Sectumsempra
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Chapter 1 "God," I panted in a whisper, lost in a haze of lust. The final bell to end the day was nearing, and I was skipping eighth period again to pleasure myself. My cock was drooling precum; if my hand had lungs, it would have already drowned. I was in the third cubicle across from the sinks--the red one. Red was my favorite color, and this is the primary reason. Each stroke sent an electric spark throughout my body and cast me further into my own little sector of heaven. Until the bathroom door opened. Creeeeeeeeak. The sound quickly snatched me back to reality, which made it seem like the cubicle had lifted half a mile and had left me completely, indecently exposed. Just then I felt my soul, which was ready to jump out of my skin come the proper reason. The footfalls seemed to stomp with each step as the person walked to a sink. I could see the back of the boy through the closed stall door, and beyond that was his reflection in the mirror before him. He was a calico-coated house cat, and a cute one at that. I recognized his face right off the bat, although I couldn't recall a consonant of his name. I just hoped he wouldn't realize I was here. He turned on the water and splashed his face a few times. It looked as if he just saw a ghost. He sighed, his face facing the drain, and looked up at the mirror. It seemed the sound of the water soothed him from something I couldn't fathom. I sat there for what seemed hours, watching him stare at himself, waiting for him to say something. He just kept staring as if he was searching for something in his corneas. After a while, every ounce of me just itched to scream "SAY SOMETHING ALREADY!!!", but I knew I had to keep silent. I knew what it could mean if he discovered me. I didn't know his personality. There are those who will find you in a situation similar to mine and do nothing further, and then there are those who will find you and make it subject to systematically-spread mass media, socially destroying you. I couldn't take that risk, so there I sat, and I continued to shut up. Still I itched. Then suddenly, he shot a glance toward my cubicle. My eyes instinctively slammed shut, and I moved out of the way of the cleft so, hopefully, he wouldn't see me. The water turned off, but there were no audible footfalls. So I sat there for a few seconds, hoping he was still oblivious, my eyes becoming heavier by the second. My heart was doing somersaults in my chest, one after the other. When I opened my eyes, I just so happened to be looking at the floor where a couple gray calves met my gaze. Shit! I screamed inaudibly. I was screwed. I could feel his eyes on me through the cleft in the threshold; I felt myself redden. The tomcat sniffled, then left the bathroom. "Dammit," I whispered. I looked down at my cock, which, amazingly, was still rock-hard. The duration of his visit mustn't have been more than two minutes. So I decided to finish up. I took hold of it and started once again. The foreskin glided easily along my sensitive tip, sending more electricity through my body and tearing me from reality. Irrelevant to what just happened, I started to dream of losing my virginity, of taking a huge cock in my ass and just basking in that sheer pleasure. Of just having somebody thrust into me with the force of a thousand rams and making me cum all over us. I always wondered what others' semen tasted like. Did the taste vary per species? I also wondered how it would feel to have a few ounces of fresh, hot cum in my ass. The images flashed through my mind as slowly as they originated, and it pushed me over the edge. The sensation made precum drip onto the floor. I could feel myself approaching a climax, and, like always, I failed to slow down. The result was five rivulets of sticky, warm semen shot into the air and onto the floor, while the rest oozed onto my left hand. Remarkably, I came more than I usually do and wondered if that was because of the tomcat. I sat there for a few seconds to catch half my breath, then began to lick my fingers. I knew what my semen tasted like. I was curious when I was eleven years old, and ever since then I always loved the taste of my semen. Whenever I came I'd always lick it up. I'd been masturbating since I was eleven years old, so over the years, the pads of my left hand were smoothed. You couldn't notice it just by looking--you had to feel it to know. I sat back, the taste still in my mouth. Not that I was complaining. I was totally relaxed. Then I remembered there was still a little semen on my pant leg. I scooped it up with my fingers and aimed it toward my mouth when an idea struck me. I deliberated on it for a few seconds before my curiosity got the best of me. I sat further back on the toilet seat and reached under toward my ass. I began to play with my fuckhole, to finger it, using the semen as a lubricant when the final bell rung to end the day, drowning out a sudden, unintended moan. Then it struck me. Others would come into the bathroom. Very soon. I had to get ready. I took a few sheets of toilet paper, wiped any evidence of my pleasure, and sent it into oblivion down the toilet; and just in time. The door swung open and screamed a brazen thud against the wall behind it. It would be virtually impossible for somebody (except the tomcat) to know what I was doing before the bell rang because the toilet was still flushing. "Hey," called somebody with Mexican-accented tenor voice, "did you hear about the guy who skipped algebra today?" I recognized the voice at the double. "That kid who sits a few rows up from me." It belonged to Carlos Villarreal-Gonzalez, a fennec whose fur was always dyed a dark brown. Carlos, 15 and 5'4", was the youngest and shortest member of FC3, a local gang. He liked to call himself "number one of three" since he and two of his best friends always hung out together, and in his little group he called the shots. "Who, the rabbit?" queried another with a New Yorkese-accented bass voice. This was number two of three, but he liked to call himself Djimond. His name was Marcus Bishop Mathers III. Rumor had it that he was related to Eminem, which would explain why he liked to rap. Djimond was a heavyset weightlifter. When not in school, he could usually be found hanging out at the gymnasium in Salazen. "No," said Carlos, "the Dalmatian. You know, Spot?" Spot. Great, another nickname. It's almost June! How could he not know my name by now? "Oh," droned Djimond. "What about him?" A sink turned on. "He skipped last period. I wonder where he went to." "I heard him ask Mr. Looney to go to the bathroom about 45 minutes into class. He never came back."