Introitus: from the Latin "intro," into, within, + "ire," to go = "to go into."
Definition from Wiktionary.org
1. A going in or into, entering; entrance
2. A place of entrance; passage
3. (figuratively) An entering or entrance into an office or a society
4. (figuratively) A beginning, introduction, prelude.
Friday Evening
21 August 2009
Harry's POV
Somewhere in the depths of my alcohol-fogged brain, a thought managed to surface, loud and clear, thankfully enough.
'This is awful.'
Michael or Matthew or whoever the hell was breathing heavily somewhere near my right ear, his gulps and gasps causing my hair to flap at odd intervals. He seemed to think that his hands and arms were best used to support himself and were planted rigidly on either side of my ribcage; one could have almost believed he thought I was a frail being who might be crushed if expected to uphold even the slightest portion of his weight. This notion, however, was summarily squashed thanks, or perhaps, no thanks, to the vicious rhythm he was doling out below.
And no, there had been absolutely no foreplay to speak of. Just a perfunctory slathering of lube on his fingers and a quick, almost clinical, fingering that left me far from eager, except for the fact that I was horny, so.
Yeah.
Here I was. Saviour of the Wizarding World being fucked mindlessly by some Muggle bloke who had no idea I had half a mind to hex his bollocks so that his cock would never work again and he'd never subject another poor, cock-hungry bloke to his sorry excuse for a fucking ever again.
This made me laugh - a sort of feeble chuckle that expelled itself between my own somewhat raspy breathing. Morgan or Mark thought this was a good thing.
"Mmm, yeah," he gasped. "You like that, huh?" This time, I couldn't stop the laughter. It bubbled up and out. Loud. Almost bark-like.
"No." I giggled.
You know how it is when you're drunk.
"Hafta go," I blurted out, pushing Martin or Mason off of me and struggling to stand.
"What?" I'm sure he was staring at me in a mixture of disbelief and fury, trying to come down from that pre-orgasmic high, to make sense of what was going on.
"I hafta go," I repeated, trying, as drunken fools always do, to be more articulate and failing miserably. I'd relocated my clothes and had stumbled halfway into my pants at this point. For some reason, I decided that now would be a good time to abandon said pants and start struggling into my t-shirt.
Mitchell or Maxwell was stuttering somewhere in the background.
"B-but... but... you can't just leave," he ground out finally, just as I had won the battle with my shirt. I looked at him, kneeling there on his bed, cock still hard and dripping, and thought that maybe, just maybe, I could feel sorry for him.
"Yeah. I can," I retorted, having now managed to do up my trousers and having begun the search for my trainers. I located them and launched myself in their general direction, crashing to the ground and cramming my feet into them. There was no time to undo the laces and get them on properly, you realise.
"You're a bloody tease, you know that?" Marcus or Milo was furious now.
"Yeah, an' you bloody suck," I slurred as I made my way towards the door, thanking whatever gods that be that he lived in a studio.
Miles or Max continued his diatribe as I exited into the hallway and slammed the door properly, as this sort of situation called for, before stumbling down the stairs and out into the cool London air.
I ambled around for a bit, seeing as it was still plenty early. Only half-nine. Then, having walked aimlessly for what seemed an exorbitant amount of time, but which was, in all reality, only five minutes, I did what any normal, sloshed, slightly horny bloke would do.
I called another bloke.