Rory and Sebastian Ch. 12

-- All characters are over the age of 18 --

Gaining my uncle, and my parents' permission, to go away for my first weekend alone with Rory was surprisingly easy. My uncle was close to our side of the family and he was Evan's godfather; he liked me and we played tennis together, every now and then. Rory had apparently had to work on his father's permission a bit more, but his mom was on his side, which helped clinch the final victory. I was excited when I picked him up after school on Friday afternoon; I'd gone home to quickly change into jeans, a sweater and pick up my weekend bag.

The drive was just over an hour and the weather wasn't great, but we chatted easily. He made me laugh with a story about how annoyed his friend Virginia had been in school today and I was pleased to see him toss his phone into the back of the car shortly after we left. All his attention was on us for the weekend. I liked that.

There was one moment, on the motorway, when the rain got particularly bad and I had to concentrate as I merged, that the flow of conversation naturally dropped off. When I glanced back at him a few minutes later, he'd lapsed into a deeper kind of silence and he was staring out the window into the gray torrents outside. I quickly nudged him on his leg, then put my hands back on the steering wheel. He turned to look at me and smiled a soft, slightly apologetic smile. His dark hair was bouncy; freshly washed. He was wearing a gray speckled sweater and jeans. His handsomeness was as soft and unobtrusive as his smile. Fuck me, I loved him.

'What's up?' I asked.

'Nothing,' he half-lied. 'Nothing really.'

'So something.'

'Yes, but it's not particularly interesting. It was a weird stream of thoughts.'

'What were they?'

I could hear a widening smile in his voice. 'No. I draw the line at being boring, Sebastian.'

I laughed.

'I can't wait to see your uncle's house.'

'It's nothing too special,' I qualified, 'but it's nice. From what I can remember. It's really decent of him to lend it to us.'

'It is,' Rory agreed. 'I can't believe you only brought such a small bag.'

'I don't plan on wearing too many clothes this weekend, baby.'

'I bet you don't.'

'And why'd you bring so many? The most you'll be wearing for most of tonight and tomorrow is my cum shot across your face and chest.'

'You're disgusting,' he laughed.

'You won't be saying that later when you're begging to be fucked until you can't see straight.'

'Do you ever have any ... I don't know ... fantasies?' he asked, nonchalantly. The nonchalance was a ruse. Rory was capable of being seductive and passionate with ease, but kinky was something he could pull off in a million years.

'Fantasies or fetishes?' I asked.

'Well, both, I suppose.'

'I could go with being tied up for a little bit,' I shrugged, 'by you. But nothing too weird.'

'No Fifty Shades, then?' he teased.

'Fifty Shades of Gay?' I rejoined, 'Hells no.'

He giggled.

'What about you?' I asked.

'No, not really,' he admitted. 'I'm worried it makes me dull. I just like sex, I suppose. Of the regular, normal kind.'

'Trust me, Rory, what we do is not regular. It's spectacular.'

'I'll take your word for it, since I suppose you have more experience,' he shot back. It was a good-natured jibe, but I scowled. He knew I didn't like that being brought up in conversation. 'Don't pout,' he admonished. 'It was a joke.'

'I'm not pouting, Rory. Girls pout.'

'Then you must be a big ole girl, my love, because, right now, you are quite definitely pouting. Love you.'

I turned to look at him properly and my face cracked into a smile. He was a smug bastard, yes, but I loved him. And he was mine.

'Keep your eyes on the road, Sebastian. I don't want to die tonight.'

*

We reached the house just after it got properly dark. It was a stone cottage, renovated and modernized by my aunt and uncle. I thought it was pretty; Rory, as the child of someone obsessed with architectural digests, thought it was stunning.

'I'd love a place like this,' he said, as I locked the car door. And then, as reminder of the lifestyle he'd grown up with he added, totally unconsciously, 'For weekends, obviously.'

I hid my smile. Spoiled little brat. He hurried up the path, to avoid getting soaked in the rain, and I fished the keys out of my pocket. We'd stopped for groceries on the way and he was carrying one of the bags. Obviously, I'd be cooking. Rory believed he was a genius in the kitchen, but even the full force of my love for him couldn't make me agree with him.

'You should've kept your sweater on,' he chastised. 'You're soaked already.'

My t-shirt was clinging to me because of the rain, but it'd been too hot in the car to keep my sweater on. I'd forgotten to put it back on when we got out.

'But then you wouldn't have had an opportunity to perve on me, would you?' I asked, kissing him on the lips.

I opened the door and we stepped in. A blast of cold air hit us, since the house had been unused for a couple of weeks. My teeth chattered as we stepped inside and Rory, who'd noticed, threw me a smug, triumphalist smirk. He'd been right about keeping the sweater on. Douche.

'Fuck off,' I laughed, in reference to his smile. I put our bags down and searched for the central heating button. The cottage, inside, was pretty, too, and the ground floor consisted of a kind of open plan kitchen, living room with a big old fashioned fireplace, T.V. and a wooden staircase leading upstairs. With the cold shooting through me and my stomach grumbling, even I wasn't horny right now. The bedrooms could wait.

'Shall I cook?' he asked. And he was serious. Jesus.

'No,' I replied, 'you're shit.'

'I am not!'

'You're a terrible cook. I love you, but you're horrendous.'

'I am not horrendous.'

'Okay, you're maybe not horrendous, Rory, but you're not as good as me.'

He looked at me levelly. 'That t-shirt's a hideous color on you, you know.'

I laughed again. He'd evened the score nicely. I defiantly yanked the t-shirt up off over my head I stood in front of him, topless, and he involuntarily bit his lip. He wanted it. I smirked.

'Is this a better color, Rory?'

He nodded and smiled, coyly. 'I suppose.'

'Come here.'

He walked into my arms, by the kitchen island, and we kissed. 'How happy are you that we did this?'

'Let's go get a towel,' he said tenderly, tracing my shivering skin with his hands. 'I'll dry you.'

*

Rory seemed like he was going to eat a lot at dinner, but then checked himself. I'd noticed recently that he'd been eating more; in front of me, at least. I liked it and it made me happy, but I knew that he was bound to have good days and bad days. I didn't want to nark on him constantly to eat more than he felt like, because I didn't want to turn eating into a chore. I also noticed that every time, before he ate, he'd stop and stay entirely still for a second or two. Initially, I assumed that he was gearing himself up to eat but then it occurred to me, at some point after new year's, that he was actually probably pausing to mentally say grace in his own head. I don't know how I reached that realization, but I knew, somehow, that I was right.

Rory's religion was something of a mystery to me and it was not one I brought up, too often, in conversation. I'd made the mistake once of probing him too deeply about what, I thought, were the patently stupid bits of his faith's teachings. Instead of rising to the challenge and firing back with some witty repartee, he flushed and fell silent. The only thing I could get him to concede upon, sincerely, was that he did not, in any way, agree with Catholicism's teachings on homosexuality. A tiny part of me had lived in fear that somewhere, deeply buried, he harbored a fear that he was inferior or a sinner, because he was gay.

'No,' he'd said, quietly, 'I don't agree with that bit. At all.'

But bringing it up with him or asking too many questions seemed to make him uncomfortable and uncharacteristically shy, so I usually dropped it and was content to lumber along in my own happy agnosticism. Except for the fact that I did want to know what he believed, and why. I wanted to know everything about him and to understand him. It took years before I got the knack and sensitivity to discuss his spirituality with him properly and to get results.

Rory had seemingly gotten more Catholic since we'd started dating. Or maybe, like many religious people, it only became more obvious once I spent more time with him. It wasn't like he was fanatic; far, far from it. Nor that he particularly followed his church's teachings -- his behavior in bed with me proved that! But there was something in him that innately respected the Catholic Church - far more than I, personally, felt that it deserved. He would also cross himself when we passed a Catholic chapel; he didn't like blasphemous jokes, and of course there was the fact that I'd noticed that he had started saying grace, silently in his head, before each meal. Even though I'm quite prepared to admit that I wasn't, and still am not, a big fan of the Catholic religion, I didn't mind it that much and if it made him happy and caused him no harm, then that was good enough for me. But somehow, on some deep and intrinsic level, I'd already realized that when the outward signs of Rory's religion became more obvious, it was because something wasn't quite right with him on the inside. That he was focusing on the rituals and comforts of his faith, because he needed them to steady him. Rory was never very good at telling people his weaknesses or his fears; that's why he got on so well with God. God didn't need to be told; God already knew.

When dinner was over, I lit the fire and we lay down on the sofa together to watch a movie. The rain pounded against the windows and the wind howled. It was the archetypal February weather, but it added to that sense that I'd been looking for. Isolated romance. Rory and I were, at last, completely alone with one another.

The movie was good, but with the fire crackling, the exhaustion of the school day, the drive, the food, the wine and the weather all catching up with us, we both soon drifted off to sleep. By the time I woke up again, the clock above the fireplace told me that it was eleven o'clock at night. The storm outside had not abated, but the movie had looped back to its menu.

Standing up, I felt Rory stir from where he'd been sleeping on my chest. He looked groggily as I walked over and placed another couple of logs on the fire. I walked back and put my hand down the sweatpants I'd put on before dinner, when I'd changed out of the wet jeans. I re-arranged my balls and stretched.

'We've been asleep a long time, baby,' I observed.

Rory nodded; still clearly stupid with sleep. He leant up as I lay back down, then put his head back on my chest. I stroked my hand up and down his side and listened to the weather; in a moment, I felt the steady, heavy breathing which told me he'd slipped back into his sleep. The heat from the fire and the happy peace of the situation put me into my own doze again. I woke up about twenty minutes later and shook Rory.

'Okay, baby, bed time.'

He reluctantly stirred himself and followed me upstairs. The bedroom had a big bed and timber-framed roof that slanted down. Rory used the bathroom first and emerged in a pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt; I went in after, brushed my teeth and stripped down to my boxers. It occurred to me that we mightn't even have sex on the first night away together, given how sleepy Rory had been downstairs. But as I returned to the bedroom, he was sitting up in bed, gazing at me. Now wide awake, with a mischievous look on his face. In the dim light of the bedside table, I could see that his big, brown eyes were dancing. I knew what was coming.

'Oh,' I whispered, with a cocky, pleased smile. 'Well, that answers my question.'

He opened his arms for me as I reached the bed. Our lips and then our tongues met and he laid back onto the pillows, spreading his legs to accommodate me as I lay on top of him. I was hard almost instantly and could feel that Rory was already at full salute. From the way we were grinding against each other, I knew it was going to be a good night. He pushed me off him and rolled me over onto my back.

My boner had already poked through my underwear and Rory quickly pulled them down, and threw them away. He licked up and down my cock, like it was a lollipop, spat on my balls and began massaging them, and then began bobbing furiously, up and down. Moaning with delight as he did it. I hissed with pleasure and put my hand on the back of his head.

'Look at me,' I ordered. He did and then broke away from fellatio to catch his breath; spit was already hanging out of his mouth. I guided his head back down there and he fucked his own face up and down on my dick. I saw tears start to stream out of his eyes and he was so turned on that he stuck his hand down his own pajamas and started masturbating. He didn't break eye contact with me.

'Fuck! Let me feel the back of your throat.'

He obediently lowered himself down and I kept my hand on his head, encouraging him; he was choking, spit was falling out of the sides of his mouth and tears streamed down his face. The choking became louder and he was masturbating himself more furiously. When his face was nearly purple, he pulled off and let out a deep, guttural gasp for air.

'Get on your back,' I commanded. He did and I yanked his pajamas off. His impressive erection was pointing at me, but instead I went up to kiss him; as hard and deeply as I could. Then I put my head between his legs and flipped them up in the air. As I rimmed him, he mewed with pleasure and then he began gasping as I tongue-fucked his widening, wet hole. The one I'd devirginized. The one I'd soon see my spunk leaking out of.

I rimmed Rory for nearly ten minutes and by the end he was nearly weeping through a mixture of pleasure and frustration. 'Please,' he half-sobbed, 'please, Sebastian. Put it in me. Fuck me. Please.'

I reached over to the bedside table, grabbed the lube and smeared it all over my cock that was still slick from Rory's blowjob. I pointed the head at his asshole and began to ease myself in. He threw back his head, smiled and let out a little squeal of happiness. 'That's it,' he encouraged. 'Oh, fuck, yes.'

I kept going, slowly and relentlessly, until my balls rested against him and I was buried to the hilt in his warm, wet, tight flesh. I was rough with him. I knew he wanted it. I fucked him, hard, banging the headboard off the wall and he twisted my nipples, making me groan. This was intense, visceral and fantastic. I loved him. I loved sex with him; it was perfect.

After a while, I flipped him onto his knees and entered him again. I kept up a torrent of curse-laden abuse; the kind I knew turned him on when he was in this mood. I kept asking how much he liked being my little bitch and if he liked being fucked like one. I reached round and jerked his deck and I could see sweat all over his back. Fuck knows, it was pouring off me by this stage, too.

'Sebastian, I'm going to cum,' he shouted. 'Soon.'

I pulled out of him and hurled him over, back onto his back. He bounced as he hit the bed and I slammed my full length into him. I slapped his hands away viciously and jerked off his cock myself. In a minute, his whole body tensed, his hands twisted into the sheet, his eyes and mouth hung open stupidly and ropes of cum shot through my hand and onto his torso and even hit his chin.

'Where do you want me to cum?' I asked, breathlessly.

'In me,' he whispered. His head resting on the pillow; his hair now sticking to his brow with sweat.

I pulled myself back, until only my head was in his asshole. Then, with something that I'm pretty sure sounded like a half-repressed roar, I came. A lot. The jizz shot into him and then dribbled past my cock and out of his hole. I held his legs up and put my mouth down there and licked some of the cum out. Then, I trailed up his chest and got some of his on my tongue, as well. And then I kissed him, as deeply as I could. He accepted the kiss and wrapped his arms around my back.

As we separated, I kissed his cheek gently and then landed soft kisses on his throat, as I collapsed on top of him.

'I'll move in a minute,' I promised, exhaustedly.

'Don't,' he asked. 'I like this.'

His hands trailed soothingly, up and down my back. I rolled off him in a few minutes and intertwined my fingers through his. We got up and showered together, quickly and mostly in silence. It was an efficient shower, but I soaped his back and he washed my hair. Then we dried off and padded back to bed, where Rory fell asleep again quickly. I found it harder to get to sleep, because of the epic nap we'd taken together earlier in the evening. But eventually, I nodded off.

I woke up at about six o'clock in the morning to see Rory, dressed in his pajamas, staring inscrutably out the window. The rain had eased, into a dull drizzle and it was still mostly dark outside. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but his body language seemed tense; thoughtful.

'Hey.'

If he was surprised that I was awake and watching him, he gave very little sign of it. 'Hello,' he responded. It was so delicate, so soft and so entirely, disjointedly proper. As if we were acquaintances in the 1930s, not boyfriends who only a few hours earlier had been humping each other like there was no tomorrow. His mind was occupied by something he was trying to hide from me behind a wall of politeness.

'What's up?' I asked.

He shook his head and lied. 'Nothing, really.'

'Okay. Come back to bed, then.'

Lying on my side, I held open my arms and gestured for him. He walked over and lay on his side; I was the big spoon and wrapped my arms around him. He was shivering slightly and I kissed his neck. Our hands interlocked again.

'Tell me when you're ready,' I whispered.

*

Rory told me what was on his mind later that morning. He may have been ready, but I definitely was not. It was shortly after breakfast. The rain had stopped and we were going to go for a walk along the country lanes nearby. I had just eaten a full cooked breakfast; Rory was listlessly trailing his spoon through a barely-touched bowl of porridge. As I was bringing my plate over to the sink, he said it.

'I've been making myself sick after I eat.'

I stopped and stared. As if I couldn't quite understand what he was saying. Or didn't want to. His tone was devastatingly matter-of-fact; his diction was flawless; his volume, quiet -- the only sign, at all, that he was in anyway upset or nervous about what he was saying. After a few seconds of a thunderously loud silence, he finally looked up from the patterns he was tracing with his spoon in his breakfast bowl. He looked at me. And I saw him swallow, as if trying to hold his nerve. It was the same tactic he'd adopted when we'd fought over Joshua Peterly -- he was trying to stay calm, in the hope that it would diffuse the situation and minimize the issue. If he kept his stiff upper lip, maybe then I wouldn't lose my shit.

'You've what?'

'I've been ... making myself sick.' I saw him start to get slightly flustered, now. Apparently having to say it, out loud, for a second time, was more than he'd mentally prepared himself for. 'It's happened before,' he explained, 'before I met you. When I was younger. When...'

'How long for?'

'Pardon?'

'This time. How long has this time been going on for, Rory?'

'Since about Halloween, I think.'

And that was it; the moment he said that a bolt of rage shot through me like lightening. I hurled my plate from my hand into the wall and it smashed. I saw Rory jump and his mouth popped open. His artificial calm was shattered by my fury. He hadn't been expecting this kind of a reaction.