by Cody

"So, is he meeting us here or..." big blue eyes so young and still wanting to trust, still mostly-believing that people are good and wouldn't harm him on purpose.

You put a finger against the boy's mouth, silencing him. You don't want to hear it. Not because it would make you stop or feel guilty, but because you don't like to let them say it out loud; like rather to make them hold it in. "You want to meet him, right?" Your voice low, dark. The boy nods. "Well, what do you expect? Nothing's free." You thread your fingers into the boy's dark hair, yank. "You scratch my itch, I'll scratch yours."

You unfasten your pants and pull yourself out, bump the head against the boy's lips, paint them wet with your precome. It's so delicious to look into the blue of his eyes and tug his brown hair and feel the trembling of his mouth as it opens for you. To watch the boy's eyes squeeze shut tight and know who he's pretending you are. You moan, not because he's good, because he isn't. This is probably the first time he's ever done this and it shows. But you moan and you tell him, "Suck it, you little whore," so he has to hear your voice, so he can't escape into his fantasies.

After you've glutted your gaze on the slide of your cock between swollen pink lips, you push him away and he sits back, expression awful. You jack yourself off quickly, watch wide horrified blue eyes watching you, see how they fill with tears when your come splatters across his forehead, drips down the bridge of his nose. It's so, so sick and beautiful.

You fix your pants, smooth your shirt and bend down close to sneer, "What would Justin want with a slut like you?" and spit on his dirty face.

You walk to the door and hold the knob, but wait until you hear the first sob before you go.


"You guys were such dorks," Joey was laughing at Justin. "Right, Lance?"

"Huh?" you say. You hadn't been listening, had been watching JC, who'd managed to fall asleep sitting up. He's leaning against Justin, drooling on his arm. What you couldn't take your eyes off of was his hand that had fallen into Justin's lap, into the intimate V of Justin's thighs. And Justin was talking to Joey as though he didn't notice, didn't mind.

"Last night," Joey reminded you, and you realized what he was talking about: the few minutes of a MMC marathon on Disney you'd mocked with him, when he'd turned on the TV while waiting for you to finish doing your hair before y'all hit the clubs.

"God, you guys were so young," you say. "JC was what, fifteen?"

"Seventeen, when I started," Justin says.

And you say, "Close enough."


You have them in the hotel room along with three girls. You don't remember any of their names, but they're all young, and there's the boy with honey curls and the boy with brown waves and they're probably straight and you'd bet money they'd never done these things before.

Drank this much. Smoked such good primo.

You guide the boys to the bed and the girls to the door. "Go back to the beach. I'll meet you there," you tell the girls, and they're too wasted to ask questions. You look over at the bed.

They're ready to go, so out of it; their bodies hungry for a human touch and the girls weren't shy, had been touching them and each other freely. Now the blonde boy's arm flops out, hits the brunette's abdomen, stays there.

"Go ahead," you urge, coming closer but not too close. You only want to watch. "Touch him."

The blonde looks at you dazedly, then slides his hand under the other boy's shirt. You tell them, "Kiss," and they roll towards each other and kiss, softly at first, and then with open mouths, tongues.

No more prompting is needed. They kiss and undress, grabbing at each other's clothes and tugging, and it takes them some time to work each article off and there are moments when you get impatient, want to go and help just to speed things up, but don't. You sit on your hands in an armchair you've pulled up, your mouth watering with anticipation.

They lick and grope, so fumbling and ungraceful, and your hips rise as you watch; you can't stop your hands from kneading your own crotch. One of them moans and it sounds so young, and you bite back the noises you want to make, because this is a scene and you are not a part of it.

The blonde is on top of the brunette now, just a tangle of bare skin and they're arching into each other, rubbing hard and urgent. The brunette is digging his fingers into the blonde's sides, gripping until the flesh is red and white under the pressure and crying out wordless pleas, warnings, something that means now and then he's coming, his legs wrapping tight around the blonde before going slack, falling wide apart. The blonde is still grinding against him, eyes locked on the brunette's face, and the brunette reaches down, takes him into his hand and squeezes and the blonde, who had leaned down to kiss the other boy's neck, bites it instead and comes.

And you.

You're so hard you think you might bust your pants. You watch them collapse in a pile of spent flesh, sit there with your pulse pounding at your temples until they fall asleep.

Then you kneel beside them on the bed and jerk off, aim so it hits them both when you come on their legs.

It's late and you've got a room in a much nicer hotel waiting for you. There's no need to savor this view, because it's one you've seen many times before and will see many times again.

You leave some money on the bed so they can get breakfast in the morning and maybe a taxi back home to their parents. Make sure to leave enough for separate taxis incase they don't live on the same side of town or can't face each other. Maybe they won't need taxis at all; you have no idea how they got to South Beach last night. You're just not sure they're old enough to drive.


Chris, Justin and JC arrive back at the hotel at the same time as you. Chris has a girl with him but you don't look at her. "You're back?" Chris asks, surprised. "Alone?"

"Yhea," you shrug. "I'm tired."

"You left the club with a bunch of girls," Justin says. "Where'd you take them?"

"To the beach," you say, and vaguely hear Chris calling goodnight as he and his girl go in his room.

Justin unlocks the door to his room, opens it, and JC goes right in. You stand there instead of heading to your own door, and it sounds forced when Justin offers, "You wanna hang out with us?"

You look in at JC, who is staring at you blankly. You wait for his, "Yhea, come on, man," but he stays silent.

You shake your head, weak fleeting smile. "I'm gonna go to bed."

"Us too, pretty soon," Justin says, yawning for effect, but his eyes are bright and he doesn't look at all sleepy.

You go to your room and lay in your bed and think of how crowded it is by ghosts that have never existed.


Glitter sprayed into his curls and tears running down his cheeks in two steady streams. He's looking at you like he thinks you might be Satan, and you want to tell him how sometimes you wonder, too. Want to tell him that in a way that'll scare him worse, make him shake with fear.

You just sucked the devil's cock, baby. Did it taste like sin?

But instead you slap him. Hard. His head whips to the side with the force of it and his hand comes up to his cheek in disbelief.

"You filthy creature," you tell him. "Do you really think JC would ever want to touch you? You're disgusting."

And you leave him crying on his knees in the dark.


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