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Harry mumbles softly in his sleep. Henry has never been able to understand precisely what he mumbles about, but it is frightfully endearing nonetheless. It is still early in the morning, the light from the illuminator is watery and pale, barely enough to show the soft, brown-thatched lines of Harry’s handsome face. Henry kisses him softly, nuzzling at the triangle of sweaty skin that is framed between his hair, his whiskers, and his nightshirt collar. It was a night of strange dreams, last night. All bright flashes of colour and writhing waves, inescapable and claustrophobic and intoxicating all at once.
Intoxicating because, as is often the case of late, Harry was there beside him. Altogether nude, twisting with the movement of the waves, his hair rising up to the glittering surface and his eyes sparkling with the kaleidoscope of colours that flickered and burst all around them. Henry had pushed towards him, through the water (warm, thicker than one might expect of an ocean), and wrapped his arms around Harry’s slender, sloping shoulders. He had awoken before he could get any further with his lover in that strange, suspended place, but it was no matter. Harry was here, real, laying beside him in all his warm, rumpled sweetness.
Henry feels his cock twitch beneath his nightshirt, and sighs quietly. It was a beastly thing as the best of times, unwieldy, far too large to be practical, thick enough that its excitement would render him faint as a youngster. He kisses Harry again, both wanting and not wanting to wake him. His lover sleeps very little, nowadays, and Henry relishes the occasions upon which he wakes before him. But, Henry sighs, there is also the matter of the great beast between his thighs, tingling with anticipation at the sensation of a warm body beside it. Although, this morning, it feels rather different.
There is, as is to be expected with a member of its size (as Harry has said many times, in an admiring tone), a slight accompanying dizziness that comes with its arousal. Not so much as when he was a lad, when a cockstand would render him inert if it came on too fast, but still a buzz in his skull, as if a bee had somehow flown in one ear and become stuck. Not this morning, though. This morning there is no buzz, no slight blurring of his vision. It is a relief, of course, but it is an unexpected one. Of late, Henry rarely trusts events that are unexpected.
Harry mumbles a little louder, and turns, so his face is buried in Henry’s chest, butting up against him like a lamb with its mother. It is perpetually sweet, when Harry does this, making Henry feel like his protector, like his guardian. This morning, however, there is an unexpected revelation in Harry’s unconscious movement.
His cock, usually such a modest little thing, is absolutely enormous. Henry flinches as it presses against his leg, and then almost leaps back in astonishment as he looks down. There is Harry’s cock, near triple the size, and then there is his cock. It looks almost infantile, hanging against the furred thickness of his thighs; small, tucked within its foreskin, bollocks plump and little behind it. He grabs it, without thinking, and blinks in amazement as a shudder passes from his toes to his scalp. His cock?
Harry stirs beside him, still nuzzling up against Henry’s chest, pressed up to him in the small berth. Henry can feel his eyelashes flutter open, can feel the slight change in his breath as he wakes, and then he hears the smallest, softest sound of ‘ oh’.
‘Harry?’ Henry’s voice is rough with sleep as he speaks, pressing his lips to the thick curls that adorn Harry’s head.
‘Henry, I -,’ Harry pauses, and takes a deep, shuddering breath, ‘Henry I feel rather queer.’
Despite himself, despite the rising panic in his chest, Henry breathes out a laugh. He wagers he knows precisely how his little lover is feeling.
‘I’d imagine so, love,’ Henry murmurs, trying to hold the pair of them still, not wanting to jostle an already delicate predicament.
Harry looks up at him, eyes crusty with sleep, brow wrinkled with the imprint of the pillow and his own confusion. ‘It’s - it’s almost as if I feel faint, dearest…’
‘As if all the blood has rushed elsewhere, perhaps?’ Henry smiles, feeling a sudden rush of familiarity about the situation.
When he was a boy he had once woken on the floor to his father standing over him, a broad, highly amused grin on his face, and he’d then been treated to a distressingly frank explanation of how these things work, which had left him mortified and unwilling to go near his cock for at least a week (which, for a young lad of 13, really had seemed like a lifetime).
Harry winces, nods softly, his curls tickling Henry’s nose. ‘Yes, I suppose that is rather an apt description, but what I don’t understand is…’
Henry gestures downwards, to where his own small, unassuming prick is beginning to chub up alongside Harry’s own, prodigious length - already at half-mast, hardening steadily with warmth and friction.
‘Good Lord,’ Harry breathes out, staring down at the growing spectacle between them, ‘Henry…’
‘Quite…’ Henry murmurs out in return, ‘I woke up like this, and then you - well, you had that .’
Harry looks back up, and stares at Henry, and blinks, and then his face breaks into a wide, sunshine-warm smile.
‘We’ve swapped!’
It is Henry’s turn to blink, now, he looks at Harry, then down at the pair of pricks that seem so wildly out of place.
‘Harry, love, that doesn’t seem -’
‘Possible?’ Harry laughs, sweetly, ‘it would make more sense that you and I have swapped members, than if we had spontaneously shrunk and grown respectively, surely? And besides, dear Henry…’
Harry takes his own cock in hand, his entire body shaking as he does, and begins to inspect it with a rigour that leaves Henry feeling a little peculiar, as if his stomach is doing somersaults. After a heartbeat, and after Harry’s eyes flutter closed a handful of times, Harry says, with a grin, ‘Does this not look familiar to you? Because it certainly does to me.’
He gestures to a crook in the piece in his hand, and then to a small mole near the base. Henry stares, dumbstruck, and his mouth opens and closes like a goldfish bereft of water. He can barely find the words.
'How you get anything done with such a wonderful piece has always been a mystery to me, dearest, but to feel it in such a manner,' Harry pauses, and bites his lip, 'it is spectacularly strange, and I would be entirely understanding if you never worked a day in your life! This - this thing, for want of a sweeter term, is a marvel, my dear, as are you.'
Henry feels his cheeks heat up as Harry continues to wax lyrical about his cock. He has heard a fair amount of it before - Harry does like to talk when they make love, and he especially likes to talk about how attractive he finds Henry, much to Henry's embarrassment - but to hear it from Harry now, when his cock is attached to him? It makes it even stranger, and even more arousing, for reasons that Henry dare not inspect too closely. He can feel the small, rosy cock between his own legs growing to full hardness, glistening tip peeking out of its hood, bollocks tightening slightly in needful anticipation.
‘It really is quite extraordinary…’ Harry breathes out, seemingly undeterred by Henry's heavy breathing, ‘do you feel like this whenever your cock rises, my dear, or is it less intense? I suppose it might be less intense for you, considering you have a few inches - of height , of course, and length as well, I suppose - on me, and you are rather more broad than I am, but even so …’
Henry stares again, his head feeling as if it has been stuffed full of cotton. Harry chuckles, a bright, sparkling sound, ‘Really quite extraordinary, darling.’
‘Quite…’ Henry’s mouth is dry, and his voice feels even rougher than before as he speaks, and Harry cups his face in his small, sweaty palms.
‘It will be all right, dearest, you and I will get this all sorted I’m sure, but - for now at least - might I ask a favour?’ Harry smiles sweetly, and presses a kiss to Henry’s nose.
‘Anything,’ Henry replies, fuzzy-headed and more than a little bowled over by just how calm Harry seems about this turn of event, just how - how himself he is.
‘My dear Henry,’ Harry whispers, pressing another kiss to the slight pout of Henry’s lips, ‘would you mind frigging me silly so I can think, I doubt I can get anything done in such a - well - such an indiscreet state?’
Henry snorts, and feels a smile creep across his face as Harry’s eyes light up with anticipation, ‘I think I can manage that, little one, don’t you worry.’