Mike Ellis strikes again!

DISCLAIMER: The story that follows is a work of fiction. Some characters may be based on real people, but this story should not be considered accurate or truthful representations of any actual person connected with the Backstreet Boys or any other person.

WARNING: This story deals with sexual themes. If this offends you, read no further. If accessing this story causes you break any laws applicable in your area, read no further. If you are under 18 years of age, read no further.

FEEDBACK: Send any comments, compliments, or criticisms michaelwashere@netzero.com.

NOTE: This is for those who say I don't appreciate Kevin enough, who believe I can't write a sex scene, for myself who wants to have fun, and for Khiem who inspired the idea. The sex of Kevin's lover is purposely left ambiguous. I want anyone to enjoy this. This is another one-time story: it will not continue.


I heard the familiar sound of the front door key being twisted to get it free of the stubborn deadbolt. A few seconds later I heard his key ring land in the dish of loose change on the hall table.

"Kevin? Is that you?" I asked from upstairs.

"Yeah, hon. It's just me."

"I'll be right down."

I got to the upstairs landing just in time to see him drop a large, thick manilla envelope onto the coffee table and drop himself onto the sofa. A tired sigh escaped his lips, and the strong features of his handsome face looked tired. As I came down the stairs, I said, "Poor baby," and was rewarded with a slight smile. "You look tired."

"I am," he sighed. "You'd think I'd be used to long days after all this time, but they still just wear me out."

Walking behind the sofa, I put my hands onto his strong shoulders and knelt down to put my mouth near his ear. "Awww," I began, interrupting myself just long enough to kiss his cheek, "is my big, stwong Backstweet Boy all tiwed fwom standing in fwont of hot wights and wooking at a mean old camewa?" There, even Shirley Temple couldn't have been more annoying.

He looked at me and grinned. "C'mere, you!" he growled as he turned and grabbed me by the shoulders. His strong arms pulled me off balance, and I fell over the couch landing on my back on the couch, my shoulders in his lap.

"Hmmm, I guess you weren't that tired after all," I laughed.

"I'll show you tired!" he said as he began tickling me. His fingers played along the sides of my rib cage. I squirmed in his lap, and he bent over a bit to help hold me down with the weight of his body. I curled up a little as the tickling went on. When he finally stopped, my knees were bent up near his left shoulder and his face was near enough to mine that I could feel his hot, moist breath on skin of my neck.

I stopped laughing almost immediately and tried to catch my breath. Before I could, his mouth was on mine, hot and wet and strong. His rough beard scratched sensously at my face. His tongue dove into my mouth, searching, exploring. Mine joined his in a turgid dance. The kiss last forever and was over too soon. He pulled his mouth from mine—mine clung to it, sucking at his tongue to keep it from escaping me but losing the battle—and he sat up.

I sat up too. Still on his lap, I could feel his erect cock inside his jeans. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and looked into his green eyes. I hadn't had enough, and he knew it. He'd been away from me all day, and—a passionate as our love-making had been that morning—even a few hours away from him brought on an insatiable hunger in me, a hunger to be with him, to hold him, to have him inside me.

I moved my hands to cup his head and pressed my mouth onto his. Our tongues were slower this time, lingering over and under each other. My hands travelled his beautiful body: his shoulders, this arms, his chest. Everywhere, my fingers caressed, stroked, played with the strong muscles and smooth skin hidden from me by his shirt. I reached for the buttons and began to undress him.

His strong fingers were on my neck as we kissed. When I'd begun to explore him, he'd done the same to me. Up into my hair before returning to my neck, moving down my shoulders to my chest. As I unbuttoned his shirt, his sensitive fingertips stroked my nipples through the thin fabric of my T-shirt, raising them to two tiny erect points. He pinched them, lightly at first—agonizingly lightly—but then increasing the pressure to the point of painful pleasure.

Kevin had been tentative when I'd first told him I liked this. He hadn't wanted to hurt me he said, to cause me any pain. But I'd assured him that I enjoyed the pressure, the friction. Despite his misgivings, he'd done it for me because I'd asked. Now he knew just how to touch me, just the right mixture of pressure and patience to excite me.

His shirt was open now. I threw the two phlanges of fabric back to reveal his hard, flat chest. The sight of his smooth skin stretched tight over his muscles excited me. I grasped his chest in my two hands and leaned in to kiss his sweet mouth again. As I sucked at his tongue, his fingertips pinched my nipples even more tightly. My hands sought out his and returned the favour, pinching them into taut peaks. He groaned a little, and I relaxed the pressure. My mouth left his and roamed over his chin, mouthing his face, tasting his beard, before it returned to give him a shallow kiss on his open mouth. I sucked a breath from him and pressed my lips into his neck.

Another groan. His head leaned away from me to give me more room to play. His fingers left my nipples and wandered under my arms to stroke my back. Reaching my waist, his hands went up under my shirt and danced on my warm skin.

My mouth abandoned his neck for his shoulder, his collarbone, making it's way toward the chest I loved so much. I planted light kisses on the muscles across his chest above his nipples as I shift my weight from his lap until I was on my knees in front of him. Beside me, unseen somewhere, I heard the soft sound of him pushing the coffee table back with his out-stretched leg. I felt the effort in his strong thigh with my left hand.

On my knees now, my neck was craned to keep my mouth on his chest. I licked at the firm crevice between his pectorals. Finally I stopped torturing myself and continued my exploration. My lips reached for his nipple and sucked it in. Fingers again stroked his chest, one hand pleasuring the nipple not between my wet lips. I moved my mouth from the nipple to its twin, my other hand keeping the first nipple from feeling neglected. Somewhere over my head, I heard Kevin give a low moan, felt his head fall backward in relaxation.

I stayed a long time, moving from nipple to nipple—kissing, sucking, nibbling. My fingers danced lightly over his flat stomach, kneaded the obliques. As my mouth moved downward from his chest, my hands sought the buttons on his jeans. The jeans were well worn, the fabric faded and so soft that the buttons came open easily, as if they knew what I had in mind and wanted me to have it, to have him. As I held the denim flaps open, my tongue played in his navel before it licked at the elastic of his boxer shorts.

Kevin raised most of his weight onto his legs and swung his hips forward to the edge of the couch. While his hips were raised, I pulled and brought the fabric down almost to his knees. There in front of me, so close that I touched it with my hot, excited breath, was his thick cock, rising from a dark patch of hair.

My man gasped as I took its base into my right hand, gently but firmly. Holding it out and up, I pressed it lightly against my right cheek, my mouth almost in his hair. I pulled my cheek back up its length. Reaching the top, I turned my face toward it and took the head into my mouth, a warm ripe fruit ready to be devoured by me.. The skin was warm and incredibly smooth. I reached up with my left hand and cupped his testicles as my mouth sucked and licked at his head. Back and forth my tongue moved over the head, under the edge of the glans. Left and right my head tilted, the suction of my loving mouth always changing: sometimes strong, sometimes teasing, always different.

Warm saliva escaped my lips, running down to my right hand, which used the liquid to lubricate its movements up and down on the firm shaft. Faster and faster they moved, rising and falling, rising, falling—always the touch firm but controlled. The fingers of my left hand teased his balls, alternating between working in unison to cup them and moving independently to dance them about.

Kevin moaned again. I felt rather than saw the movements of his body: his arms being raised, fingers running through his dark hair as his head came forward to watch me love him with my mouth. His fingers left his hair and found mine, running through my hair softly, then firmly, then gripping my head as another moan escaped his mouth: this one deeper, wilder, less restrained.

"I'm getting close," he hissed in warning. I didn't stop.

"Are you sure you want to...?"

I paused to look up at him, my mouth not an inch from the wet, glistening head of his cock. He must have felt my breath on it as I said, "yes."

"But we've never...."

"I want to swallow you," I said. "I want you in me this way tonight. I decided this morning, and I've been thinking about it all day." He smiled down at me, his fingers adance in my hair again.

I went back to him. My mouth took in the head, reached for more, met my moving hand and retreated from it. They worked in tandem: my mouth descending on him as my hand rose, then moving away from each other.My left hand worked his balls, once abandoning them just long enough to feel the muscles of his right thigh and quickly returning. It was no longer my hand: they were five fingers working on instinct, going where they wanted, where they knew they needed to go. My control, my reserve, my inhibitions were falling away. I worked him faster, harder, as the lust, the longing, the ancient drive took me. My hand was working hard. My mouthed sucked harder, drawing him out of himself and into me.

"I'm close," he whispered breathlessly. "Close. Coming. I'm coming."

His words brought out a frenzy in me. I sucked harder than I had—no more licking and teasing, just hunger to have him in me, deep inside me. His juices came from him, warm and thick and salty, and I swallowed them down as fast as they came. Over and over, more and more, his cum flowed from him and into my mouth, down my throat. When it stopped, his head was again thrown back, his chest and belly rose and fell with his breathing, barely audible above my own. My tongue went back to work, cleaning him, taking what was left.

Then, drained of the desire, that had led me, I lay my cheek against his leg and regained my breath.

After moments, his hands were on my shoulders and he pulled me up to him. I climbed onto his lap again, my arms around his shoulder. He looked into my eyes with his. "That was incredible," he said warmly.

I nodded. "For me too."

"I want to do something for you now."

I smiled at him. "That can wait. We have all night."

"We have forever," he corrected me.

"For right now, just hold me."

And he did. His right arm was around my shoulders and his left reached around my waist to the small of my back, under my shirt again. I rested my head on his shoulder and pressed my face into his neck. When he leaned back into the couch, I shifted my head and my eyes fell onto the envelope he'd dropped onto the coffee table when he'd come in. A frown of curiosity crossed my face.

Leaving the warm comfort of his arms, I sat up and leaned forward. Grabbing the corner of the envelope between my fingers, I picked it up and sat up holding it. I turned it over: it wasn't sealed and there was no address label, no label of any kind.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Those are the proofs from this mornings shoot," he said. "We did individuals this morning and group shots this afternoon. We won't get to see those proofs until tomorrow."

"Ooo," I squealed, "pictures." Leaning forward—toward his right shoulder—I dumped the 8x10 sheets onto my lap and began to go through them.

There were about a dozen of them all together, all pictures of Kevin: Kevin in a white suit with a dark green shirt and a white tie; Kevin in a tight black T-shirt with silver pants; Kevin in a maroon sweater and jeans in front of an out-of-focus fireplace, sometimes alone and sometimes with a golden retriever.

"Beautiful dog," I said.

"That's Kenny," he said over my shoulder. "He belonged to the photographer. We all posed with him, but he liked me the best."

I turned to him. "All sensible people like you the best," I said and got a kiss as reward.

His kisses continued around my neck as I looked at the photos again. There were lots of poses—standing, sitting, serious, sexy, thoughtful, imposing. But there was always one constant: in everyone Kevin's expression was serious. Even a little stern. I looked through all the large photos and peered into the tiny images on the contact sheets. He didn't smile in any of them.

"Kevin, why don't you ever smile in a picture?"

As answer, he reached up, took my chin in his hand, and turned my face toward his. "Those pictures are for magazines and press releases, the Web site, publicity stills. They're for the fans, every single one of them.

"I love my fans—they made us what we are—but I don't want to share everything with them. They don't get all of me. I'll give them all the pictures they want.

"But my smile is just for you."