by Zack
In everything to please me that you do,
I dream a teenage love that’s true.
Mike sensed the nudge to his ribs and half-turned to see Jim standing close beside him. He seemed entranced by the band, but Mike thought he saw Jim nod purposefully at Jez, who returned a quick quirk of the lips to Jim between refrains. Mike refocused on the stage and a shudder wracked his swaying body as he realized the singer’s eyes were gazing straight at him as he slid athletically off the car hood to the stage.
How’m I to keep you by my side
On a mad roller-coaster ride?
“How old are you, Mike?”
He dragged his eyes off the now hip-swaying singer and met Jim’s coolly amused smile. He told him.
Jim nodded satisfaction. “Perfect. Fancy meeting Jez?”
Mike wasn’t sure he’d heard properly over the music. “Who…?”
Jim tucked in the corner of his lips and rolled his eyes. “Who do you think, bug-a-lugs?” He jerked his head at the stage.
“J–Jez?”
“I told him during the break you’d like to say hello.”
“Uh…”
“You do, doncha?”
When our time is truly come,
That’s when we’ll have some fun.
He had no idea how the show wound up, but suddenly the music and lights stilled. Disco died to be replaced by bland house lighting. Suddenly, the miracle of the shimmering, shimmying, stylish Top Of The Pops studio deflated to a vast, dim space with crisscrossed white straps over gray cinderblock walls. There was a lot of milling as the audience came down from the performance high and began trending toward the reopened airlock double doors. Mike felt his elbow grabbed.
“Follow me.”
The crowd by the exit doors had hardly thinned as Jim forced a way through. Mike allowed himself to be dragged behind by the elbow. A scrum across the other side of the assembly area caught his attention, but Jim shook his head.
“Green room. T. Rex signing autographs.”
They pushed through more swing doors, down a short corridor and right into a windowless hallway that curved away in both directions around the inner ring of Television Centre’s doughnut. Jim pulled up before a doorway with a small card insert on it, which Mike was unable to read as he followed through. On the other side a narrower corridor connected several doors, one open through which he briefly saw the Bay Area Transit’s drummer. Jim stopped at the last door and opened it, leaned in and said, “Here you go, Jez.” He ushered Mike in with a private wink and a whispered warning. “Make the most of it. Only half an hour and they’ll want these dressing rooms emptied.” With a final grin, Jim patted Mike’s bottom and shoved him into the dressing room.
And then Mike was alone with the object of his recent masturbation fantasies.
His first impression, the moment his brain actually began to function, was that Jez looked much shorter in real life than on screen or even up on that stage in the studio. The second was that he was naked other than for a pair of loose boxer shorts. An overpowering smell of something intoxicating filled the small dressing room, fairly crammed with a decent sized sofa and a make-up table with mirror and lights. A small window at head height looked out onto the inside of the central ring. The windows opposite were golden with low sunlight until they met the sharp angle of shadow coming diagonally down one side.
“D’ye smoke?”
Mike shuddered inwardly at the growly tenor voice with its Scottish overtone that he knew so well. And yet it sounded different, quietly thrown out here. He mumbled a no. “I mean yes, that is, ciggies. I never tried that stuff.” He faltered, worried that he might be accusing Jez of something he shouldn’t. Close up, the star looked younger than his published twenty years, but there was something that felt older, almost jaded, in the eyes.
Jez sniffed and wafted the smoke from the joint he held between two fingers. He put it to his lips and drew in a lungful, held it, and then released it slowly, holding the joint out to Mike. “I’s good stuff, ye ken. Try it. Get you warmed up.”
Mike took an uncertain step forward, trying to appear cool, unconcerned, and unworried at wondering why he needed warming up. As he did, Jez pulled his hand back, forcing Mike to take a second step, closer in. Jez lifted the spliff up and, neatly reversing it between his fingers, pushed it against Mike’s lips. He parted them and took a careful toke. It was heady stuff, but not as big a shock as he got when Jez cupped a hand around his balls and gently squeezed them and then fingered the shape of his cock through the check pants. Mike huffed out the smoke in a small explosion and snatched a surprised breath.
With his free hand Jez recaptured the joint, smiled lazily and took another deep drag. He swayed back and turned to discard the soggy stub in an ashtray. Then he closed in predatorily and brought both arms around Mike’s neck. Mike found himself pulled into a hug and his lips smothered by the young star’s mouth. Jez blew gently and exhaled marijuana smoke. Mike swallowed and coughed, intensely aware of the naked chest pushed firmly against him and an insistent hardness in Jez’s shorts. He felt dizzy, rushed, intensely aroused, and frightened at the same time. This was all going so fast. The thought that Jez actually wanted sex with him left Mike dazed and tottering mentally.
“Isn’t this what ye wanted? That wee laddie brought you, told me you were sizing me up all the way through the recording.” He ground his hips against Mike. “I thought youse looked a bonny lad all reet.”
Mike’s knees buckled when their backs encountered the sofa. In a second, Jez had him laid out, and he raised his arms almost mechanically as the Ramones 75 Crew came up over his head. The gasp was one of genuine surprise and uncertain delight as sharp teeth closed meanly over his left nipple and a tumble of dirty-blond, artfully curled hair fell against his chin and tickled his shoulder blades. He was only dimly aware of the fumbling with his belt and trousers.
“God, but ye’re a sexy fuckin’ cunt,” Jez breathed. He used little ceremony in tugging Mike’s pants and briefs over his butt and then dragging them down to his ankles, where the clothing piled up against the trap of Doc Martens. Nothing at school had prepared him for this assault. How could it have done? His excitement matched his terror. Fear of how to perform, what to do, what would happen. What did Jez want? My God, he’s got the number one chart record. Fuck! But it seemed Jez knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t going to hang about in getting it. His own shorts, with a one-inch band of bright red-and-black tartan on the hems, hit the carpeted floor, and his mary-jane exhaling mouth grabbed Mike’s stiff cock in a fury of sucking. Mike bucked up off the sofa and drove himself hard into the rock star’s mouth. He was unsure how far to go, but then slid the fingers of both hands deep into the surprisingly wiry mane of bleached-blond hair with its tawny roots and grabbed the back of Jez’s head, urging him to harder sucking.
Jez must have been mindful of Jim’s warning on the time limit. He sucked Mike for a minute and then reared up to plant his knees either side of Mike’s chest, which pinned him down in the yielding embrace of the BBC sofa. Mike stared in fascination and some dread at the large, waving Scottish cock. It jutted out from a rough of pubic hair ( Christ, he dyes that as well! ), rock hard with a pulsing vein slaloming down the underside of the shaft, the foreskin retracted to show off a bulging pink head, shiny and ready for some hot action. Jez shuffled forward and Mike sighed. He lifted his head a nudge, just enough to engulf what he’d dreamed about for so long.
Unbelievable! All of it. He reasoned this could not be really happening. Mike Smith, on his back, gorging on his dream-boat pop star. But he only managed a dozen mouth strokes before Jez moved back to kneel between Mike’s thighs and forced them apart. Then he took Mike under the knees. In a trice he had them raised up and bent back so far that Mike could see his face reflected in the shiny toe caps of his boots, his wavering legs bondaged by his own trousers and stretched briefs, and his dangling belt buckle in danger of taking out his eyes. This alarming development
left Mike unsure what to expect. But what happened next had never entered his young mind as a possibility. Jez bent down, dipped his head between the back of Mike’s thighs and Mike felt all that hair brushing the sensitive skin and then… and then… and… oh God! He couldn’t be. Not possible! And yet the feeling he was getting couldn’t be denied. It was a wet tongue stroking up and down his crack, pushing and probing a place of his body he’d never dreamed could be so touched. Initial self-revulsion collapsed in the extraordinary wonder of the sensation of Jez’s tongue swirling wetly at his hole. And then something firmer, a finger, worming in, stretching. Jez raised his head, his face wreathed in a triumphant smile and something else. A burning lust which seemed to twitch at the corners of his parted lips and fire up behind his eyes.
“Och, laddie, ye’re really ripe for it, hey?”
Such grown up sounding words, but Jez was really no more than a boy. Mike had never been so humiliated before, but the position he was in also made him feel deliciously slutty and at the mercy of this bigger boy. He thought he now knew what a mad-crazed groupie slag must feel like. Jez leaned back, gobbed a copious dollop of saliva on his fingers, and then inserted what felt like a fistful. Mike writhed and groaned and tried to pull away from the pressure. “Just relax. It’s ma dick I’ll be sticking in you next, an’ I promise that’ll feel better than fingers.”
Mike’s protest was still-born as Jez knelt up and, taking hold of himself around the base, efficiently pushed the head of his cock against Mike’s hole, and then, incredibly, eased it in. His free hand pressed Mike’s right leg back down against his chest, so he was now bent almost double. The sensation of a hard cock pulsing inside him was unique, uncomfortable, amazing, horrifying—in fact he had no fucking clue what to feel. It hurt but even as he gasped at the pain, he relaxed the ring of muscle and sensed Jez push all the way in with a happy grunt. But as he pulled the length back out, Mike thought he was about to take a dump and panicked. Jez paused and pushed in again and the fear receded as rapidly as it had reared up. Mike gasped. Then it began, in and out, a vigorous fucking accompanied by the regular slapping of upper thighs against bared buttocks.
Mike started violently at the loud knocking on the door and a mumbled Scottish imprecation.
Jez reared up and spat out an answer without once losing his rhythm. Mike was beginning to wish it would just end. He felt sore, and yet knew himself to be painfully erect. “I’ll be out in five,” Jez yelled out breathlessly. He glared down at Mike. “Och, but ye’re a beautiful screw, that y’are.
“When our time is truly come… ”
The breathy words almost made the tune, but Jez was far too sexed up to really sing.
“That’s when we’ll have some fun… Oh, shit. An’ I’m a-cummin. Gonna fill youse up.” Mike watched through slitted eyes as Jez’s irises rolled up, his nostrils flared, and his mouth drew a rictus of pleasure-pain so he looked like a debauched Bacchus on the precipice of revelation. “Oh, God,” he ground out through suddenly clenched teeth, and Mike felt a hot flood deep inside. Jez changed rhythm, slowed and yet heaved with his hips. He pushed his right hand roughly down between Mike’s pressed thighs, reached down and grasped his cock and jerked it to full hardness. Mike simply let go all thought, flung his head back into the depths of the dusty sofa sucking at his body, and began to shoot his spunk into those clever guitarist’s fingers.
For a while, he blinked out and only dragged himself back to reality when Jez got off him and his legs fell stickily and unceremoniously back to the sofa. He felt suddenly chilled. Goosebumps broke out on his bare legs and arms. He slid his Doc Martened feet down to the floor and they shook and shuddered as though he’d run for miles. He shuffled forward enough to raise the crumpled underwear and pants up ( Thank God it’s polyester, doesn’t crease. )
Jez was already halfway dressed in a fashionable looking ensemble. Bay Area Transit was evidently a rapid system—wham bam, thank you ma’am. Mike felt ruddy sore in the backside, and unpleasantly damp. Just then, even elite spunk like a pop star’s didn’t feel too good. He stood unsteadily and zipped up.
“Here! Ye’ll be needing this.” Jez held up Mike’s tee-shirt between both hands so he could see the design. “Ramones, no less. Doon’t ye want the ‘Been Done Up The Khyber By Jez McGowran’ shirt?” He laughed as Mike pulled the shirt on. “D’ye have a name?”
Mike blinked as his head emerged from the tee-shirt neck. “Mike Smith.”
Jez snorted. “Now there’s a name to conjure with. Bluidy guid fuck, though. Now ye’d best scarper before that wee laddie Jim comes an’ throws us all out.”
Mike nodded and turned for the door. As he touched the handle, he turned back. “Did you fix it with him?”
Jez looked up from packing a trendy looking holdall with his stage clothes. “Wrong way. He fixed if for me. With luck we’ll still be top o’ the chart next week, like last week. Jim’ll fix it for me again, like last week, an’ the week before when we was on the rise.” He sniffed dismissively. “If there ain’t a likely laddie like you around, Michael Smith, Jim knows he’ll have to fill in. Don’t seem to mind, though. At least, he never complained when we was number one in April.”
Fuck but that did hurt. Mike shivered, even though the evening remained warm. Some large piled-up cloud had come in while he was in the studio and then getting buggered up the bum by… Okay. He smiled anyway. Sore but, well… It was the surprise more than any real pain. The clouds were keeping the late July heat in, and he thought it could come on to thunder before the light faded away. A while off yet. In spite of everything that had happened, the clock over the security block as he passed out onto Wood Lane showed it was only 20:45. He had expected to see Jim Attridge again, but the floor assistant must have had somewhere else to be, which Mike regretted. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to thank him or punch his lights out for dropping him in it like that.
As he waited for a train at White City he mulled over what he had just experienced. No one at school had ever mentioned, perhaps even thought of, such a thing. They wanked and one or two even sucked (though never all the way like he sometimes did Eric, if he was in the mood to), but that thing of sticking his cock up him, no one had prepared him for that. Bloody hell. I’ve been fucked! What guys were supposed to do to girls, only at the front end. And it hurt. Although the more he thought about it, the more he realized it was the humiliation that really hurt the most. Pinned down, legs waving, all trapped by his own clothing. Not good.
The rails started to hum and a minute later an Epping train pulled in; almost empty. The doors slid open and unthinkingly Mike went and sat down on a side seat, and— “Ow!” He shifted his weight onto one butt cheek and cursed quietly, but with a rueful smile. Never again was he going to be put through that. Not even for a rocking hot rock star. He would still jack off to the image of Jez McGowran, even more ardently now that he actually knew the star’s secret (the rumor-mill, then, had been accurate, for once) but he didn’t want to be fucked again. As the tube train gathered speed, his fragile good mood slipped away and a degree of anger replaced it. The humiliation. He couldn’t get over the way Jez had hoisted his legs up in the air like he was some sort of doll. Is it always like that, then?
Nope, no more Mike Smith getting fucked.
Wouldn’t mind doing it, though…
CHAPTER FOUR
In All Good Sex Shops
In a slack moment, Mike indulged his fantasies by removing the brand new Bolex H-16 EL from the window display. He set it on the edge of the glass-topped counter (“to be thoroughly dusted, wiped, and polished until it gleams like a new pin twice a day”) and ran a finger lightly over its gleaming black and chrome body. “Electric motor and built-in light meter, 25 to 1600 A.S.A.,” he murmured as though convincing a potential buyer. “With one hundred- or four hundred-foot capacity using the optional magazine.” He caressed the camera body lovingly. “Film speeds of 10, 18, 24, 25, and 50 frames per second, with 24 and 25 f.p.s. sync-st
abilized for sound. Comes with the Vario Swittar 16 to 100 zoom lens, Ni-Cad battery and charger for…” He glanced up at the beaming imaginary customer. “A snip at seven hundred and twenty five pounds.”
Well, at that rate he might be able to afford one in forty years, and by then inflation would probably have driven its price up tenfold and make it still beyond his reach. The fantasy customer seemed to agree, because he was gone in a flash.
“You’re not daydreaming again! Please, Mr. Smith, replace the Bolex in the display.”
Daniel Jude was not a bad boss as they went, Mike supposed. He’d done the pre-Christmas sign-on for Camden Borough’s Royal Mail sorting office once before and hated it, so his experience of bosses wasn’t very developed. A slightly stooped thin man in his thirties, with fine hair prematurely receding at the top of his tall forehead, Daniel was a walking encyclopedia of all matters photographic. To be honest, a bore, but at least he was the sort to make the mid-morning coffee himself occasionally if Mike was busy with a real customer.
“If you’ve nothing better to do, you might go back and unpack the Agfa film stocks that came in this morning.”
“Yes, Mr. Jude.”
But at that moment the door bell jangled and two customers entered the small shop, letting in the rush of Baker Street traffic and a wash of exhaust fumes from vehicles stacking up at the Marylebone Road traffic lights a few yards to the shop’s left. Daniel raised welcoming eyebrows at one and Mike did the same for the other. And then lifted them even higher.
“Jim!” He dropped the level of his voice. “Good morning.” He glanced sideways, but Daniel was already well engaged in a discussion about the merits of c-mount lenses.