It was sweet, must be said, that he never compelled me to remove my shirt. He said nothing the moment his hands touched the body-shaping vest I was wearing beneath. I had put on weight over Christmas and was feeling self-conscious about the width of my waist. It’s good that he did not see me with my top off because body-shapers are made for white people and look very awkward on my dark skin tone. It would have been hard to get rid of that corset anyway. He was happy to simply strip me off my pants. He wasn’t all bad. I loved how he stroked my face stubble with his thumb. And when I asked him, post-coitus, “what’s that thing over there?” he stretched and jumped out of bed. He showed me with pride an award he had won as a student back home. He looked back at me. He got close. He crouched and kissed my soft cock. I warned him: “It will get hard again…” “That’s OK,” he replied. And I was reminded of how, earlier on, in the thralls of passion, when almost against my will I shouted “Daddy!”, he looked at my eyes, put his ear on my chest and said: “Your heartbeat sounds just like the overture of Rigoletto”.