Harry hates long haul flights. They just might be the hardest part of his job. The job that he still loves and plans to go out like Keith Richards in.
He's definitely collecting stories.
The first time he went to Japan, he fell in love, the people were less likely to approach him, when they did they were more respectful, the crowds were still enough to sing the most quiet of his songs, and he could wear a literal mask and get away with it. Blend in.
But fuck, it was far far away. From everything. Worth it. But every time he did the flight he wound up bone tired, no matter which home base he was flying into. It compounded when he got in and would have to hope no one knew where he would land, get past possible fan and reporter gauntlets, and then make the hour drive home.
He could sleep anywhere, but sleep on a plane or in the backseat of a car was not the same as at home.
The worst was when he got in and he was wired and tired. Brain spinning like a top, body aching for a bed. It was difficult to serve both masters.
He'd found a way.
A good wank was perfect, get the mind inline with the body, so he had habits, so he wouldn't stay hard, and he could sleep.
He'd drop his dirty clothes bag straight into the laundry, carry the clean one up to his closet, put it on the hook to sort it out later, strip down to nothing, slip off his rings, and grab his lube. Sometimes he'd find some inspiration on his phone. Other times, he didn't need any help.
This time he was half hard when he hit the doorstep. It was amazing to see people, and he would ten to one rather stay with a friend in their home than a hotel. He had had enough hotels to last ten lifetimes. He liked to be cozy, hotels were not cozy.
Alana's house was cozy, but he couldn't wank there. He slept on her couch, and the "wall" that separated him from her room was not going to contain even suppressed moans. And her shower, well, it didn't happen. So several days without a wank and he was hurting and ready.
When he made it to the side of the bed, he realized he only had on the lion head ring. It was his new obsession, he was ready to build his entire new look around it. It was half why he was growing out his hair. A lion needed a mane.
It was so big, and a little gaudy, just the way he liked his accessories. Damn, he loved it.
He left it on.
He squeezed his lube tube into his palm while shucking his pants. They hit the hardwood with a huff. He'd need to get in the gym once he'd slept off the jet lag. He's walked and walked, but was getting antsy there too.
It calmed him to get his hand around himself. Hard as fuck. With little provocation, his eyes fell closed and he focused on sensation. Pretended the wet from the lube was come, wasn't fussy about who from. Harry just loved it juicy.
He used his thumb to slide some lube beneath his foreskin and groaned with abandon. The pleasure of an empty house, one of the few. He slipped his thumb over the pearl at his tip too. He could rub this out quick, was on edge after just a couple long strokes and that combo of moves, but he slowed down, watched the velvety casing move back and down over his glans while the lion glinted in the light.
"Mmmmm," he said and bit the side of his lip the way he had been told made his dimple a crater. "Fuck!" He exhaled and shortened the stroke to just stimulate the tip, a two inch move, up and down, the slit at the top getting covered and emerging again. Harry wicked his pre cum again and swirled the liquid into his head, wet his way more.
The sensations were catching up to him, so he lengthened his movements, casting his hand down to the base and up again until his balls drew up tight and his stomach coiled.
The release tossed over his hand and up his belly and left a line of pearly liquid over his ring as he roared.
It was quiet after, just the flush of the toilet and water in the sink before he collapsed into bed.
He could sleep now.
