It was late in the Mandela dorm room. Harry’s roommates lay asleep; Harry was unfortunately kept awake. He wasn’t reading like he usually did—much too late for that, and a nightlight would be too bright. Instead, he was thinking. For the last month, he’d been having thoughts— romantic thoughts, not about girls like he usually would. Not even about Jasmine—it was about Damien.
A few weeks ago, he’d seen Damien step out of the showers naked. It wasn’t anything unusual–he saw him naked every day until Fourth Year—though it ended with something about puberty and privacy. He finally, once again, saw his naked ass and it changed something in him. At that moment, all he wanted to do was bend the tall teen over his lap and finger fuck him. He’d milk him dry, but he didn’t; he couldn’t. He was straight (or so he thought,) but he pondered about why couldn’t he stop thinking about Damien’s dick.
His imagination spurred to life; images of the way his ass swayed as he walked, the jiggle of a bubbly, but firm butt, the water from the shower splaying across the surface and down to his taint, where his balls rested. He was thinking about it for ages—and as he did he felt a tinge in his crotch.
His cock began to grow. He looked down in horror as he grew a boner for his best friend. He hadn’t gotten one before for just thinking about it. This was bad, he thought.
Harry took in a deep breath, trying to will his erection down. Of course, it didn’t work. He chose to just wait and see if it went away. It was there for ten minutes, still throbbing, winning a raging battle against the elasticity of his boxers. He knew what he needed to do.
“Damien?” Harry whispered. No response came. He tried again “Damien?” Still no response. Taking a look around, making sure everyone was asleep, he continued his task. His lanky fingers pulled at the waistband of his boxers and released his throbbing monster.
It swung forward and slapped against his stomach before settling—only to throb again as it unleashed a spurt of pre-cum. He winced, needing not to look to know how hard it was.
Harry’s cock was beautiful—though big, reaching nine-and-three-quarter inches—and beyond thick. Veins crept around it, making the glans look larger and blood-red.
He pulled his boxers off and debated internally as he splayed them across the bed. Am I really doing this? he thought.
A sigh escaped him as he grasped his cock at the base and started pushing up—I guess I am, he thought with a shuddering breath. His hand flew up and down as he pleasured his hard member. Harry tried to stifle his moans, but some were creeping out.
He worked up and down his dry prick for a minute before he turned to his nightstand and pumped two measurements of lotion onto his palm and got back to it. He worked on himself with his lubed-up hand quickly as thoughts of his best friend filled his head.
His thoughts raced—there was he and Damien passionately kissing in potions class, both tugging at each other’s belts as they prepared—Damien sucking his cut cock, looking up at him as he filled his throat; Damien bent over a table taking Harry’s cock up his ass as he screamed moaning; ending with Harry pumping his load across his pretty face.
As this happened, his hand sped up, ready to blow his load, but then a confusing thought came to mind—these images occurred again, but with the older James Underwood.
Now he’d never thought about James before—hell, he even had a sock dedicated to Jasmine during the second two years of Hogwarts, but for the past month, he didn’t think about her. He thought he was straight, but now he was wanking to the thought of him and James passionately making out as he tugged at Diggory’s belt; him filling Harry’s pretty mouth with his uncut cock, his lips wrapped around the base; Harry over a table, writhing with pleasure, fucking his hand as James railed him from behind; James pumping several loads across his tight, short body.
His pipe dream ended, though he was railing his cock into his hand furiously. He twisted his hand around his glans, focusing on where his frenulum used to be. He was near the end, but one final thought came to mind—James and Damien were both on their knees in front of him as he exploded across their faces.
He knew he was close. Harry pulled himself up and kneeled on the bed, aiming at where he laid his boxers, and sped up, getting closer and closer and closer, still twisting, but faster and faster and faster.
Fuck! He was so close; he was reaching the end. “Oh, fuck!” he growled under his breath as a blast of cum shot from his cock, followed by six more, long ropes of steaming cum, strewn against the cotton fabric of his boxers. He fell back, laying there, naked and sweaty, his dick returning to its calmer, five-inch length.
He rolled over to retrieve a tissue–to clean off his lotion-covered hand—when he saw Damien, looking over and giggling. Harry quickly grabbed his cum-soaked boxers, covered his softening cock, and hid under the bedsheets. “It’s all right, we all have our lonely nights,” Damien laughed.
Harry rolled away from him, pausing when Damien tilted his head, face smiling as a politician would. “Were you moaning my name?”
It was only then, as daylight began to break, that he saw Damien in the nude, his cock splayed across his cum-coated stomach. “G’night, Damien,” he swallowed as he rolled over fully, throat suddenly constricted.