Date: Thu, 21 Oct 2010 19:46:54 +0100
From: Some Chap <just_some_chap@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: New Direction For One Direction

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.