Date: Fri, 01 May 1998 02:21:14 -0700
From: alistair.stevenson@virgin.net
Subject: Coursemate Rentboy

	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.