Date: Mon, 22 Dec 2014 13:17:20 -0800
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Meeting Josh Harkness

Disclaimer: the usual. Sex with men and boys. Well, a man and an 11 year
old boy. Leave if you want or need to, stay and read if you like.

A humble request: for more than a decade now I've written stories for the
Nifty archive. As with all of the authors here I've never recieved a penny
for my work. Given the countless thousands of words I have penned, I don't
think it unreasonable to ask for something in return. Please, if you are
able to do so, donate to Nifty to keep it up and running, so you can keep
enjoying stories like the one below. Thank you.

If you want to get in touch: zackmcnaught@hotmail.com

Now, on with the show!


Meeting Josh Harkness

A few years ago I somehow became entangled in the world of celebrity,
without having any particular wish to be. Oh yes, I know, there are plenty
of people who would jump at the chance to be around the rich and famous,
and perhaps become just a little popular themselves, but for me it's always
seemed like a very bad idea. I think that has a lot to do with being a
boylover - any discovery of my proclivities would be disastrous as it is,
but doubly so if I were, for any reason, in the public eye. Not that there
aren't certain perks to being famous...

At the time of this little episode, I was working as a script adviser on a
popular family sitcom, which had a habit of bringing in one guest star each
week. These guests were brought in from all over the world of popular
celebrity - film, pop and sports stars were all popular additions to the
cast. It was all fairly hollow and not exactly high quality work, but it
was an easy gig, and my friend who recommended me for it got reflected
glory, because it turned out I wasn't at all bad at the occasional (albeit
very dry) moment of wit. I know, it doesn't show in my stories, does it?

One of my duties was writing lines for the incoming guest stars. They
somehow had to be woven into the script, and then it was my job to work
with said celebrity to ready them for their moment in the comedy
spotlight. Which explains why I was so often found in the green room at the
studios, sitting and waiting for the week's star to turn up and be coached
through their part. Some of them were better than others - I always gave a
slight cheer when I found out the special guest was an actor or comedian,
because then half the work was done for me. Performers were usually not too
bad, unless they were the kind of vacuous pop starlet chosen for their look
or voice rather than their personality. And of course, as you would expect,
the sports stars were comfortably the most inept, but unsurprisingly the
most fun to work with.

Some of my happiest memories come from my time on that show. The very
happiest of all of them began on an otherwise uneventful Thursday
afternoon. It was four hours before filming was due to start - even the
most ardent fans still weren't waiting outside in the freezing cold to
claim their place in the audience. We gave filming tickets away free, but
there were always a few rows of seats reserved for those willing to queue
up on the day. But at this point, with the weather increasingly inclement
and snow threatened for the evening, I had no crowds to fight my way
through to get into the studio. I nodded to John on security, who waved me
through without bothering to check my credentials, and felt the heat of the
place wash over me, instantly misting my glasses.

By the time they had unfogged, I was face to face with a rather sharp suit,
into which had been poured the most astonishing women, into whom it
appeared had been poured an equally impressive quantity of alcohol for two
o'clock on a Thursday afternoon.

"'scuse me," she slurred, rocking back and forth, her eyes trying
desperately to focus on my face. "D'you know where we're meant to be?"

She waved a hand around, and for the first time I noticed a boy to her
left, leaning against the wall with an expression somewhere between
mortified embarrassment and hatred. He had a guitar case next to him, which
leaned against the wall in much the same attitude as he did. It struck me
straight away who he was - after all, I had been waiting all week for this
moment, the moment when I got to meet Josh Harkness, the British answer to
Justin Beiber, or something like that. All of eleven years old, Josh was a
bit of a sensation already. He didn't pen his own stuff, but he could play
the guitar and sing like an angel, and it was fairly apparent he was a
talented little guy. Talented in another way, too - he was absolutely, drop
dead gorgeous. Milky white skin, messy blonde hair, deep, deep blue eyes,
and a perfectly proportioned face - a little button nose, pouting red lips
and flawless skin. It's fair to say he had already invaded a couple of my
fantasies, and meeting him in real life was hardly a disappointment. I
nodded to him, and he gave me a vague, half smile and raised a hand,
stopping short of an actual wave.

"Mrs Harkness?" I inquired of the woman, assuming it was the boy's mother
who had accompanied him.

"That'sh right," she replied. "This is the famous Josh Harkness," she
continued, pointing needlessly to her son. There was more than a hint of
bitterness in her voice. "He's meant to be on some program or something
here today, but no-one seems to know where we're meant to be. Fucking
idiots."

I assumed the last was meant to be said under her breath, but she failed
magnificently to conceal her words, breathing them into my face. At least
that confirmed one thing - she had been drinking so much that her breath
came close to giving me a free chemical peel.

"Well, I work on the show. Why don't you come with me?"

The woman nodded, and I heard Josh utter 'finally'. He picked up his
guitar, and he and his mother followed me down the rabbit warren of
corridors to the dressing rooms, one of which had already been set aside
for Josh to use. I showed them into the room, then told them I would find
one of the producers, or at least a runner who could tell them what to
do. Chaperoning wasn't really my job, although I had to admit I would've
made an exception for Josh...

It was half an hour later when I returned to the room. I knocked on the
door, expecting to hear Mrs Harkness' gravely voice within, but was instead
greeted with Josh's high-pitched, melodic answer.

"Come in!" he called, and I did exactly as requested, pushing through the
door and letting it close automatically behind me. I scanned the room
quickly, and could see no sign of the boy's mother. She didn't appear to be
in the little en-suite, either. I raised an eyebrow at Josh, and he
cottoned on immediately.

"Mum's gone out for a while," he said. "My agent got here, and they went
off to..."

He stopped and gave me a little lopsided grin, then raised both his hands,
making a ring with thumb and forefinger of one, and poking through the
index finger of the other in an instantly-recognisable gesture.

"Oh!" I replied, genuinely shocked by his candour. He shrugged.

"Yeah, well, at least someone is getting some, eh?" he said with a laugh. I
laughed, too, but it was a reflex action. I hadn't expected this from
him. What had I expected, though? Eleven year old boys are a lot more
worldly wise than I was at the same age, and those in the entertainment
industry more so than others. Josh had obviously had a lot of growing up to
do in the last few months.

"Well, if you need I can organise a girl to come in here and sort you
out. There are all sorts of privileges of being famous, you know."

It was his turn to shock, then he cottoned on and burst out laughing.

"Yeah, OK," he said, still giggling. "Maybe afterwards. We could get you
one, too."

"Sure, that would be good. But first, we need to make sure you know your
lines. Did they get sent through earlier in the week?"

---

It turned out that Josh knew his lines very well, and could even act a
little. I gave him a few pointers I'd picked up while working on the show,
and then a little while later one of the regular actors turned up so they
could practice the scene they'd be doing together. I left them together and
wandered out to a last minute script meeting just as his mother, apparently
more sober but no less astonishing in appearance, re-entered the room. She
gave me a warm but vacant smile, and passed by in a cloud of alcohol
vapour.

Just as the door was closing behind me I happened to glance back into the
room, and found myself making eye contact with Josh. He stared at me a
moment longer, then looked quickly away. I couldn't quite work out what was
in that stare, but by the end of the evening I would know.

---

Filming went well enough. There was a small, live re-write when a scene
really didn't gel, but the audience were in good spirits and didn't seem to
mind the delay. We finished slightly ahead of schedule, and though normally
we would try to squeeze two recordings into one night, this was the last in
the series and therefore stood alone. Of course, the series wrapping up
meant a bit of a party, and Mrs Harkness' eyes lit up when one of the
producers mentioned the stash of alcohol the production company had
provided. Someone - it might well have been me - raised the question of
what Josh would do, and whether perhaps he needed to be getting home, but
his mother dismissed the concern with a wave of her hand.

"He can fall asleep on the sofa in the dressing room or something. The car
can wait for us. I pay him well enough."

And that, apparently, was that. The party got into full swing, and for a
while I was distracted by the merry making all around.

---

An hour or so later I was a little bit tipsy, and feeling a little out of
my depth. Most of my colleagues were well used to the lifestyle, but when I
walked in on a couple of executives being an utter cliche and snorting
lines of coke, I began to wonder if this really was the right place for
me. The work was great, but the people weren't all to my liking.

I absently wandered through a door, thinking it was the room where I'd left
my coat and bag. I intended to get the hell out of there, and get home
while the going was good; perhaps, I reasoned, I might even be able to get
a few more hours' nocturnal writing done.

But it wasn't the right room at all - it was Josh's changing room, and
there he was on the sofa with the TV on, watching the football. He glanced
up at me and grinned.

"Looks like you found something to stop you getting bored," I said, hoping
that I sounded a lot more sober than I felt. Something about being in the
room with him made me even more lightheaded.

"It's 'cause you never got me that prostitute," he shot back, quick as you
like. Witty kid.

"It's still not too late, mate. I can get you one of the lovely local
ladies. Or a lad if you'd prefer."

It was only meant to be a joke, but I obviously hit a nerve.

"Piss off. I'm not a poof like you," he growled at me, the smile
disappearing from his face.

I stood there utterly abashed, not even bothering to wonder how he knew I
was gay. Shit, hardly anyone knew that, but obviously he did, and how he
had come to that conclusion hardly mattered, really.

"So, come on then, gay boy," he said suddenly, his voice light again. "Sit
down and watch a bunch of men running around. Bet it gets you all horny,
doesn't it?"

"You wish," I said, plonking myself down on the sofa next to him,
delighting in throwing him off balance a little, so that he bounced into
the side of me before he could right himself. "Not exactly my type."

"Is that 'cause you like little boys instead?" he asked, his words edged
with laughter.

"Got it in one!" I said, hoping to disguise the fact that it was the truth
by simply being blatant.

"Fucking pedo," he muttered, then turned his attention back to the
television. He was smiling, though.

We sat in almost silence for a while, other than the odd exclamation of joy
or anger at the way the game was unfolding. I was genuinely interested in
the football, as it happened, and had decided to content myself with
sitting next to Josh, nothing more. But then he broke the silence, once
more pushing the boundaries of acceptable banter from a little boy.

"Bet you want to suck it, don't you?" he asked, slyly.

"Suck what?" I said, playing stupid.

"My dick, idiot," he shot back, grabbing his crotch through his jeans for
effect. It didn't look like much of a handful, but that suited me just
fine.

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, convinced that he was trying to trap
me.

"Doesn't look like there's enough to bother with," I replied airily, not
letting my eyes stray from the screen.

"Yeah, right. I bet you like it that way. I bet thinking about my little
hard dick makes you all horny."

Jesus, what was this kid playing at? If he wanted to get himself raped, he
was going the right way about it! I wouldn't do anything against his will,
but I've met plenty of guys with fewer scruples than I have over the years,
guys who would pin him down and fuck him for being so provocative.

"Let's just leave it, OK?" I said. "It's unkind to take the piss out of
someone for their sexual orientation, you know."

He looked abashed, and blushed beautifully.

"Sorry," he muttered, and sounded every bit of it. "I was only having fun."

"Yeah, well, let's just watch the game, OK?"

We did just that, for a while. But Josh became fidgety, and more than once
I saw him out of the corner of my eye grabbing at his crotch. Under the
cover of darkness I risked a proper look his way, and was surprised to find
that in the light from the TV I could see a little lump in his jeans. OK,
he wasn't going to poke anyone's eye out just by standing up, but it was
certainly visible, sitting to the left.

"Need some alone time?" I asked, teasingly. I hadn't intended to provoke
him, it just sort of tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it. The
effect of the alcohol, no doubt.

He spun his head to face me, and opened his mouth to fire back a retort,
but nothing came out. He gave me a strange look, as if trying to work
something out, but said nothing and closed his mouth once more. He turned
back to the TV, and I sat there feeling like an utter dick.

"Can I ask something?" he said a few minutes later, in a very small voice.

"Sure, mate. What is it?"

"It's kind of personal."

"Right, well ask anyway, and if I don't want to answer I won't."

"Um... OK. Do you... are you really... you know."

"What? Gay?"

"Um, no. Well, yeah, but like... a pedo."

I stared straight into his eyes. He didn't look poised to run, which meant
whatever the answer, he was prepared to accept it. But he was nervous.

"Josh, I happen to find young boys like you very attractive. I don't go
round attacking them or anything. Don't worry, I won't make you do anything
with me. And I'd appreciate you not telling anyone."

"Oh God, no! No, I won't tell, I promise," he blurted out. "It's just..."

"Go on."

"Well, let's say I wanted to find out what it was like if someone sucked my
dick."

I was surprised. Actually, that's a bit of an understatement. Gobsmacked is
probably a better description. You might have been able to see that coming,
but I sure as hell hadn't. It was pretty clear what he was about to ask me
to do.

"You want me to suck your dick? You think that just because you're some
incredibly attractive boy who's just the right age for me that I'm just
going to walk over to the door and lock it, then come back over here, kneel
between your knees and suck your dick until you have an orgasm?"

As I'd spoken, his initial terror at my tone of voice had turned into
amusement, as it became ever clearer that I was winding him up.

"Yep," he said, beginning to unbutton the fly of his jeans. "Because you
want this."

As he said 'this', he raised his hips off the sofa, and in one fluid
movement pushed his jeans and pants down to mid-thigh.

"Jesus Christ!" I breathed, as out sprung the most gorgeous little uncut
willy I'd ever imagined possible. I raced to the door and flicked the lock
shut, not caring what anyone might think, and then bounded back to the sofa
and knelt down in front of him, pulling off his trainers and easing the
jeans and underwear off his feet.

I then had time to examine the marvel before my eyes. He wasn't especially
big, or chubby down there. About three inches, fairly typical for a boy his
age, or so I had read. His foreskin was long enough that even quiveringly
hard as he was it bunched over the end. It was sheathed in the palest skin,
with a pink scar running down its underside and across his balls. They were
just beginning to grow, slightly plumper than they might have been a few
months before, and in a sack perhaps a little darker in tone these past
weeks. There was not a hair in sight on his crotch, if you discounted the
faintest peach fuzz which he'd probably sported for years.

I took it in hand, and grinned as he jumped at the contact.

"Ever had anyone else touch it like this?" I asked, and he shook his head
emphatically. There was more than a hint of first time nerves in his eyes,
but now we'd started I wasn't going to stop unless he asked me.

I gently wanked him a little, enjoying the feel of the soft, silky-smooth
unblemished skin of his boyhood gliding effortlessly back and forth over
the steel hardness beneath. The little ridge which marked the flare of his
glans was a particularly lovely spot to caress. My God he was hard, so hard
that when I released his spike it vibrated.

Then, because preteen boys don't want exquisite teasing and just want to
cum instead, I leaned forward and with no ceremony at all engulfed it right
to the base. I hollowed my cheeks and stroked back up with my lips, and
gloried in the sight of him clenching his eyes shut as the pleasure
overwhelmed him. His hips came up, trying to fuck his willy into my mouth
once more, but I pressed them down with my hands, and with suction still
applied I began to bob rapidly up and down on his quivering spike.

I wish I could have made it last longer, but even with alcohol clouding my
judgement I knew this had to be quick; we wouldn't be left alone forever. I
reached up a hand and pulled down on the skin of his shaft, exposing the
smooth bulb of his glans to my tongue, then applied my strongest suction to
just the cherry tip, flicking the tip of my tongue back and forth across
it.

It had the desired effect. His eyes clamped tightly shut, his mouth dropped
open, and panting and writhing beneath me in pained pleasure he ejaculated
a spray of salty droplets into the roof of my mouth. I released him,
watching another, much smaller jet splatter out in a wide arc as his
boyhood sprang upright and pulsed once more, then took him back into my
mouth to nurse him through the aftershocks.

He lay panting, his t-shirt mottled with sweat and a few precious droplets
of his boyish essence. I let his still-throbbing shaft slip from my lips,
re-sheathing it with his foreskin as I went, enjoying the sensation of one
final little spurt squeezed from his shaft.

"Good?" I asked, and he nodded, gazing at me through hooded eyelids,
apparently ready to fall asleep.

Then, he grinned, and sat bolt upright, making no move to put his pants and
trousers back on.

"Stand up!" he ordered, his voice a curiously mirthful.

I obeyed, and then marveled, as with a practised air he undid my belt and
the fly of my jeans and pushed both to the ground. He grinned as my dick
bobbed in the air in front of him. Standing up next to me, with his still
half-hard little willy poking out from beneath his t-shirt, he took me in
his hand and began to wank me.

I was already worked up from having sucked him off, and now I was
experiencing the hand of a boy on my manhood for the first time ever. I
came all too quickly, splattering my much thicker load all over the sofa
and the carpet below. He milked the last few droplets of of my penis and
shook them onto the floor. Lightheaded, I leaned on his shoulders for
support, and he snaked both arms around me in a boyish hug.

"That was fucking amazing," I said, breathlessly,

"You're not meant to swear in front of me!" he laughed, and I laughed along
with him; after what we'd just done, swearing was the least of my worries.

---

In the end, after all my concerns about being discovered, it was more than
a couple of hours later when he finally left, by which time he'd fallen
into a contented slumber on the sofa with a cute little smile playing
across his lips. His mum was in no state to deal with him, so I woke him as
gently as I could, and carried his guitar out to the waiting car while he
stumbled along like a zombie next to me. He was asleep again almost as soon
as I had fastened the seat belt around him, but just as I was withdrawing
from the car he caught my arm with his hand, and pulled me back in. Ever so
gently, he kissed me on the cheek, and whispered into my ear,

"Thank you."

I watched the car pull away, and wondered if I would ever see him again.


-----


Zack T. McNaught

www.asstr.org/~zack/

zackmcnaught@hotmail.com