Rory and Sebastian

--Like most of the stories, this installment is once again from Sebastian's point of view, rather than Rory's. Like all of the stories, they are above the age of 18. Thank you so much to everyone for their comments on this series so far. --

'How long has he been like this?'

Robbie looked at me as we walked through the school grounds to the playing fields. Where I'd first begun speaking to Rory properly, only a few weeks earlier. There was no hesitancy in Robbie and no attempt to play coy with the information or to ineffectually cover it up. He was straight down the line with the information; it was one of the reasons why he and I got along so well together. We were very alike in that respect. 'A while,' he said. 'I don't know when it started. I know when I first started to notice something wasn't right, but I don't know when it started in Rory's head.'

'He was never fat, though. Was he?' I asked. It was a rhetorical question. I'm sure I'd've remembered him getting as trim as he was now, if he'd been larger at some point. But at least if he had been, there'd be a firm, certifiable moment where the 'problem' began.

'No,' Robbie said. 'Not in anyone else's eyes at least. He was a bit podgy for, like, a year, in prep school, like we all were at some point, y'know? I can remember someone making a joke about it in football one day, when we were getting changed. Kids' stuff. I remember it because it was the first time I'd ever heard anyone insult Rory. And I think, to be honest, that it just ate away at him, under the surface. Then, when we started going here, I began noticing things like he wouldn't take his top off if we were sharing a bed or sleeping over together or anything like that.'

'And you would?'

'Yeah. Of course. That's what made it obvious. Then, little things – especially once we started drinking. At times, he'd get upset about it when he was drunk. Really, really upset. Or obsess about his clothes and how he looked. He'd panic if it wasn't "right."'

'It's a really big thing, isn't it, Robbie?'

'Huge,' Robbie sighed. 'I mean, he's not a mess,' he added, defensively. As if he needed to defend Rory to me. 'He's not ... a burden. If that's what you're thinking.'

'Fuck off,' I snapped, irritably. 'That's not what I think.'

'Sorry.'

'It's just ... Fuck, dude, I dunno. I mean, he's my boyfriend. And I really like him. So fucking much. And he was visibly freaking out when I started touching his stomach. Like, I've felt his boner through his jeans before and he wasn't embarrassed about that, at all. It's just...'

'It's not modesty,' Robbie explained. 'That's not what it is.'

'He cried, Robbie,' I said. I could hear the sadness in my voice; I couldn't get the image of the tears spilling down his face. 'He cried because I touched him. And I had to hold him there to get him to stop. Poor Rory. Fuck.'

Robbie flung his arm around my shoulder. 'He'll get better,' he said. 'You'll be good for him. You'll be good for each other.'

'I will make him better,' I promised. 'Also, dude, less serious note: I'm wanking so much more now.'

'Seriously?'

'Yeah, I don't know what he does to me, but I'm turned on pretty much all the fucking time.'

Robbie laughed. 'Well if that doesn't help with his self-esteem issues, I don't know what will.'

I wiped my hand down his face. 'That's the hand that does all the damage.'

Robbie burst out laughing and punched me in the arm.

*

The knowledge that Rory was riddled with one crippling neurosis settled over our relationship like a cloud, dimly streaked with gray, on a summer's day. Had Rory been allowed to do things his way, he would never have mentioned the evening he freaked out. He'd have preferred to let it slip away into silence and mentally torture himself with the memory of it. Like all of his problems, the worst of them was achieved because he was allowed to nurture them, or fester them, in the silence of his own self-flagellating thoughts. I, however, was luckily wired in a completely different way and I wouldn't let it lie, no matter how piss-bitchy he got about it from time to time. I'd put my hand under his sweater when we were hanging out on Saturdays or Sundays; I'd read aloud his jean size and mock him for thinking that it could possibly be conceived as fat; I'd regularly make obscene sexual comments to him (those, in fairness, were as much for my benefit as his) and not once, no matter what he said or did, would I ever concede that he had a point. Or that he should be 'allowed' to feel this way.

The problem with Rory's entrenched belief that he was not just fat but that he was also ugly, too, was that in every other way, Rory had a shrewd self-awareness that it is very rare to find in anyone, of any age. You couldn't possibly have accused him of being modest. Or self-deprecating. Rory was definitely aware of his cleverness, his grace, his wit and his charm. If you'd asked him, like I did one night, how he managed to "work" people, he actually could've told you, with pretty accurate precision, what bits of his personality made people respond to him in the way that they did. It was that understated elegance, the ease of his carriage and person, that I can remember being struck with the very first time I became aware of being attracted to him – on the playing fields, on the day both of us were kept off by Mr Gortchin.

Knowing all this about himself, Rory was therefore able to convince himself that because he could see the good in himself, he must also be instinctively and infallibly aware of the bad, as well. When it came to himself, I had to make Rory realize that whilst he was clever, he was not omniscient. It was a hard lesson for him to learn.

Anyway, at eighteen, Rory was unshakably convinced that he and he alone could read himself properly. He was clever, funny and confident; he was fat, ugly and unattractive. No matter what argument you put to him, and I put many - including that no-one had ever intimated in any way that he was ugly - Rory could also retort with firm, slightly sad, confidence that implied that either only people like Josh Peterly had the honesty to tell him what he actually looked like. Or that he was somehow so magically skilled with hairspray and fashion sense that he could trick us all into believing he wasn't quite the mutant that he'd appear to be if he went topless.

For the first few weeks that we were together, Rory and I therefore basically had a weird kind of non-intimate intimacy. Physical intimacy between us was everywhere and it was also painfully absent, at exactly the same time. That sounds weird, I know, but that's how I felt. I would hold his hand, we'd make out, he'd rest his head on my shoulder when we watched a movie, he'd stroke my face, feed me, he'd let me rest his head on a cushion on his lap when I'd nap after practice. But the slight tremor in his body when I'd creep up behind him, push myself on him and put my hand up his sweater onto his stomach didn't go away. No matter how often I did it. In a weird way, the fact that I knew getting Rory to be physically or sexually intimate would be one massive uphill psychological battle to overcome focused my attention on that point in our relationship far earlier than I might have done if I had just assumed that, one day soon, it'd start when the time was right and it'd all be fine. There was now no doubt in my mind that I'd have to be the one to initiate it and that I'd have to be quite firm about it. Maybe even slightly forceful. What I hadn't quite appreciated yet, however, was Rory's capacity to surprise me.

It was, maybe, about three weeks after the night at the pub with Robbie and the guys from the rugby squad – or, in Rory's head, the night he'd gone eight kinds of crazy over his stomach. We'd told everyone that we were official; Robbie, first, as our closest mutual friend. His face had kind of lit up when we told him and he and Rory spent about half an hour sequestered in the corner of the pub with their beers, heads close, laughing with one another. They looked like brothers. Sexy brothers. (My cock flared.) Anyway, after that, Rory had told the girls – Virginia, Judith, Claudia and Caroline – all of whom, except Judith, were now marginally nicer to me. As nice as the bitches of Eastwick could be; Judith at least had the emotional honesty to admit to herself that she didn't give a fuck if anyone but her lived or died, so she still looked at me as if I was some weird kind of fungus who'd wandered out of the zoo and too close to her lunch table. I ate lunch with them once. Never again. Firstly even the word 'ate' is misleading. I ate. They looked at me from their diet sodas like I needed a feeding trough. I'd told my parents about him and me; they were cool with it, and they both seemed to like Rory. My mother found him 'very sweet,' my dad liked that he was clever. Which is how my father typically decides if he likes anybody. Rory passed with flying colors. I liked Rory's parents, too. His father was a bit more reserved than his mother, but they were nice to me and gave us our space. Rory and his dad were very close, which I liked. My sister Jenny liked Rory, too; he had a better way of talking to girls than I did. Do. They got along very well. A conversation on the merits of each individual Kardashian sister seemed to seal the deal between them.

Anyway, I'd been horse riding all day Saturday and I'd told Rory that I'd be over to his house at about seven. I knew he was cooking dinner for us – steaks, which on a good day might actually make me happier than sex. I jest. Fuck me, I seriously jest! But, anyway, by the time I was done with the horses and said goodbye to my cousin, who rode with me, it was 6.50. There was no way I'd have time to go home, shower or change, without maybe fucking up Rory's cooking plans completely. I bombed over to his house in my car and got there at 7.10. He opened the door, wearing a white wool sweater and dark jeans. He looked freshly showered and his eyes were bright. Like his smile.

'I'm so sorry I'm late,' I apologized, kissing him on the lips. 'Is dinner ready? Did I fuck up?'

'No,' he laughed. 'I haven't start it, yet. You can't start steaks until the person's here! I don't even know how you take yours. Don't worry. Calm! This is funny - I've never seen you stressed before.'

I relaxed and smiled. 'I didn't want to fuck up,' I explained. 'Can I use your shower? I bombed over here from the stables. And I stink.'

For the first time since I'd arrived, Rory took a step back and looked at me properly. I was wearing my boots, dirty beige jodhpurs and a beat-up old Ralph Lauren top. I stank of horses and sweat. I purposely had not yet stepped off the entrance mat in case I messed up his mom's entrance hall. Rory, however, who was usually so fussy about anything like that, didn't seem to have noticed. His face had flushed slightly and his eyes were slightly glazed. I knew that look, like the back of my hand. It was lust.

'Ooooh,' I mocked. 'Ooh-ho.'

'What?' he answered, defensively. 'What?'

'How's your dick, Ror-Ror? Firming up?'

'I ... What?'

'It's "pardon," princess, and it's okay to admit you find me sexy. Who'd've thought it? Anti-Bac Masterton crushes extra hard on his boyfriend when he's all sweaty and dirty. You filthy bitch.'

'You're an ass,' Rory shot back, smiling. His eyes were dancing. The game play was on.

'Would you rather I'd been riding you rather than the horses today, Rory?' It suddenly hit me that his parents could definitely have overheard this and mortification shot through my body.

'Don't worry,' Rory said, smugly. Reading my thoughts. 'They're out for the evening. Go take your shower.'

'You need to help me take my boots off, slut,' I said. 'Unless you want the carpet destroyed.'

He looked at me, keenly. Making a decision. Appraising it. 'Okay. One thing, though,' he said. And then he threw himself at me, right up against me. I could feel his dick through his jeans – closer to a boner than a semi. His tongue stabbed into my mouth. I'd never seen him this forward before. And I'd rather have been bent over and been fucked up the ass by a cucumber than let the opportunity pass. I wrapped my arms around his back and one grabbed his ass, squeezing tightly. He squealed slightly into my mouth. He liked it. We were both hard now. His hands began to unbutton my jodhpurs. He was like a man possessed and, with him in this mood, so was I. I hadn't had sex, or anything like it bar masturbating, in over a month. Not since the vortex of self-annoyance brought about by Josh Peterly's tight asshole and wet mouth.

When the jodhpurs were undone and his hand was on my boxers – when he could feel my cock through the fabric – I felt him hesitate, just for a moment. And I held myself still. Stiller than he'd done when my hand went to his stomach. I didn't want to force him, but I knew he had a habit of second-guessing himself. 'Touch it,' I said, huskily. His eyes flicked up to my face and there was a small, open-lipped smirk on his lips. He looked devastatingly sexy. Naughty and prim; intelligently slutty. His eyes broke contact with mine and he looked instead at my mouth. The right corner of his lips moved slightly, as if he smile was extending, and his left hand stayed clasped on my hip, as his right hand slipped in through the slit in my boxers. That's when Rory Masterton touched my dick for the first time. My head groaned backwards, onto the Mastertons' front door; his fingers traced lightly along my shaft. Then they circled it and he swallowed. He removed his hands, temporarily; I exhaled in audible frustration. He put his hands behind my head and guided it back, so I opened my eyes and looked down at him.

'I'm so glad you're here,' he said. And I kissed him again. Hard. I'd hurt him slightly with how hard I'd slammed into him, but he kept grinding against me. When we broke apart, he was breathless, but there was hardly a nanosecond of a pause before he dropped down to his knees in front of me. He pulled my jodhpurs open further and yanked them down with my boxers. My cock sprang free and Rory's mouth fell on it. Instantly and instinctively. He wasted no time. He was trying to take as much of it in his mouth as possible. You could hear him slobbering all over it. His spit was slicking it up, I was already started to prejac and he was slurping away in the middle of his entrance hall like he was demented. His hands reached behind me and held onto the globes of my ass. I heard him whimper with lust when he reached them. The sound was muffled by the presence of my dick in his mouth, right up to the entrance to his throat. He pulled off and took deep, guttural, inelegant breaths. There were spit bubbles around his mouth and dribbling down his chin. He removed his hands from my ass and began jerking them up and down my cock. Seeing him so messed up and so unexpectedly stripped of all his usual propriety, seeing the elegance gone from him completely, seeing him reduced – or maybe elevated, fuck knows – to kneeling in his front entrance hall, slobbering and gasping over the sweaty cock of his unwashed, horse-stained boyfriend, pushed me over the edge. I loved him. That was the moment when I knew it. I think I knew it even through the lust and sweat of the situation. I didn't say it though. Not then. Instead, I yanked my top off over my head and tossed it aside. I put my hands on the back of his head and wrapped them through his hair. I guided him back towards my tool and he opened obediently. He began bobbing up and down, my hand stayed on his head and he looked up at me. Holding eye contact.

'You're beautiful,' I groaned. 'Fuck me - you've no idea how beautiful your face looks like, stuffed full of dick like this. Yeah, you fucking like that, don't you? I'm not going to last much longer,' I warned. I was telling the truth. I hadn't jerked off all day and this was unexpected. I could feel my balls tingling and I didn't want him to think that I was an early shooter, under the right circumstances.

He pulled off again and I yelled slightly in frustration. 'Sebastian,' he gasped and slurred slightly. I looked down at him. 'I want you to spunk in my mouth,' he said, firmly. His hands traced up onto my six pack: loving, erotically, entreatingly. 'I want it all in my mouth. I want it. Please,' Rory asked, 'fucking cum in my mouth.'

I nearly came there and then, just hearing him talk like that. I grabbed my dick with my hand and smacked it on his face a couple of times. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes and his mouth hung open with naked, unashamed desire. 'You want it in your mouth, Rory?' He nodded again and I cock-slapped him a few more times. 'Take it, then. Fucking take it.'

I slid my penis into his mouth and I felt relief in him that it was back there. I tightened my grip this time on my hair and his hands returned to my ass. He started pushing himself further and further down my pole. I could hear him choking and feel drool – there was too much of it now to be called spit – spilling slickly out the sides of his mouth. There was more choking and nearly a retch, as he forced the head of my dick down his throat. His nose made contact with my trimmed pubic hair and my balls were crushed slightly by his chin. I could hear him choking. I could see him turning red and I tried to back off, just a little. To give him some space, any space, to let more air in. But he tightened his grip on my ass cheeks and held me there. He was actually almost trying to choke himself on my dick, he was so into it. He swallowed; I felt his throat muscles go. I lost it and thrust forward. Spunk shot out of me and poured down Rory's throat or into his mouth. I actually screamed, or roared, as it happened. My legs and ass seized up, slightly. It was intense, visceral. Just as I'd finished spunking, Rory pulled back and his head hung forward. Ropes of my cum, mixed with his spit, hung from his mouth. He didn't have his breath back. I reached down and yanked him brutally to his feet by his arm. I spun us around, so he was the one with his back to the door and I kissed him. Savagely. I nearly had my whole tongue in his mouth. I felt his spit and my spooj trickle onto my bare chest; I tasted it in his mouth. His arms wrapped around my neck, holding me close to him. I could feel he was still shaking; I wasn't giving him anytime to recover. I pulled my, still naked, crotch away from him slightly and began to undo his belt buckle. I pressed my hand against the torso of his sweater and slammed him firmly against the door. I undid his belt, unbuttoned his fly, pulled his pants down to past his ass and then down to his knees, when I pushed his boxers into them.

I hocked. I spat into my spare hand and I could see traces of my spit, his spit and my cum in it. I reached down and grabbed his cock. I began aggressively jerking it. He was like putty in my hands. He was writhing and mewing, like a whore in heat. I reached up and yanked his sweater up. I felt him try to recoil and with great, great restraint I stopped myself from slapping him. 'If you want this to finish,' I commanded, 'then you better hold fucking still, Rory.' I kissed him again and then yanked the sweater up and off, throwing it in the same direction I'd thrown mine. I keep jerking and kissed him again, before tracing down his neck and onto his nipples. Everything on his upper body was rock hard. It was perfect. People would actually have paid to have the physique he had. It irritated me slightly, in the back of my mind, and it made me sad. But I kept kissing up and down; I pulled his nipples into my mouth and began sucking them, spitting on them, and nibbling. He was thrusting his dick into my hands and I was impressed at the size of it. He was actually quite big. Although, to my rugby boy relief, about half an inch or so shorter than me.