Andrew and I

To say that me and Andrew were only friends would have been a gross understatement. Lovers felt too sickly and no label inbetween seemed to recognise the nuances of our relationship.

We'd met in our first year of University, both English students and both with a penchant for creative writing. There wasn't any more than a two month age gap between us but the way that he carried himself often made him feel more like my mentor. In general conversation it was clear that this perspective worked vice versa. Andrew could tell that I looked up to him and it was never that he spoke down to me, but the way that he made everything sound like a life lesson definitely gave the implication that he saw me as some sort of apprentice.

Not that I minded. Even if we hadn't synced personality wise, I would have still been completely enamoured by Andrew from the first moment I'd seen him. He was the brooding type. Stylishly messy black hair that fell in waves and was cleanly cropped above pierced ears. Thick eyebrows that framed a beautifully expressive face and a strong nose that wrinkled playfully whenever I said something that he found amusing. His eyes justified almost an entire page completely. Honey coloured and flecked with gold. Sometimes I found myself babbling on about something completely nonsensical just to melt in his gaze.

But we're getting off topic.

Andrew and I often found ourselves sharing ideas, stories; sometimes I'd find him in my dorm room after a night out, sprawled out on my cramped bed and teasingly suggesting I read him one of my essays in order to help him get to sleep. Not that he didn't find faults with what I wrote. I was constantly getting critiques that my work was too personal.

"If I wanted to read about you, I'd find your diary, Jonas." He joked. Or it started off as a joke, at least. But the more we got to know eachother, the more of our intimate writing we shared. Soon enough, nothing was off limits.

Andrew had invited me over to his place tonight. He wasn't in student accommodation, and was wealthy enough to afford an apartment in the city. With its size and sheer beauty, along with the books that filled the walls from top to bottom, I couldn't help but be surprised at the insistence that we spend so much time sat on the floor of my room.

It had been raining that night and as we stepped into the dimly lit hallway, I found myself watching as he peeled off his coat and dropped it carelessly to the floor. Toned muscles peaked out under the dampness of his white button-up. I'd left my jacket back at my dorm and quickly found myself underneath the warmth of a soft towel that had been thrown over my head.

"Do you smoke, Jonesy?" Andrew had wandered into the main living space and when I followed him, I found him sprawled out on one of three sofas, legs kicked carelessly up over the side.

"Nah. I mean, once or twice but my mum smoked for years, said she'd kill me if she ever saw me with a cigarette." My response is met with a derisive snort.

"I don't see your mum here, do you?"

I laugh sheepishly, for some reason looking around instinctively, just to make sure my mum hadn't followed me for three hundred miles to make sure I wasn't breaking her deep seated family morals. The apartment was big, but definitely empty other than the two of us.

Andrew pats the seat of the sofa beside him and I sit down, sinking into the soft cushions that looked like they cost more than my student loans. I was being suffocated in privilege. I part my lips to say as much but he props a cigarette between them instead and leans in close to light it for me. His cologne smells sweet and feminine. I'd dislike it on anyone else other than him.

"Have you finished the essay for Nora yet?"

Nora. Nora Hindmarsh. Head of our English course. As much as I was enamoured by Andrew I was captivated by Nora. Equal parts Scottish and Jamaican and a penchant for floral patterns. She carried herself very gracefully but had a wry smile that made my heart flutter, and Andrew knew this.

"I can tell she wants me." He says breezily, lighting himself a cigarette. He lets the comment hang in the air and regards me thoughtfully. He must catch the confusion in my expression because he laughs and blows smoke out into my face.

"Bullshit." I reply flatly, pushing him back with my foot in an attempt to be playful, as opposed to annoyed. "You only think that because your head's bigger than your student loan. You think that everybody who smiles at you as a thing for you."

Andrew exhales a laugh and shakes his head. He gets up from the sofa and over to the liquor cabinet that hangs in the corner of the room. He returns with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. One gets set down in front of me. He doesn't even fill the glasses, but instead waits as if expecting me to do so. It's only once I pick up the bottle and lean over to fill his glass first that he continues the story.

"Not bullshit, mate. She had me stay behind last Wednesday. Said she wanted to check over my notes." It's the most mundane beginning to a story but I'm already intrigued. I forget that I'm supposed to be smoking and the neglected ash lands on my trouser leg.

"She was wearing that shirt. You know the slightly sheer one with lace at the collar? Bent over my work space so that I had a clear view of her cleavage." As he speaks, Andrew leans over me, propping one hand on the sofa behind me to support himself. I'm level with his shirt pocket but my gaze doesn't leave his. The look in his eye is steely, almost as if challenging me to be jealous; and the smirk that I knew so well played on his lips. "She looked over at the shit I'd scrawled out in ten minutes as if it was the most impressive thing in the world. Put her hand on my arm all friendly-like. Gave it a supportive squeeze and told me how much of a good job I was doing." Andrew's hand was on my arm now. Squeezing my bicep. I swallow hard and set the whiskey down, trying to keep myself busy so that I don't get completely lost in him like I know he wants me to. "I thought she was going to kiss me. I'm pretty sure she almost did." He's hushed his voice purposefully now, and his face was mere inches from mine. It took all of my effort to make sure my eyes didn't flutter shut in a pathetic expectation that he was about to kiss me.

His hand pats my cheek a little too hard and he moves away suddenly so that he's sitting down next to me again. He picks up his glass and takes a sip, I take this as an excuse to fill my own.

"Probably just giving you an incentive to actually work in the lecture instead of just coasting by." I tease, and he gives me a slight shove.

"Maybe. If that's the case then you shouldn't be working so hard. Maybe she'll keep you behind too." His hand moves up to my damp curls that were still sticking flatly to my face, and pushes them back idly with his fingers. I roll my eyes and take a measured drink of whiskey. I cringe at the taste it leaves on my tongue.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Is all I know how to reply, flushed cheeks betraying how I really feel. Andrew notices this and smiles, his nose wrinkling.

"You don't think I see how hard you get for her? You get almost as much of a boner for Hindmarsh than you do for me."

This really made my heart pang in my chest. I'd always assumed that my admiration for Andrew had come across as platonic. I'd never had any idea he'd suspected any different.

"Jesus, Jonas. I'm not blind."

My flush deepens with embarrassment. Not that Andrew seems particularly weirded out. The glint in his eye told me that he found the whole ordeal endlessly amusing. And was perhaps a little flattered himself. I expect him to continue teasing me about it, but what I don't expect is when he glides his fingers down from my hair to my jaw. He lets them linger for a while before shifting position and knocking back the rest of his drink.

"Finish your whiskey and then show me what you've written for Monday."

Obediently, I clear my glass and then get up, grabbing my bag from the hallway. When I return I find that my glass has been refilled, and that Andrew is now reclining across the entire sofa, lazily just drinking from the bottle now. When he sees that I've entered the room again he looks up and grins, pulling his legs up so that there's a little room for me to sit.

"Take a seat." He offers, mockingly professional.

So I do, and as soon as I've gotten comfortable, Andrew stretches his legs out into my lap. When I look over at him I notice that his eyes are shut.

"Read it out. I wanna hear what you've written."

I wasn't sure if he just found my voice therapeutic or got off correcting what he thought was sloppy about my writing, but I begin to read. I'm only a few sentences in when I feel him begin to get slightly restless. His expression is still peaceful and complacent, but I soon notice that his foot is tracing circles on my lap. A fairly innocent gesture, only a bulge is beginning to make itself known in my trousers. My voice wavers hesitantly, but this only makes his movements more assertive.

"Keep going." He urges softly.

"Andrew what are you doing?" I ask, causing him to sigh impatiently, as if I've interrupted him. He sits up and hands me my second glass of whiskey, that I'm not even sure I want. I think he just wants me to match the same level of drunkenness that he's at. He had a tendency to be a bit of a lightweight. I almost don't take it, but he insists, and rests the rim of the glass against my lips, tilting it slightly. I only accept it so that he doesn't spill the contents over my shirt. I was still damp enough from the rain. Once I've drank enough that he deems satisfactory, he gestures for me to continue. His eyes aren't shut this time, but instead staring at me intently.

The words imprinted on the page are a little more blurred now and so my pace slows down. I find myself tripping over the complexity of the language. I can feel Andrew's hands moving lightly along my body, but when I look up with a questioning glance he swats me, forcing my eyes back to my essay. Goosebumps prickle my arms as his fingers graze my chest and linger at my lap.

"You should have used an imperative there. It'd roll off the tongue nicer." He murmurs, still critiquing as he makes me melt at his fingertips. I do well to ignore his handiwork until I hear the sound of my zipper coming undone. A light gasp interrupts my prose as his hand fishes my member out of my underwear. But this only rewards me with a scolding smack to the face. It's not hard. But it's enough to stun me momentarily.

"Don't stop."

I nod dumbly, shuffling sheets a little rushed to find the second page. Andrew's developed a nice rhythm to pumping my cock in his hand. And his fingers are so soft, oh my God.

The heat on my face from where I was hit has now all but filtered to the rest of the body. My entire body feels like it's on fire. Andrew must be feeling the same because his free hand is now gracefully undoing the buttons on his jeans. His thumb casually brushes against my tip, spreading sparks through my shaft. I must have begun making sounds of encouragement because his grip tightens and his speed picks up. I'm still reading but my voice has become higher pitched, more desperate. Every vowel sounds like a moan. Is a moan. I'm so close to climax when he let's go. His fingers stroke me softly, but not enough to relieve how pent up I am. When I look up from my page I see that his trousers are pooled by his ankles and a very obvious boner presses up against his thin briefs.

"Let me continue. I can find better uses for your mouth."

He plucks the paper from my hands and reclines back, lazily propping an arm up behind his head. I don't even have to be explicitly told what to do. As soon as the opportunity's given to me I take it. I move onto my stomach and between his legs. I peel his underwear down eagerly, exposing his beautiful cock. And of course it's beautiful. Thick and cut. Around 8 inches in length and a tip that fits perfectly around my lips. He hisses slightly as my tongue laps at his slit, but other than that he begins to read as casually as he would've if he'd been asked to do so in class. I'm almost insulted, and take his unresponsiveness as a challenge. I brace myself on his thighs and begin bobbing up and down on his throbbing member, expertly making it hit the back of my throat each time. I do this a few times, trying to coax a moan from him. One time when I have him in my throat I feel his fingers suddenly gripping at my hair, forcing me to stay there. His pubes tickle my nose and I groan in protest. This only makes his grip tighten, his fingers wrap tightly around locks of my hair and instead of allowing me to suck him off on my terms, suddenly they're his. His hips thrust up into my mouth but his movement's restricted from the way that he's lying down, so he pulls me up slightly, allowing himself to sit up.

"You lack the ability to cock suck as much as you lack the ability to add detail to your writing. Put some fucking strength in it, man."

His hands are now interlocked at the back of my head and he proceeds to fuck my mouth fiercely. Drool spills out of the side of my mouth and my eyes water. Whiskey and arousal are clouding my head so much that I barely know what to do with myself, so I allow myself to become limp so that he can do what he wants.

My essay sits disregarded on the space of the sofa next to him and his grunts and moans fill the room, echoing in my ears.

After a few more seconds, although it feels like hours, he holds me still again and cums in my mouth. It shoots straight down my throat and he warns me not to spill any.

"Drink it up, Jonesy." He murmurs breathlessly, eyes fluttering shut. "Good boy."

As he's coming down he doesn't let me pull myself up from his cock. Not that I complain too much. I lap the last traces of cum from his tip, watching him shudder as I do so.

Finally he lets go. I slowly sit back up and he's staring at me. Smiling. I touch my face self consciously. I must look like a right fucking mess. Hair sticking up, cum and spit smeared on my face, flushed cheeks. He pulls me forward by the shirt collar and kisses me quickly on the lips. It isn't intimate or passionate. Just sweet and casual. But it's enough to make my heart melt.

"You should write something else for me to read soon. It's important to keep up to date on your school work." The way he says it is so suggestive that I laugh.

"Yeah." I say, watching as he pushes his cock back into his briefs. "I will."