nsync in black and white

Fiction by Pen . . . . . not real, made up, purely intended for entertainment

A Little Bit Extra

I wrote this, because at the time there seemed to be entirely too much lube in popslash!

Chris doesn't look like the others. Not quite. Of course, that's appropriate. Chris likes to be different, likes to be the one who stands out from the crowd.

Be a funny crowd, it would.

So yeah, Chris would be the one to stand out, even without the crazy clothes and the weird hair. Even naked, he'd stand out from the crowd.

Here in the dark, though, no crowd. No worries. No self-consciousness, no consciousness-of-self, just the focus. Here, in the moonlight, just enough light for him to be able to see what he's doing.

Chris slumps back in the shabby chair, slouching into its grubby cushions and spreading his legs wide. Just sits there, reclined there, as if it's a fancy chair with real springs and decent upholstery and integral footrest. One day, he'll be able to afford a real recliner. Leather. For now, though, he just lies back in the crappy chair, idly rocking his hips upward just an inch, pushing against the rough texture of his black pants. Left hand sliding up over his T-shirt, the palm circling over his heart, where the nipple is tight and erect. The other nipple is tight, too, dimpling the cotton, but he keeps the right hand at rest on the chair's wooden arm. For now. For now.

Pinching now, pinching through the material. Letting his head fall backwards, long neck presented to the moonlight. Gazing vaguely at the dark bedroom, nothing to see, only cheap furniture and the motionless huddle of exhausted boy on the mattress in the corner, breathing the slow steady rhythm of sleep. It's been a tough day for Lance, another in the run of gruelling, demanding days, pushing him through dance routines his body has no idea how to manage, cramming him with harmonies to anchor the rest of them, and right after they ate, Lance staggered up to the room he shares with Chris. A room shared between two people who are just beginning to think they might be able to be friends.

As private as it gets, these days.

It's good enough. Chris's arms cross, grasp the T-shirt's frayed hem and haul it over his head with languid precision. It drops to the floor and is forgotten. Chris' nipples are getting all the attention now, he palms them and pulls at them and pinches with scissored fingers, and his hips start to rise in earnest now, his baggy jeans constricting his filling cock. He sends his right hand meandering down, tugging at the coarse curls on his chest, following their shadowed line over his stomach, down to the button above his zipper. It's a little loose. These pants have been worn so often that there's no resistance when he slides the button free. The zipper, too, goes down soundless as silk.

His left hand is still playing across his chest, but Chris's right hand—just the fingers, just the first two fingers—stripes a delicate line down the cock still trapped in his underwear. Just teasing. Just a promise, not yet a caress. Fingertips, a hint of nails, his hand clawed over his groin but still tentative as a shy girl. Then the calloused pads of his fingers, a bit more pressure, then flat fingers rigid against the trapped shaft.

Chris emits a little snort, and shimmies his pelvis up. Elvis would be proud. Pushes his jeans down, just off his hips, and manouevres his underwear down. His cock springs upwards, and he grunts with satisfaction, then darts a quick look at Lance's bed. But nothing's moving in the corner. All quiet.

So now he can start. Slowly, though, slowly. It's gonna be a good show tonight, he's going to make it last, really milk it...

Chris's hands flatten at either side of his groin, and slide slowly onto his thighs. His fingers trace over his balls, tug a little at the wiry hairs, and a tiny smile twitches his lips. Then he lets his right hand drift upwards, along his swollen cock, circles the curved head and sets up a gentle rhythm, pulling the skin down, letting it glide back, down and back, down and back, grinning to himself at the subtle friction over the sensitive head as it peeks out of hiding with every downward stroke. It fascinates him, watching that. The other guys can't do this, but Chris has that little bit extra, that little bit of skin that gives him options they don't have.

Two fingers in his mouth, and they come out glistening and he swirls them over the head of his cock, while his other hand tight round the shaft keeps the foreskin pulled down out of the way. More saliva. More swirling. More pressure, and Chris's hips start tilting up. He's keeping his hand still, pushing upwards with his pelvis to move his cock through the grip of his fingers. Harder work that way, prolonging the pleasure. Chris can keep his hips moving for a long time, if he wants to.

But he lets himself slide even lower, right to the edge of the seat, and lies there tensed and splayed out, and works his cock with both hands now: the left hand in a firm grasp, the right a delicate ring of fingers, working that slippery sliding skin for all it's worth. The rhythm varies—sometimes the hands work together, sometimes there's a counterpoint, a syncopation, and the tempo of his breath accelerates in time with it.

He changes hands, lets the right hand slide down his cock and start working it, while his left slides up over his chest again and fingernails scratch at a tight, taut nipple. A sigh huffs out into the warm night air. It's good to change hands, vary the routine. He adds a twist to the up-and-down motion, and his hips start to writhe. Chris likes to be just a little bit brutal with himself. His left hand goes back to his groin, tugs lightly at his balls, holding the sac away from his body as his right hand pumps harder. Slows down. Jerks frantically for half a dozen quick strokes. Slows down.

Chris keeps that interrupted rhythm going, teasing himself, thrusting his hips high and stretching his whole body as taut as though he were tied there. He makes it last, he really does, prolongs the pleasure as long as he can, but he knows he can't last much longer, and it's such a release when he gives in, works his shaft ruthlessly with both hands, and gives a shuddering, breathless groan as he expels oyster-pale spurts over his chest and belly.

Chris lies boneless in the chair for a few minutes before he reaches down for a towel. He put it there before he started, always likes to be prepared. Walking down the hall to the bathroom covered in cum is not really his style. Once he's tidied himself up, he tucks his reluctant cock back into his pants and pads silently to the door. He's going to wash up properly.

So he has a few minutes, and he's so hard against the sheet it only takes him thirty seconds to finish himself off, now that he is free to move. Watching Chris is the most erotic experience of his life to date. One of these nights, he'll offer to help.
Maybe. In a year or so.

Meanwhile, his breath control is making amazing progress.


If you enjoyed that, you'll want to read the amazing remixed version by Silveryscrape.


Back to Popslash Index
Back to Alternative Popslash Index