The second Paul opened the door, I knew he wanted me for more than just sex. Normally, on campus or in student bars, he was funny, confident, always smiling. Tonight he looked sick. He was nervous like first time punters always are, but he wasn't avoiding my eyes. He was looking at me full-on, apologetic and pleading, like a puppy who'd been told off but still thought there was a chance of getting his bone. I wanted him to know he could have all the bone he wanted; I wanted him to be happy and horny about the sex-fest ahead of him, to feel like he could fuck me anyway he chose with no regrets, but that begging look of his made me worry he was less interested in my cock than he was in my heart. I knew his housemates were away so I tried to chill his nerves by faking an interest in the run down dinge of his crappy student tenement. With the money I made on the game, my girlfriend Sarah and I could afford a decent house of our own. In the kitchen I found out Paul couldn't even afford to keep his fridge stocked with beer, meaning using alcohol to relax him was out. He made us coffee, replying with one-word answers to the things I asked him about his Sports Studies course.
While he was busy adding milk or stirring or whatever - and still talking to him about his essay on sports injuries - I moved up close behind him and ran my hands over his shoulders to squeeze the muscle of his upper arms. Straight away, I knew how turned on he was. He was still anxious enough to puke, but desperate to have me closer to him, holding him. I stopped talking, pushed my groin up against the curve of his backside and put my lips gently against the downy, tanned skin at the side of his neck. My palm was on the taught pads of his abdomen, smoothing the soft cotton of his shirt while I told him I thought we should ditch the coffee and try getting off with each other instead. He was flushed and breathing deeply.
I guided him out of the kitchen, my hand on his shoulder pushing him towards the stairs and where he'd wanted to go but had been too scared to lead: up to his room.
Ever since sixth form when my cricket coach had offered me a tenner to toss him off against his car, I'd been earning good money hawking my body. At houseparties I'd always quit with any girl I'd pulled well before the end to find some shy, gay loner or luckless spunk-filled straightboy and offer to help him out for whatever cash he had. During my degree I'd discovered there were occasional women who'd pay for it as well; in fact, paying me for it was what seemed to turn them on the most. After graduating I'd chosen a postgrad course not only because it was going to be good for my career but also because I knew I could double my grant working as rent.
And I'd been right. Being three years older than most of the other students meant both that I was more confident about offering my hand, mouth or cock about and that I seemed hornier to anyone who was up for it than they're zitty, undeveloped pals. Sarah knew I did it but never really asked what went on and never knowingly took any of the money I earned from it.
I felt bad about Paul even before I saw he was going soft on me. My tricks were usually married men I'd pick up on the street or Maths or Philosophy students keener on lectures and reading than on going to LGB discos. I liked them all, but what I liked best was how little it took for me to be a real turn-on to them, and how I didn't have to bother looking after them. They'd pay me, jerk themselves off over me or whatever and then I'd say goodbye. But Paul was in the same faculty as me. We'd been drinking together, played on the same football team; I'd helped one of his ex-girlfriends to cheat on him. He was a friend.
About a month before, he'd begun asking over-casual questions about whether the rentboy rumours he'd heard were true. I ignored him until he became a pain in the arse with it then, one night when we were walking back from circuit training together, I could tell he was limbering up to raise his favourite subject again. I dropped my bag, pushed him up against a wall and asked him if he wanted to make something of it; whether he was trying to wind me up or make a date with me, because one way it meant a punch in the face and the other it meant fifty quid an hour, no penetration either way. He didn't need to answer me because the hard-on he had under his jeans was embarrassingly obvious to both of us.
So, Paul was always different in a harmless way, because I liked him, but now I was worrying he might be different in a dangerous way, because he wanted more of me than what was up for sale.
In his messy, poster-plastered bedroom I tried checking him out again. Instead of trying to get me out of my clothes it seemed to be OK with him for us just to stand looking at each other. And after a moment of that his sad green eyes were going puppyish again.
"Sorry, Paul. I'll just take a piss."
"Yeah. OK, Noah. I'll wait."
He could barely talk now.
In the bathroom I considered how bad things might be if Paul got emotional: the ways a heart-broken client might fuck things up for me. Then I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I was wearing grey cotton jeans that were tight both round the muscles of my asscheeks and the weight of my groin. I felt the power of my own legs and the tension of each of the upper body muscle groups I'd worked so hard on. My shirt was open enough and close-fitting enough to make the great shape my pecs and abdomen were in obvious. The truth is, I found myself horny as fuck, even without considering my face. A strong nose, good chin, deep-set eyes, thick cow-licked dark brown hair. It seemed to me that not letting Paul have me would be like taking away a feast from someone who was starving. So I was going to do it, and if I'd been doubtful about the consequences beforehand now I was cocky as a bastard that I could handle anything.
I turned on the hot tap, opened my jeans and pulled out my prick. Drawing back the thick, tanned foreskin I washed myself, dried it on a towel and then tucked my cock into a prominent position. I shrugged my jacket into place feeling the leather stretch over my shoulders. I smiled at myself and, for a second, I envied Paul what was coming his way.
He was sitting at his desk with a book on physiotherapy open in front of him. He looked up, dogging down to my crotch just like I'd wanted him to.
"I don't know about this now, Noah. I think I'll leave it." I wasn't listening to him. On the job, I concentrated on making my best guess what the punter wanted and giving it to him without bothering about my feelings at all. Paul owed me the fifty quid we'd agreed and he wasn't going to rip me off by chickening out. If he was freaking I'd just have to put more work into seducing him. But it meant he'd have less time once he'd made up his mind he wanted me after all. I slid the bolt on his door and tried to look like this was all new and overwhelming for me as well. What I was thinking was Paul would be more likely to get on with it if he thought of us as two friends fooling around rather than as an experienced prostitute and his hassling, bashful virgin trick.
What I was really feeling was contempt. I could've hit him for being dumb enough not to see all I wanted was my money and to get out of there and I didn't care whether he felt terrified, head-over-heels in love with me, or anything else.
"Sit on the bed, Paul."
He moved over to the single in the corner, the same place I'd shagged his first university girlfriend during his first university houseparty. I went over to his desk and looked at the notes he'd been making, turning my back on him so he could look at my ass. I was hoping the curves I'd worked into my butt would get Paul more interested in being aroused by me than being afraid of me. I turned round and stretched, expanding my chest and tensing my arms then ruffling my own hair so my fringe fell over my eyes. I could see I was getting more of Paul's attention and his doubts were getting less.
I asked him if he had any porn and he gestured to the top of his wardrobe. Between copies of girly titles were some pretty strong man-on-man magazines. Now he'd let me in on his secret wank stash I knew I'd got Paul to the stage where we were going to go through with sex whether he felt good about it or not. I flicked through the colour photos of American soldiers and baseball players with their mouths or arses full of each others cock, trying to guess what Paul liked to fist himself over the best.
"This is hot stuff, matey. Fuck me, look at the size of that guy's fucking hard-on. Jeez, what bollocks, Paul."
I turned the shot to show my course-mate, moving closer to him with the magazine held so the bottom of it was just above the line of meat in my own jeans. Paul glanced from the picture to my confidently smiling face and he grinned at me. I was thrown because he suddenly seemed less like a time-wasting wallflower and more like the guy I knew and liked at college. It seemed like I'd dropped a shield or something because while I felt wrong-footed and on-guard, Paul began to look like he was chilling out.
"Yeah, you like this stuff, don't you, Paul? You like seeing guys balling away at each other, eh?"
I sounded mean because I was trying to get across that Paul might be into queer hardcore but he was the only one around that was. But, at the same time, I stroked my hand down his cheek, feeling the light bristles of his nineteen year old's five o'clock shadow. I dropped the magazine on the bed and moved to start unbuttoning Paul's shirt. He looked up at me and while I undressed him, I began concentrating on developing my hard-on. Some of the guys I've slept with are more turned on if I stay soft with them but I was pretty sure Paul would want to see my penis in its family-sized state. All I had to do to get it putting on the pounds was think about anything to do with sex. Pulling his shirt off out of his jeans, I got the comforting male changing-room smell of Paul's body. He was smooth and well-developed; his chest hairless with good pecs and small, dark nipples. I was unfazed by the idea of Paul arousing me sexually because from time to time guys had in the past. Usually though, I felt more aggressive than anything towards guys who aroused me, with Paul I was interested in seeing his dick but still felt as if I liked him as a friend.
I pulled him to his feet. He was slightly shorter than me, about six foot. We were close enough so I could hear the rapid rate of his breathing. I lifted my hand to squeeze the big bar of cock distorting the front of his soft, faded jeans. I was pinching his knob hard enough to start softening it, trying to give him more time before he came. He winced as I gripped him, which I liked. With my free hand, I shrugged off my jacket and then, still forcing Paul's cock to fade away, I put my arm around him and pulled him close against me. His broad back was warm and smooth. I rubbed down it then got my hand between the cheeks of his well-rounded behind. I released his dick and used both hands to pull the two spheres of his teenage arse apart. Still uncertain with his eyes closed, he was panting against my neck, his own hands resting lightly on my shoulders. I pulled his crotch against mine, feeling his big prick across the semi-erection I'd managed to sort out for him. I thought I'd cocked up and he was coming, because suddenly his hold on me tightened and he sighed this big heavy kind of sob.
"Whassup, Pauly?"
"I love you, Noah"
I had to be cool. My instinct was to laugh in his face or push him away and walk out but I'd wasted too much effort to let him keep his fifty quid so I tried to let it go by. No way. He wanted to look me in the face and tell me again about all the bullshit rushing round his pansy brain. I was ready to kill him but just shut him up, sat him back on the bed and got down next to him. I glanced quickly at the idiot sincerity in his eyes then pinched and twisted his left nipple. Like I'd hoped, he was distracted enough by the dick-enlarging agony on his tit to stop spilling his guts about romantic attachments. He put his head back, gasping with pain, and I opened my mouth against his throat, letting him know any second now he was going to get his first kiss from another guy.
I worked my way from his neck up to his ear and then full onto his lips. He opened them and we were mouth to mouth, him moaning slightly as my tongue went between his teeth and my hand found his dick again. I jerked him off through the denim, liking the fact that even if he had a poof's emotions, he had a pony's length of cock.
While we were still slurping at each other's faces, I unbuckled his belt and got his fly down. Now he could feel the heat of my hand with only his boxers separating it from his bare erection. I switched gear to work on his horn more gently, sliding his foreskin slowly back and forward over his wet bell-end. Having silenced him and with his jeans half off, I thought things were starting to go my way but Paul's next faggoty stunt was to start shuddering like he was about to freeze or have a heart attack. I let him go and lay back on the bed, my own fat cock obvious and available to him.
"Go on, man: give it a good feel."
"I can't. I'm crapping myself."
Topless, good-looking and muscular with one of the university's biggest hard-ons inches away from his hand, he was wasting time worrying about what would happen to him if he finally did all the stuff he'd been wanking about all his life. I was sick of him. I sat up.
"OK. You're edgy. Look, give me the fifty quid."
He got up and went over to his sock drawer, fumbling for money. I've got to admit, I was checking out his ass, noticing for the first time, now I'd felt it up, it was in pretty good shape: round and tight. I took the notes he handed to me.
"That's a week's grant, Paul: all gone. You've paid and I'm keeping it. If you go on screwing things up for yourself by thinking too much, I'm going to be out of here and you'll have shelled out for something you haven't used. For God's sake, stop worrying what your Mum might think if she was here and do whatever the fuck you wanted to do to me when you asked me round. Cause this is our last date. I'm not doing this again. Get going or I'm gone."
For a second I thought I was going to have him in tears, but the news that this was his last chance with me did the trick and suddenly he was on his knees between my thighs with his face close to my groin.
I lounged back on the bed, but I wasn't relaxing. I knew if I kept things moving Paul's need to come would beat his nerves. I watched each expression on his face, reading him with the confidence of my experience fucking other nineteen year old virgins. He was looking down at the crotch of my jeans, his tongue on his lips with nothing inside his brain but the idea of seeing and touching my dick. I placed my hand over my own packet, kneading it right in front of Paul. I stretched my other arm out and pulled Paul's head down between my legs so his nose was against my bar. I was using the pressure and warmth of his mouth on my bollocks to get my prick properly stiff. Having his face between my thighs also gave me the freedom to check my punter's progress. Paul's big prick was where it should have been: sticking up under his boxers like a giant's finger, with enough precum at its blunt tip to make his shorts see-through. Once again, I was professional enough to lean forward and squeeze his cock end, pushing away the final whistle of his orgasm. He was burrowing at my crotch like he wanted to try sucking me off through my jeans so I pushed him back.
"Tell me what you want, Pauly."
"I want you."
"What d'you want to do to me?"
There was a pause and I wondered which of the million sleazy, fuck-action thoughts that people had said to me in the past might be on Paul's lips.
"I want to look after you, man...be your friend."
Honestly. That's what he said. I was beyond anger because by now, nothing the dozy twat could say was going to surprise me.
I looked down at the erect dick I'd given myself on his behalf and decided it was time to get the whole useless wash-out over and done with. What a shameful waste of my cock.
Ignoring Paul's tearful gaze up at me, I unbuckled my belt and opened my fly, shrugging my jeans down so Paul could appreciate the big bone pointing north-north-west under my jockeys. I was picky about underwear on the game and I'd thought wearing the Calvins he'd probably drooled over in underwear ads might click with some of my fellow student's adolescent wet dreams. He was pretty interested, that's for sure.
Showing unusual daring, he gently rubbed up and down the underside of my shaft. It felt all right. I lay back again leaving Paul alone while he formed a link between our two cocks, starting to caress his own with one hand while smoothing his fingertips over mine. Keeping my eyes and mind off him, I pushed my pants down, uncovering my bare bollocks to him. I heard him inhale and noted it had been worth the splash of Fahrenheit I'd used to tone up the all-male smell of my groin. I gripped the base of my pole and bent it down closer to Paul's mouth. By his standards, he was quick to catch on and the next thing I felt was my shy client kissing the crown of my knob. He'd thought about doing this before; probably checked me out in the showers then gone home holding on to the thought of the pretty-near perfect weapon he'd caught sight of. I knew he'd been fantasising about gobbing blokes off because he had all his moves ready: his mouth all wet, his lips pulled over his teeth, a soft warm clamp for my cock. Staying in charge is a basic rentboy skill but I admit even my self-control has limits and when Paul began drawing up and down my erection I was curious enough about how well he was doing it to lift my head and watch him at work. His eyes were shut with concentration as he tried his apprentice best to give my prick the blow job of the century. It was a loving, craftsmanslike performance; almost good enough to take my mind off all the farting around he'd done earlier.
Before I started enjoying myself too much, I pulled my dick away from Paul's mouth and began what would normally have been the work I do to guarantee repeat custom: pleasuring the client. The way I felt at the time, Paul wasn't ever going to get a second bite of my cherry, but I was going to give him the same Noah Green good time as everyone else. After all, if Paul eventually plucked up courage to join his card-carrying brothers and sisters in the Union Gaysoc, his good word-of-mouth could be worth a year's grocery bills to me.
I got up from his bed and let him pull my shoes, socks, jeans and pants off while removed my shirt. He wasn't as feverish to get me naked as most tricks; more like a hurried butler than the frantic boy on Christmas morning I'd have expected. He still had his jeans round his knees and I left them there when he stood back up. His dick pressed urgently against the front of his white shorts, the patch of precum spreading further every second.
"Put your hands behind your back and stay still."
"Oh, God."
Having had his first taste of dick, it was time for Paul to find out what someone else's mouth could do for him. My tongue is an athlete in its own right. If there were professional tongue Olympics I could have abandoned football and cricket long ago because the warm, slippy five inch pal I kept in my mouth would have won every trophy going. No-one I had ever fucked around with - including the men who'd discovered they weren't into men after all - had anything but grateful praise for the powers of my mouth.
I licked up the fat length of prick stretching under Paul's underwear, curling around the thick shaft and softly chomping at its head. Then, with my own hands as far away from the action as Paul's, I set about pulling his penis out into the open air. While I ferreted around easing and tugging at his tool, I was able to work on his butt cheeks at the same time. I stroked the globes of his ass, easing them apart at the exact moment I finally hauled his big member into view.
Looking up at Paul with his blond, altar-boy flick; semi-handsome nineteen year old's face all serious about what I was doing to him; his fit, flat, tanned torso and good nine inch cock rearing up out of his shorts made me wonder if even I was 100% hetero. He looked like one tough, turned on fucker that's for sure. I felt like any guy seeing him would've been at least jealous of him; maybe more than would admit it would have felt a stirring down below. I gave my cock a stroke to keep it going, dogging Paul while I did it to give him the impression I was genuinely after his arse. I blew gently on his balls and bell-end to cool his horn, then reached up his body to squeeze the tight peak of his left nipple, twisting his little tit and feeling the firm pad of pectoral underneath. Paul showed he liked each extra feature of the full valet service I was giving him by shutting his eyes and groaning. His cock looked like it was about to break free. It was long, bone-hard and still dripping precum; the pink-purple dome as runny as melting ice. I knew one more touch of my tongue and the guy was going to lose it.
"Yeah, Paul. You're such a horny fucker. Shall I gob you off, mate?"
He could barely talk.
"Uh, uh...mmmm. I want it. Please, Noah, do it. Fucking please."
"All right, man. Let's see if those bollocks are as full as they look."
I pulled Paul's boxers down to his feet, stood up and took his hand. Moving slowly to relax him I led him over to his bed.
"Lie down on your back."
He looked nervous enough to be waiting for some kind of doctor's exam. Except for the pulsing horse-sized hard-on against his stomach, that is. His dick seemed clear its only interest was in spunking his load. I knew I was about to give him the ejaculation of his life. I felt happy: proud I'd got him this far, and pleased for him because he was about to get a really good seeing to.
That's not to say everything was perfect, though. I'd given myself a good full stiffy which, with me standing over him at the side of the bed, should have been the only thing Paul cared about. Cock was obviously not enough for my personal doe-eyed, love-slave, however, since he was still gazing sadly at my face. I smiled and pulled his eyes away by dropping my own, taking my premium erection in hand and forcing it down to point towards him.
"God, you've given me a big fucking chubby, mate. Look at that. You like that, Paul?
"Mmm"
"Yeah, fucking too right. Look at what you've done to my big prick. It's all for you, baby."
I got down onto the bed, climbing astride him; my arse on his diaphragm and my prick in his face. He heaved his chest and I felt the warm muscle of his torso against my butt. In my experience, sucking dick is rough for anyone the first time and I didn't want to phase him by putting my dick in his mouth again, but I knew Paul was truly hot for his first real sight and smell of adult hard-on. I gave him a few seconds of slow, in-your-face wanking, watching his eyes eat up every detail of the easy strokes I was taking up and down my shaft. Next, I moved myself further down his body until I could feel that big old horn of his nudging between my buttocks.
I knew the next bit would be cool for both of us. I slid a bit further back to feel him pressed hard between the muscled cheeks of my bottom, then rubbed and squeezed the full length of his prick, kneading him with my tight ass. All that bullshit about faggots being the only ones with horny arseholes. Any woman I've ever done it with likes to have me up there and every bloke I've ever known is sexy for anus-play too. So I didn't blame myself, as I shagged my butthole up and down my fellow student's penis, for forgetting Paul was supposed to be the only one having a good time. I jerked myself off looking down at him, not worrying about money or customer service, just enjoying being young, in-shape and turned on with a good-looking nineteen year old underneath me.
With the head of Paul's cock against the heavy sack of my hot scrotum and still massaging his thick tool between my buttocks, I looked down at him as I frigged myself. For once his eyes were shut, his face looking strained with the agony of pleasure I was giving his dick. I said his name and his cute, sad brown eyes were back on me, even though his teeth stayed gritted as he tried to force off his climax. His gaze dropped down my body to where my hand was pulling away at the hard length between my thighs. He'd been heaving out each breath before, now he was groaning and I knew he was going to come. That would have been OK for him but a French wank with my arse wasn't how I'd planned to bring him off and it wasn't what I wanted, either. I was in control, not him. I let go my dick and quit humping at his. Frozen I looked daggers down at him, grabbing a nipple and pinching it hard.
"Don't you fucking come now, Paul. Don't you fucking premi on me, you bastard."
"Arrrrh. Uh. Uh," he groaned as the clamp I had on his tit and the tone of my voice dammed off the spunk about to pulse from his bollocks.
His self-control reminded me what a good guy he was to captain at football: quiet and loyal. Once he was breathing easy again, I moved down on him so, with my full weight on top of him, our cheeks were against each other, our chests together and our dicks and bollocks as close as they could be. I licked at his neck, breathing into his ear as I raised my butt to take both big pricks in one hand. I murmured to him while I jerked on the fistful of dick between our stomachs.
"Yeah. You're a hot lad, Pauly. Such a hot one. And you got a great cock, man. Fucking A-one, Paul. You're fucking A-one."
It was slow now. I was priming him for the last part of the job he'd paid me to do. I didn't hate him as much any more. In a way - just for that moment - I was pleased he had a crush on me. For a second, as he put his muscly arms around me and I gripped our cocks tighter together, I felt sad. I was sort of sorry that he was paying me to be with him and that I had to hate him because he was a shirt-lifter.
I released our pricks and raised myself from on top of him, breaking the tight hold he had of me. I looked down into his face, our eyes centimetres apart. I lowered my mouth and kissed him, pressing down hard against his lips, my tongue against his. All the time, I was pooling spit ready to use on him. Right now I was drooling into his mouth, next thing I was licking and biting at the teenage stubble on his chin, then I was soaking and nibbling his nipples, leaving a trail of my saliva on his body as I made my way towards my final goal: the pulsing heat of his rock-hard erection. It didn't seem to click with Paul he was about to get a blow job until I hit the hard curve of stomach below his navel.
My nose was touching his hard-on now and - his cock already having had one encounter with my tongue earlier - I'd expected him to have been desperate for more. But there'd obviously been other things on his mind because I didn't hear the pleading moans I'd been expecting until I was nuzzling against the hairy flatness where his pubes began, my lips near the thick base of his straining penis. Just like before, I blew softly on him; cooling the big eggs churning away inside his tight young scrotum. I glanced up to check his eyes were closed: his every sense concentrated on the feelings my mouth was about to give his horn. I hovered over his knob, getting my tongue and throat really wet ready for him, then suctioned my lips round his crown and pushed hard down over his tight, sensitive bone. He lost it, shouting "fuck" as he felt himself plunging into the soft clasp of my throat. Every muscle tensed as he arched up from the bed and began shooting his load. I shut my eyes, breathed through my nose and began pumping up and down, milking each heavy jet of come his dick produced, wanting to suck him dry of every drop he could muster. As soon as his body began to relax and the spasms of his dick subsided, I stopped my siphoning and ran a hand over his chest and stomach, comforting him. I gave him a few more seconds of feeling his dick start to soften inside a mouth full of his own cream then drew my head away from his crotch, leaving his big dripping dick to melt away by itself.
Of course, my mouth was still full - still completely full - of my exhausted young friend's gloopy fuck juice. And there was no way I was downing it for him. Thirty minutes beforehand I might have spat it out in his boxers, got dressed without talking to him and been out of there without leaving him time to start writing love poetry to me all over again. But he'd been good. I liked how in-shape his body was; I liked the fact that even though he was a virgin, he'd controlled himself and I liked him as a friend. He'd been good, I'd knackered him and I felt sorry for him for being goofy on me. In my mind, I cancelled whatever it was I'd been planning to do after I'd finished with Paul and I moved back up his body. One of the rentboys I'd met working the streets of Manchester during my first degree had taught me the best thing to do with a mouthful of jism was give it back to the guy who'd given it you.
Trying to make out it was all part of the service, I worked on Paul's lips until he opened his mouth to me then released the spunky package I'd carried back to him. Some he swallowed, some he dribbled; but the wet sleaziness of taking his own come from me got him going again. I chilled him by taking my mouth away.
"OK, Paul? I'd better let you get back to your essay now, hadn't I, matey."
Panic.
"God, Noah. You can't go. Please don't leave. Please, man."
Straight off - no hanging around - he was crying. I hugged him to my chest so he couldn't see me thinking what to do. Paul wasn't some speccy manipulator threatening to top himself if I didn't bring him off again for free. If he had been we'd have had a scary talk right then about how much trouble people who tried fucking me around got into. Paul was in real trouble. I was pissed off but I didn't want him doing anything stupid. I didn't even want him being unhappy. He was a good guy. I liked him. But he was still sobbing away.
"I love you. I bloody love you, Noah. Please stay with me. Just five minutes more. I'll pay you for it next week."
"Paul. Cool down. I'll stay for a bit. But this isn't going anywhere, you know. I've got a girlfriend. I'm not queer. You need help, mate. I don't sell it."
His tears were wet on my chest. He was genuinely sobbing, now. Like a boy. I held his head against me and slid my legs around him; trying to think how I comforted Sarah when she was down. The thing was, if anything, Sarah was even tougher than me: she didn't need much comfort. I thought I was glad she didn't but a funny thing with Paul was that: even while I was groaning to myself about the hassle a lovesick course-mate might represent, I actually liked how much he needed me. I wasn't just flattered by him being desperate for me physically, it went further than that. To be honest, lying there holding him, both of us in the nude, my cock still hard and his cock soft, I liked the fact I was important enough to a solid, honest, athletic guy like Paul to make him cry. While he clung to me in tears, I pressed my lips against his hair, pulled him closer and closed my eyes.