the pearl

Green Room

He knows they're from Russia. That's about all he knows. That, and they have a shtick that beats Britney's superduper virgin routine in the dust.

He's sitting in the green room of Top of the Pops, his crew off hunting down more snacks or booze or interns or whatever the fuck else they like to pick up while they're here. He's on one side, lounging on the couch with a bottle of water. They're on the other, leaning in close, whispering to each other in Russian and giggling occasionally.

He saw their video late one night on a 40 inch hotel tv screen. He had just come back from a club, drunken and fucked up and his cock just aching to be balls-deep in someone. But all the women were dogs and all the men were tabloid fodder and he ended up at home at 4am with a hard-on like a fucking rock, flipping through the channels and wondering if someone would sell out his purchase of the cheap-ass softcore.

Flip one, flip two, and suddenly there were soaking wet teenage girls kissing each other on his tv. Kissing and singing and he leaned forward, thinking he could see their nipples through their shirts, and suddenly, because it seemed like a good idea, he whipped it out, and before the video was over, he shot all over the carpet, something else for the maids to clean up.

And now they're sitting in front of him, hands resting on knees, whispers and giggles, and he's been told it's all an act, but, right now, it sure seems like a real thing.

He's really fucking glad his pants are baggy, 'cause the thought of those two making out right here and now is giving him a boner already.

But then again, maybe they'll like it.

He stretches a bit, arching his back just a little, rubbing just enough cock against pants to show off his appreciation — if they're looking at him.

The red-haired one glances up just as he stretches, and her eyes trace over him, pausing on his crotch and raising her eyebrow in appreciation. She rests her head on the dark-haired girl's shoulder and whispers something in her ear.

The dark-haired girl looks over too, and giggles as she meets his eyes.

They whisper to each other in Russian again, and then, finally, the dark-haired girl looks at him. "Yusteen?" she asks, her head cocked slightly.

He doesn't know what she's saying, but, then, suddenly, it smacks him upside the head and, yes, beautiful young women saying his name with strong Russian accents is sexy. It reminds him of Bond movies, and that always means pussy.

He smiles widely. "Yeah?"

The girl smiles widely, glancing back to her red-haired "girlfriend". "We think your video is very sexy," she says.

Justin smiles back and leans forward, his eyes following every dip, every curve, every oh-so-gentle twist and turn of the girls. "I think your video is very sexy too," he replies.

The red-haired one licks her lips. The dark-haired one smiles. Both of them are looking at him like he's whatever kind of candy they eat in Russia (Lance would know, but Lance would never be interested in two barely legal Russian teenage girls who pretend to be lesbians for pop), and he straightens up just a bit, harder than goddamned steel.

They stand up, together, matched perfectly, and cross the few feet between couches, smiling identical predatory smiles as they sit down next to him. He closes his eyes, two squirming bundles of delicious raw girlsex against him, all powdery perfume and faint giggles.

Justin leans back, wrapping each arm around the latest teen fashion, sliding his hands against soft flesh and gentle curves. His hands are creeping up two different thighs, under identical pleated skirts and they're both so delicious he could eat them whole.

The red-haired one laughs, and the dark-haired one is pressing right up against him, alternating kisses on Justin's neck and on her mouth. He feels their breasts pressing into his arms and hears their sloppy wet kisses, and he's got a fucking tentpole in his pants as they writhe all over him.

That one rubs him and this one kisses him and both of them have their hands pushing onto his dick and it's like he's motherfucking thirteen again, shooting his load in his boxers before he even gets them off.

And they giggle and whisper to each other in Russian again, and before his come-drunk mind can focus on anything, they're standing up, kissing each other tenderly as they straighten up their shirts and skirts. They laugh one more time, and walk out to the stage.

This Real Person story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at And you can feedback her at