Biebz

"Mark." Sarah stood at his bedroom door, her arms folded under her bra. "What the fuck?" She nodded to the hundreds of posters and cut-out magazine pages on his walls.

"What?"

"You like Justin Bieber or what?"

"Not his music." Mark grinned over the top of his blanket as he lay in bed. "But since he's gonna be my husband someday-"

"Yeah, right-" Sarah shook her head. And laughed.

"You'll see-" Mark giggled. Then slipped his hand under the elastic of his boxer briefs, his hand encasing his hard-on. He closed eyes, two little slits over the wide slit of his shit-eating grin.

The concert's over. Mark's finagled a backstage pass from security - by deepthroating the fat guy's short, half-limp cock in one of the 20 stalls in the bathroom just outside his section of the arena. He watches all the girls as they take turns posing for pics with Justin, sitting on his lap, their little cunts wet in their skinny jeans and panty-less mini-skirts. And as he's staring at the boy without blinking, he gets hard as the boy stares back at him without blinking the whole time.

The last girl gets her autograph on the back of her concert shirt, her ass plumped into Justin's face, which he totally ignores because he's only looking at one thing, one person, in the room. As she leaves, passing Mark giggling like a schoolgirl who's come for the first time - and she probably did because she's wobbly and because Mark's almost come himself just watching Justin watching him - the room's finally empty.

Just the two of them. Staring at each other. And smiling with a well-known secret. Justin finally sighs and lays back on the couch, stretching out his legs in his skinny jeans, his inflated cock a rumple next to his zipper. He looks down at it. Then back up at Mark, who's standing over him. He puts out a hand and pulls Mark onto him.

Straddling his new boyfriend, Mark pulls back, removes the boy's cocked hat, slowly rifles his fingers through his messy mop. He caresses one smooth cheek - as soft and hairless as his own - then falls forward, buries his tongue into the boy's mouth and is met halfway by a tongue even more urgent than his own.

Clothes rip, flying to the floor. Justin's on his knees over the back of the couch, Mark's face ensconced in his ass, which smells of soap and sweat. Mark reaches down, grabs his cock, which is now no less than a good foot of thick rope, and puts the tip to Justin's hole. He enters as he hunches forward, chest to back, his arms wrapped around the boy's slight, moaning frame, their mouths entwined in hurried exchanges of lips, tongue, and spit.

Mark pushes in until he's flush with the boy's ass. And feels it tear, top and bottom. He pulls back, pumps, and watches as it splits in half, soaking his pelvis in blood. And all he hears is the boy begging for more.

With one last thrust, he shoots three gallons of semen into Justin Bieber's guts, and they collapse, one upon the other upon the couch. And continue kissing, between giggles just like those of the girl who came earlier.

Sarah coughed. Mark opened his eyes. Then pulled his hand out of his underwear and wiped his cum on his New York Giants blanket, on the same spot hardened by months of ejaculate. He looked at his mom and shrugged, grinning.

"You're a mess," she said and shook her head.

"I know-" Mark giggled.