. Sliding my length into the warm hold of his welcoming mouth, until it becomes a prisoner of that tight little golden throat. What would all his teeny-girl fans think if they could see him now? That divine pin-up face, that slouch-hat-tilted flash-pose on all those posters, fridge-magnets, designer-fragrances, 'T'-shirts, lunch-pails, and merchandising trash. That iconic peek-a-boo hoodie shot too, so ubiquitous. And he's down there sucking my cock so enthusiastically, so grateful. His breathing picking up pace, until my jism erupts out over his cute little videogenic visage so it trickles in glistening trails across his nip-and-tucked cheeks. I can see a blob of it now coursing around his left nostril and down in a zigzag path streaking its way across the curve of his perfectly flawless jaw-line.

'Why can't it always be like this, Samyro?' he pouts prettily. 'Just you and me?'

'You know damn well why it can't be' I snap irritably, moving away. At least with my cock rammed down his throat he's temporarily unable to ask damn-fool questions. He sits up on the edge of the coverlet. Every pervy guy's wank-fantasy. His slim body hairless but for that coy circlet fringe of pubes.

'Those girls, those fans today' his expression is exquisitely spoiled. A brat. A Twink.

'Yes, they'd won the competition. Meeting you was the prize. I know, I know.'

'It was too creepy. Every opportunity she got, one of them kept trying to squirm her hand down the front of my shorts. I didn't like that. You know that everything inside my shorts belongs to you, Samyro. You know that, don't you?'

Not that there's much inside his shorts to brag about. I know it's an impossible contradiction, but if ever a guy can be said to have a girlish cock, then Justin has. More a tassel. A cockette, a cockade, a cocka-doodle-do, a cock-a-hoop. Poppycock. Some guys prefer it that way, I suppose. And – his loyalty is painful.

'Go play outside Justin, I got work to do' I tell him, patting his bare bottom with every show of affection. As he giggles in response I can see out through the glass-sliders. Ziggy is sitting beside the pool, waiting.

As he turns to go I say 'hey'. He turns back so sweetly, eyes like rain-sparkling violets. I indicate my mojo-juice that's still splattering his face.

He smiles. 'I'm proud to wear your spunk on my face' he says with a comic-show of defiance. 'I don't care if the world knows.' He slides the door back and paces out to join Ziggy. Zig looks up, an expression almost like a leer creasing his face into a smile. I watch Justin's perfect ass undulating away from me.

Ziggy is a little more pasty-faced than Justin, his complexion kind-of pudgy. Wearing too much sunfactor so he glistens, no tan-lines, and when he moves he kind-of slut-walks, sashays as though to emphasise his bigger down-hung cock. He's sitting there naked, waiting for his playmate, his bare feet dangling, swirling little circular patterns in the fluoridated water. Like he's posing, his hair hung down, making him look a little bit unmade. He's Justin's paid-for companion. Not so much rent-boy, as rented boy. The truth is, Ziggy is something of a predatory little fag, he wants to be Justin. He thinks if he hangs around long enough – until Justin's fifteen-minutes goes tits-up, and they all do eventually, he'll be well-positioned to replace him. He'll be the next Prince of Pop. Personally no, I don't thinks so. Whatever indefinable something it takes, Zig doesn't have it. But he can dream. And meanwhile, he's useful.

Presumably they have sex with each other, although I've never seen it. Mostly they just frolic and chase each other naked around the pool, towel-flicking butts, sniggering, or just laid out on the loungers with iPods or playing the latest 'Grand Theft Auto' upgrade. I watched them tossing each other off once. I guess they do more. At least that would make him worth the expense. Sex is only sex. A recreational activity. Justin's a little too puppy-dog clingy. He's got a bit too much of a schoolgirl crush. Hell, when I was younger, I sucked guys just for the thrill of sucking them. Commitment relationship-issues complicate things. Better do without it.

I shrug. This can't go on. I've got to ensure he never steals my heart away. I might never get it back. I go into the suite. Skype through to the studio. 'Hey guys, how's the album going?'

'Fine Samyro... er, Mr Rosenstock. Look at my face – ain't this a smile?' from Shadow, slouched over his fader-array. Snow-white studio tan. Screwed-up eyes and screwed-down hair. A mean motar-scootah and a bad go-gettah. Yeah, king of the jungle-jive. 'How's the princess?' he grins.

'Don't call him that' I laugh back. 'He's touch and go. You gotta respect the artist. Are you ready for him yet?'

'Naw. We've laid down all the base-tracks with guide-vocals. Some tweaks and fine-tuning to do. You can bring him in later to dub the voice on. Or he could even phone it in, no need to travel at all. We can autotune out the fluffs as usual, and do final sequencing and edits. Then get the samples and top-line remixers in. We got a few celebrity guest-vocals and Rap voice-overs on speed-dial. Job's done...'

'Are Rappers still cool?"

He flutters his hand, 'depends on the Rapper. We need one young and hungry. He gets mainstream exposure through Justin. Justin gets cult-credibility through association. I'll network something up. If we go any faster, we'll get a speeding ticket.'

'Do your thing, thunderwing!' I nod.

The best Pop managers have always been Gay, from Brian Epstein, Larry Parnes to Joe Meek, Simon Napier-Bell and on. We know what little girls want, because we want the same. Pretty boys. Hot, too hot to handle, almost. I rescued Justin from a no-future zero-talent Boy-Band. He twirled into my arms, looking terminally cute. And into my bed. We broke him the traditional way, through Social Media fan-sites, YouTube and downloads. The 'Justin' part helps. There were two previous 'Justins' out there, so the name is bonded already. Just modify the logo typography. Thing is, I've been watching all the rubbish wasting my time, and there's a lot of Reality-TV trash emerging to compete with. Justin has just turned nineteen, there are younger Popstrels on the make. This second album is going to be a tipping point for him. It needs an extra push, a bonus ingredient, a magic bullet. He's under pressure. We got the writers round a month since. They spend time talking with him, although in truth talking's not his big scene. That way they personalise the songs around him, so the songs find their voice, to justify his writer's credit. But the song just provides the base-structure they'll assemble the audio-track around. Then the video-shoots are more important than the tracks. Those three-minute all-dancing multi-coloured dreams that really shove product. My creatives will set up conferencing with directors, lighting, design and make-up. Get storyboards drawn-up around some ideas.

'What do you mean about 'touch and go'?' presses Shadow, 'you got problems?'

'You know how it is. He's get identity issues, wants to upfront his sexuality. I don't want an auto-wreck car-crash meltdown on my hands. I can do without Britney or George Michael scenes.' There's some genuine concern there as well as career self-interest. He's a sweet kid.

'So why not let him come out? We're not doing a Liberace here.'

'Don't dis Liberace. Respect is due. You know what it was like back then. Gay was verboten. You go to jail for it. At best it was a career-killer. The public loved him. He sold records by the truck-load and played sell-out capacity concerts. What would he gain from coming out...?'

'We've moved on. It's not like that anymore. Who gives a shit who Elton John or Will Young sleep with? I tell you, no-one gives I shit. Every Boy-Band has a Gay member. It's obligatory. Know what I mean...? For Justin it could help up-switch his demographic, in a good way? Run with it.'

'Sure. Thanks Shadow. I'll get back to you.' I kill the line with a key-stroke. Sit back, squeezing my eyes tight shut. Sit in silence as minutes tick by, full of broken thoughts I cannot repair. All this, all this I got by manipulating tweenage disposable kiddie-cash. This house and pool on the hill, in the valley. The cars. The restaurants, stylish suits, lifestyle. Justin Thyme is the major cash-generator. He's also a sweet boy caught up in a big lie. I got to try to take it easy, put my dick back on a leash. But I see big trouble coming. It's hard to make that change when life turns strange, and this planet is a far far stranger place than I can ever fathom. My sweat leaves fingerprint-sized stains on the table-top.

I stroll back. I need a toot, but I'll settle for a drink. From back here by the bar I can see out through the glass-sliders again. Hear the hissing of summer lawns beneath the cloudless sky. Not a single ripple to slur the surface of the pool, it shimmers around the floating inflatable like a David Hockley print. The green sprays of border-shrubs stay moveless in the still air. The world has inhaled, and is holding its breath.

Where are they? Where are Justin and Zig? At first I can't see them. Then I catch a confusion of limbs on the close-cropped grass verge beyond the pool, beside the loungers. Intertwined bodies. A flesh-coloured blur of naked skin moving together in rhythmic undulations. Justin beneath, sprawled. Ziggy above, fully interlocked mouth-to-cock. Sixty-nine is the sweetest number. He's not considerately on knees and elbows poised above Justin either, with the tasty trinkets suspended so he can lift his head and sample what's there, as and when he chooses. No, Zig's lying his full weight on the body beneath him, his glistening rounded arse moving in liquid ripples, up and down, pumping his hard erection deep into Justin's deliciously receptive throat. Allowing him no escape, not as though escape is something it seems he wants. While Ziggy's head is bobbing enthusiastically between Justin's splayed legs, taking that cute little cockette all the way down to the root.

I ease the glass-slider back and step out onto the patio, my eyes narrowing in the thin dazzle of sunlight. I can hear them now. Their excited breathing, gasps and grunts. The squeak of their moist bodies moving together. I cross the short distance to where they're lying, pull up a lounger to get a better view. Sit there, the sun warm on my skin, and watch. Yes. I sit here thinking, enjoying the show. It's mindboggling. My mind has seldom been so boggled. Few things in life are as enchanting as the close-up spectacle of two lusty boys sixty-nining. Setting up an answering creepy-crawly commotion inside my pants. And they just carry on doing the do, enjoying my voyeuristic participation. Ziggy's legs are wide-splayed over Justin's face, the ascending/descending arc of his tasty buttocks targeted by a clean puckered orifice that I swear is winking at me invitingly, enticingly as the sphincter dilates and flexes with effort. His loose bollocks flop-flopping over Justin's button-nose as he humps up and down. Justin, beneath, breathing hard and fast through widening nostrils, as his lips consume every inch of a cock that's flushed with rising sap. His cheeks inflated, scrunching the perfect lines of his face delightfully out of shape.

For a long moment, his eyes meet mine, and I swear they're smiling. As if to say 'hey, I don't need only you to get my teenage kicks.' Which is fine and dandy by me. Clingy-problem sorted. Even though, just maybe, the little bimbo airhead doesn't realise Ziggy is on the payroll, bought and paid-for, so yes – his sex-life is still dependent on me. Then sense and logic goes all blissed-out squidgy, his eyes close in what looks like ecstasy as Zig's ass gives a determined shudder, and at its deepest downstroke stays lodged. There's a sweaty sex-pulsing slurpy-gulp gulpy-slurp sound as I guess copious spurts of spunk are being devoured. Not that orgasm distracts Zig from his reciprocal sucking in Justin's moist groin. It's not a long journey up and down the length of his stubby cock, although its excited state makes the shiny toy prouder than I've ever seen it, and he's carefully tongue-stroking and teasing around the rim of the faintly blush-violet dick-head at the up-stroke, lapping pearly ooze-drops from the hole, then slithering it in all the way to lick each dainty spit-moist egg in the tight ball-sack at the down-stroke. Justin's squirming hips coming up to meet his welcoming mouth. Then I see Ziggy's adam's apple working overtime too, like some determined swallowing is taking place. Awesome. Totally awesome.

What a video this would make. If only the fans could see this online. And – hey, maybe they can. Perhaps this is the unique selling point that will provide the tipping point for the vital second album, the extra push, the bonus ingredient, the magic bullet. Not this exactly. But the choreographed pool-side Gay coming-out romp. Go for attack mode 'How Dare You Assume I'm NOT Gay?!?' If you're going to do it, make it part of the promo campaign. There could even be an unexpurgated version to tantalise, for specialist sites only, with more nudity. Maybe not full frontal, not without some post-production CGI to enlarge his assets...!