about the art of self-pleasure during those couple of months, it turned out on that last morning that he made a pretty good teacher himself.

I think the best part was when he came. The feel of it erupting into the narrow space between us, splashing upwards between our chests and stomachs, hot and wet, was fantastic. The feel of it lubricating our chests as we kept thrusting against each other, the smell of it, thick and seedy in the air.

My own orgasm was seconds behind it. His finger was still pummeling my arsehole, still sliding in and out of me, and it enhanced and intensified the power of my climax. I sprayed my own cum, thinner and less viscous, to add to the wetness between us; my own white fountain combining with his.

After we'd calmed down, still panting but more recovering, we pulled apart.

Peter's finger was still inside me: he seemed fascinated to leave it there, maybe wanting to feel my excitement diminish, to feel my pulse slow down.

Our chests and stomachs were covered with our semen, his seeming more thickly coated than mine because it clung to his hair. Our cocks, only gradually softening, pressed into each other like a couple of lovers, his looking thicker and mine slightly longer.

Then Peter pulled his finger out of me and we stood up.

He reached for his briefs and started wiping himself down. He said, "We'll have to look each other up sometime. I'll give you my number... maybe a drink sometime..."

I agreed.

But then, things moved on, we got back to our own lives, and we never did.

I often wonder what would have happened if we'd been together another week or so after that Sunday morning. How it would have progressed if it had continued, what other stuff we could have learned together.

Even now, I wonder whether, one evening or morning, shattered by the intensity of the work and the long hours, we'd have taken it a bit further. Whether he'd have replaced his finger with something more substantial; replaced the squeezing of his right hand with my tighter muscles. Whether I'd have enjoyed having him on top of me, his chest hair rubbing against my hairless stomach as he fucked me. How it would have felt.

But it didn't happen. Once I'd got back into the routine of normal life, back around my own things and together with my old friends, Peter seemed unreal; the whole of those three months remembered like something from a bizarre dream. So I never called him.

And I guess he felt the same because, even though I gave him my number, he never called me.

Maybe we'd both learned enough.

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