Cherry Pop Valentine Read online

  Cherry Pop Valentine

  by

  Debbie McGowan

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  Copyright 2015 Debbie McGowan at Smashwords.

  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/debbiemcgowan

  http://www.beatentrackpublishing.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  * * * * *

  This storyis a work of fiction and the characters and events in it exist only in its pages and in the author’s imagination.

  WARNING: this story contains sex acts between consenting male adults. All sexually active characters are over 18 years of age.

  * * * * *

  Their band’s new single is due to be released in four days’ time, and lovers Sven and Flavier are beyond excited. It’s tipped to be a big hit, and Flav can’t wait to see the online reaction to the promo film he’s made.

  But when he joins Sven in bed, he can’t even begin to imagine the fallout that will ensue when he awakes, and all his dreams are shattered with just one click of an upload button.

  Can he fix the damage caused by that one careless click, or will he be condemned to endure Valentine’s Day alone?

  * * * * *

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  About the Author

  By the Author

  Beaten Track Publishing

  * * * * *

  Dedication

  For Al, who popped my cherry, collaboratively speaking, and who prompted this story with a Valentine’s Day Challenge.

  * * * * *

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to…

  Andrea, for proof-reading, editing, blurb-writing in general and also specifically for the rapid response version required when I spring things like this on her.

  Jasmine, for creative input on the cover design. Sorry you didn’t get to colour in, JP.

  Raine, for cheerleading, and for Leaving Flowers. It is so much fun writing with you – here’s to our epic literary catalogue!

  Nige, bringer of coffee and other (constant) replenishment. You’re all right really, aren’t you?

  The Jelly Bellies, for your friendship, acceptance and love.

  * * * * *

  Chapter One

  Please wait while your video uploads.

  The number of hours I’d spent staring at that progress bar, waiting for notification that the upload was complete with no errors…

  I’d had the YouTube channel for four years—seventeen thousand followers, hundreds of thousands of shares. A couple of videos had gone viral, which was awesome for the band and was still getting us loads of free publicity. So it was well worth keeping on top of, even when I was knackered, like tonight, and Sven was already in bed getting his beauty sleep. I couldn’t believe my luck really, that we were still together after all this time. I’d known him since uni, when he was part of the chic crowd with the crazy hair and outrageous clothes, like fashion models but way cooler, because they were doing it for kicks.

  The first time I saw him, his hair was dyed purple, and he was taking part in a shoot with a group of first years making a film about drugs. Sven was super-slim and pretty tall, which made him seem even slimmer. In fact, in uni he was almost gaunt-looking, more heroin chic than anything, but he’d filled out in the years since we graduated. Still just as glam, and fucking hot, especially when he wore those suits—the jacket and pants with no shirt underneath. That was how he caught me, that first Valentine’s Day night, with his stylish allure and a shared cocktail. Even without the suggestive drink and too much alcohol, there was something so appealing about knowing that he was right there, under a single layer of clothing, the cut and weight of the fabric enhancing his finest features.

  I remember one time, when we were invited to a dinner party—we went to a few, because Sven had got himself in with the Jet Set and there were always dinner parties, but this one in particular sticks in my mind, because it was the start of videoing our sessions. We were sitting opposite each other, and Tam Jenkins, the pap photographer, was sitting to my right, flirting with Sven so obviously. I loved that, when women made a play for him. He would go along with it, completely fooling them into thinking he was interested in hooking up with them for the night. Back when no-one knew we were together, it got us into a few decent nightspots for free. On this occasion, though, Tam was offering something far more lucrative than VIP entry to a West End club. The agency she sold a lot of her pics to were commissioning glamour shots, and if that wasn’t alluring enough, she said she knew of a studio in London that was looking for a decent artistic photographer, which was what Sven was studying, in between the gigs and the impromptu fashion shoots, and letting me fuck him somewhere we might be seen. But that was the point.

  Sven was very skilled behind the camera, and a whore in front of it, and what Tam was after was a kind of two-for-one: pose for the portfolio she was putting together, and she’d put in a good word with the agency for him. He agreed without hesitation.

  “Great,” she said. “Can we start now?”

  Sven did that lazy shrug of his. “Sure. Where d’you want me?”

  “Right where you are. Just eat, drink, maybe…” She glanced my way and grinned wickedly. “You don’t mind if Sven flirts with you a little, right? It’s just for the shoot.”

  Ah, those words, those words. Just for the shoot. Sven’s very well-hidden talent. Ten years on, it was only me who knew about it, and it was still a relatively new discovery back at that dinner party. I blushed and tried not to burst into laughter. Sven gave me a dusky-eyed look and licked his lips. That was me well on the way to a full hard-on, but I played it down.

  “I’m good with that. What do you have in mind?”

  “Oh, some eye-fucking across the table. Improvise, yah?”

  I looked over at Sven, and he nodded his head very slowly. I was nervous and needed to get into the mindset of not being with him. How would it feel if I was just a random straight guy at a dinner party, and some pretty boy started toying with me across the table? I sat back and let my legs fall open, relaxing into the role and chatting amicably. What do you do? A student? Cool. Me too. Where are you studying? That kind of thing, you know? And while we were having this conversation, Sven mirrored my pose; the lilac-charcoal silk of his suit draped over every contour of his body. He unfastened the bottom button of his jacket and adjusted his position. He was hard—I could see the outline of his dick—foreskin and everything—and Tam noticed.

  “That’s so hot,” she whispered next to me. I tried not to look, keeping my gaze locked on Sven’s eyes, while his flitted between my crotch and my face. He chewed his lip seductively, all of it a show for Tam. He leaned forward and beckoned me closer. I carefully shifted back in my seat, trying to ignore my balls being crushed.

  “What was your name again? Flavier?” he asked. I nodded dumbly. He picked up his wine glass, fingering the stem, staring deep into my eyes. “Have you ever sucked off a guy before, Flav?”

  “Fuck,” Tam hissed close to my ear. “If you do, can I take some shots? They’ll be tasteful, non-explicit, but that raw erotic energy…”

  I studied Sven. A half smi
le. A shrug.

  “If you’re game, Flav,” he said.

  “Yeah, why not?” I tried to sound a cool mix of reluctant and sophisticated—we were ‘doing it for art’. I don’t know if I was convincing. Probably not. If Tam had ordered us to fuck right there on the table in front of the rest of the guests, I would have done it. I think we both would.

  We got in a taxi with Tam and went back to her hotel—she had a suite, and it was kind of classy and slutty at the same time. The enormous bed draped in deep-red satin took up much of the floor space, and there was a sofa, plus a Jacuzzi. Any of those locations suited me, and I could see Sven was up for anything, too.

  First things first, Tam had us do the whole nervous ‘come back to my place’ moves, and then Sven had to seduce me—the straight guy—while I resisted his kisses, but then gave in to the desire and hungrily stole them. He unbuttoned my shirt; I had to rub his cock through his pants, like I couldn’t wait to see what he could do for me, and I really fucking couldn’t. The sooner that mouth was relieving the ache in my balls the better. I’ve never been that good at acting, but I was getting off on the whole thing of being filmed, and like I said, Sven was pure sex in front of the camera.

  “Leave your shirt, Flav. I want to use it for some wet-shirt shots when we move things to the tub.”

  I complied without argument. Whatever Little Miss Getting-Off-On-This wanted. Her wish was our command. Her wish, it turned out, was also my wish.

  “Sven, that blow job you promised? I think we could do that as you take Flav’s pants off? Is that OK?”

  “Sure,” Sven said. God, I loved the way that word sounded on his tongue. No instructions from Tam for this bit, Sven leaned in, kissing me hard, while his hands dealt with my pants. Button undone, zip down, Sven down, on his knees. He peered up at me as he grabbed my cock and slid it into the tight ‘O’ formed by his lips. They were much pinker than usual because of his arousal, and between his mouth and his incredible blue eyes, I was lost.

  “Keep watching him, Flav,” Tam said. I didn’t usually, because it made me feel…porny, but that’s what we were doing, so it was the perfect excuse. My dick looked huge, jammed inside Sven’s small mouth, and it was shiny, wet with his saliva. I pumped into him, feeling the resistance of his throat. His hand moved from around my shaft, sliding past the waistband of his suit pants. I watched his arm shift up and down, and Tam signalled with her hand, instructing him to get his dick out. He wriggled his hand free and unzipped. I had to bend forward a little to see—his dick stuck out of the fly, and he was working it fast.

  “Can we have a timeout?” I asked Tam.

  “Really?”

  “Unless you’ve got enough shots already, it might be—”

  “Could you come more than once?”

  “Err, I…”

  Sven nodded without releasing me. I could come twice—we often did that—so I stopped fighting it and returned to the view. My boyfriend jacking himself off with one hand, the other hand sliding over my balls and back along my crack, his mouth full of my cock. I kept watching as the orgasm built, grabbing Sven’s head and ramming into him as I came, his eyes widening in response. He worked his hand harder, his fingers seeking out my hole to bring on his own climax, and then he was coming, too, shooting over my pants, my shoes, the carpet.

  It was at that point I noticed Tam’s beyond-professional excitement for what we were doing, as she tried to hold her camera steady and rubbed her crotch against the arm of the sofa. She stopped and stared up at me, embarrassed, but also pleading. I didn’t know what to do. I’d been with a couple of girls when I was younger, but I was gay, and I was faithful, so there was no way I was going to be flicking her bean for her. But I was still up for more fun, as was Sven.

  I reached down and helped him to his feet, pulling him close and kissing him with the same hunger he had kissed me before he sucked me off. Tam’s breathing became faster and heavier. I took our semis in my hand and worked them quickly but gently. Tam’s panting became frantic and then slowed. I smiled at Sven, and he smiled back. We’d discovered a new shared fantasy: sex in front of the camera, and we were both photographers. Kinky coincidence or perfect career choice? Whichever it was, we knew we’d be doing a lot more performing from then on.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Two

  Upload progress: 25%

  What impressed me most about that night was the fact Sven didn’t give our pervy photographer the ultimate cum shot. That hidden talent I mentioned? Sven could shoot a long way. The standard orgasm, if he was lying on his back, was guaranteed to hit him in the face and end up in his hair. If I was doing him from behind, then we were looking at something like seven or eight feet across the room. We were forever repainting the ceiling, having wiped most of the paint off, cleaning up the morning after—we even considered passing it off as a paint effect when we moved out of the rented apartment and bought our own place—and I’ve had his cum in my eye too many times to count. He used to be so shy about it, until he realised that just watching him shoot that laser beam of jizz was an instant hit for me. I could be a mile away from climax and then bam!

  Even with him inside me it did the trick, although it was a very different experience. I didn’t feel him power-shooting his load, but I felt the muscle spasm. I could visualise him filling me and when he withdrew it would just be there, inside me…outside of me—if I could hold off coming until he was done, I’d use it as lube.

  Once Sven got past his self-consciousness, our sex was hot, because he was hot, and we shared the same kinks. Fucking in public places, jerking off while watching shit TV, food sex, and now fucking in front of the camera. We had a lot of sex, because we were young and randy. But it wasn’t all sex—we had fun together, too. We went out for dinner, watched movies, sometimes bought theatre tickets, and we enjoyed just going out, getting completely off our faces, and then dancing until the early hours. We loved going to dinner parties, and after we both ‘came out’, the dinner party invitations quadrupled in number. Many of our friends were pretentious, and I suppose we looked the part. I didn’t work out, so I wasn’t sporting a rack, but I was toned and I swam a lot, so I looked OK in most things.

  People often told me they loved my look, which was pretty much how Sven dressed me. He had an eye for fashion and took over my clothes purchasing decisions—still cargo pants and shirts most of the time for uni and work, but fitted t-shirt—in place of the baggy t-shirts I’d worn before he was in my life—with designer jeans for ordinary nights out.

  I had smarter shirts and a couple of suits for those dinner parties, and Sven had his silk suits—he did the pop star look spectacularly. Jacket, no shirt, sometimes a neck tie, and he had very little body hair. He also owned an impressive collection of art-print tees, jeans with buckles and straps and other appendages, and his boots and shoes. He must have had at least twenty pairs of each. It was a kind of emo/scene look he had, and to me he was just…beautiful. Always.

  I don’t know if I ever experienced a sudden earth-shattering moment where I fell in love with him. Instead, it happened over the couple of years we were at uni, and as graduation time neared, I started to stress, about exams, and getting a job, and losing Sven. I was convinced he’d just hop on a plane back to Sweden, and I’d never see him again. One night, soon after our final exams, he told me he was making a romantic dinner at his place, and I was shitting myself. He’d never done anything like that before.

  I was shaking as I got ready and sweating like a bitch by the time I reached the house he shared with a couple of art students. Neither of his housemates were home, and he’d cleaned, which also wasn’t like him. Not that he was a tramp, but it was kind of beneath him. Even in the days before we paid someone to clean for us, it was me who did the housework, so back when we were students, Sven’s house was a dump. The kitchen sink would have about a week’s worth of dirty plates in it; the bathroom…defied description, and you were lucky if there was any sofa showing under the pil
es of jackets and shoes discarded after nights out.

  They also had a dining table that was usually covered in empty mugs and scribbled notes, but not that night. That night, it was laid out for dinner: wine glasses, silverware, candles, a rose in a vase. It was utter perfection and I didn’t have my camera with me, because I knew what was coming. Or I thought I did.

  First course: asparagus soup. It was tasty—subtle hints of celery, a creamy, thick broth, just the right amount of black pepper—but I could hardly swallow, waiting for Sven to break the news, and with it my heart. We were still mad for each other; our relationship was strong. But we knew people who had graduated and just stopped seeing each other. It was kind of expected—three years of fun, then back to life.

  So I couldn’t eat the soup, and he looked hurt that I had only taken a few spoonfuls from the bowl. He tried to shrug it off, and said, “I understand,” as he took the bowls away. I watched him leave. I even considered walking out. I understand…

  Understand what, Sven? That I’m choking up because in a few weeks, I’m going to lose the guy I love?

  I don’t think I’d ever told him I loved him, but at that stage all I could think was…what would be the point? If he’d stayed purely because I begged him to, then we were doomed anyway.