Date: Thu, 30 Jun 2022 02:15:37 -0400
From: Sebastiando <sebastiandorory@gmail.com>
Subject: Rory and Sebastian CH. 09

--Most of the stories told in the 'Rory and Sebastian' series are told
from Sebastian Carson's point-of-view, rather than Rory's. The only story
that's been told from Rory Masterton's POV so far is chapter 5.
Originally, this story was also supposed to be from Sebastian's POV but I
found it worked better told from Rory's. I hope you enjoy it. As before,
both characters are above the age of 18 at the time this story takes
place --

A harsh winter wind blew through the town streets and Caroline squealed
slightly as we rounded a corner. Virginia tutted and I pulled my arms in
closer around myself. Everywhere around us were tacky Christmas
decorations, apart from one slightly beautiful window display of the
Nativity in the old-style men's suits shop. It looked at least a hundred
years old. My grandfather bought his suits from that store.

'I hate this kind of weather,' sighed Virginia. 'It's so annoying.'

'I prefer the cold to heat,' I opined. 'I look better in winter clothes,
plus people sweat less.'

'The cold's bad, but it's really the wind that's awful,' Caroline
snapped, 'Your hair can survive the cold. There's nothing it can do about
looking good in the middle of a hurricane.'

I was glad Sebastian wasn't with us as she said this, but I could feel
his eye-rolling in my soul. In Caroline's defence, whilst we obviously
weren't in the middle of a hurricane, it was really windy and her hair
did look pretty awful. That was mean of me to notice it. But she'd
brought it up and it did. It looked someone had back-combed a troll doll
and then electro-shocked it. Virginia's still looked fine though, but
then she'd used enough hairspray to puncture a new hole in the ozone
layer, so that was probably why.

'It's so annoying that Judith isn't here with us,' Caroline continued.
'Do you really think she's actually that hungover, guys? Or is she just
lying?'

'Yes,' I said, in Judith's defence. 'I mean, come on, Caroline. You saw
how bad she was last night. She drank a vineyard's worth of wine. She's
probably receiving the last rites, as we speak.'

Virginia laughed. 'Did Sebastian pick you up?'

'Yes,' I answered. 'I think I made a slight fool of myself, though.'

'How?'

'I was very ... I asked him to have sex with me.'

The two girls stopped dead in the streets, right next to the jewellery
store Virginia had wanted to go into all morning. 'WHEN were you going to
tell us about all this?' she asked; mouth agog. 'We've been together for
what, like, an hour, Rory?'

'We didn't!' I exclaimed. 'But we're having "the talk" about it this
afternoon.'

'Why didn't you?' Caroline asked, still in piqued shock I hadn't revealed
this the moment we met to shop this morning.

'He said I was drunk and he didn't want to take advantage of me.'

Virginia abandoned her shock and opened the door to the store. 'He must
really, really love you, Rory.'

*

A few hours later, I was upstairs in my bedroom, working on some homework
for Religious Studies class. It was already dark outside, even though it
was only about five o'clock. I sat leafing through my Philosophy
textbook, trying to find some quotes to answer the question that they'd
set us for the last paper due in for the term. Or semester, as Sebastian
insisted upon calling it, despite having attended school in England for
years.

'For 35 marks, outline your knowledge and understanding of one
philosophical argument in favour of the existence of God or the divine.'
The joys of being an A-Level student, I guess.

I was concentrating, hard, on the words in front of me as I drew out a
plan and mind-map about the ontological argument that God existed. My
brain hurt trying to get my head around it, but then that was the point
of it. I was writing out a quote from Saint Anselm of Canterbury -- we
lived in Kent, so it's always good to keep the teacher happy by quoting a
local -- and writing notes in the margin of my notepaper when I heard
Sebastian's American twang from over my shoulder. 'An a priori argument,'
he quoted, 'i.e. seeks to prove that God exists by starting the argument
from the POV that it's already been proven.'

'Who let you in?' I asked, dryly.

'Your mom. If it was your dad, we'd be meeting downstairs. Is this for
R.S?' he asked. 'Man! And I thought Physics was hard.'

He leaned against my desk and looked at me. 'A priori argument?'

'It's called the ontological argument,' I explained. 'It's a kind of
religious argument or a philosophical one that approaches the issue of
proving the existence of God differently from all the others.'

'How?'

'Most arguments start off by trying to prove that God does exist. Which
basically means they start off by assuming either that gods don't exist
or that it's unproven.'

'Like in most science experiments,' Sebastian interjected. 'You start off
assuming you don't know the answer yet?'

'Right. Except the ontological argument starts off by saying that God
does exist and seeks to take the argument from there. Basically, God or
gods exist because they exist. Because if they didn't exist, we'd never
have come up with the concept of them existing in the first place. Make
sense?'

'Not really,' he smiled.

'It's not supposed to,' I shrugged. 'The mysteries of the universe, and
all that. Have you started the History yet?'

'Finished it,' he smirked.

'I can only imagine what kind of left-wing nonsense you rattled off,' I
teased.

'You're not dating Stalin, baby.'

The question had been on why the Russian Revolution happened and it was a
running joke between us that I was right-wing; he was left-wing. 'Oh,
come on, Sebastian. The question was about the downfall of a monarchy and
like most Americans, you're incapable of taking monarchies seriously,
because your culture has reduced them to nothing more than a point of
ridicule, in order to make it axiomatic that the system of government you
created in 1776 was good, perfect and the summit of logic.'

'It was quite a bit better than Tsarist Russia, Rory.'

'I dunno,' I said. 'There's something pretty messed up about a country
that starts off with declarations about the inviolable nature of
equality, whilst ten per cent of its population lived in racially-based
slavery. Or which still talks about it today, whilst denying fifteen per
cent of its population the right to be legally married.'

'Pissed I didn't slip my dick into you last night?' he rejoined. I
glanced up at him, in a faux-unimpressed way and he leant down and gave
me a belated 'hello' kiss on the lips. 'That'll come, Rory. And my paper
for History is incredible. So fuck you.'

'I was only teasing you,' I reasoned. I stood up and wrapped my arms
around his waist. 'I'm actually so pro-American that it's frankly
ridiculous.'

'That's because my penis is American. And because it's fucking awesome.'

'Your penis or America?'

'Both.'

'Well, they've both been the source of comfort to desperate huddled
masses in days gone-by.'

'Ouch.'

'Well...'

'Alright, fuck this,' he sighed. It wasn't an aggressive sigh; more of a
'we've joked around a little, but we're done now' sigh. I knew it well.
He nudged me over to the chair he liked to sit on, next to the coffee
table.

'I really was teasing about the America thing,' I said, kissing his neck.
'You know that, right?'

'Yes, obviously. Rory, I'm not pissed off. I just got bored of the
conversation. So -- last night.'

'Yes. Last night.' I swallowed and felt momentarily hot. Not in the good
way. Clammy, in fact, might have been a far more accurate word to
describe the feeling. I had no idea why. At least, not precisely. It
wasn't as if Sebastian seemed in any way judgmental or condescending
about last night. But I was dimly aware that my request last night was
about to propel our relationship onto the next level. The irrevocable
level of full physical intimacy. One which it would be impossible to ever
retreat from and one which was also inextricably caught up in physicality
and appearance. It would require being totally naked and, furthermore,
any failure to be "good" in bed would automatically be something that
would weaken the relationship. Despite how compatible he and I were, thus
far, there was a niggling fear, lurking in the back of my mind, that when
full sex happened, I might not perform well and that it would therefore
in fact inflict the first crack on our relationship. As ever, I was,
over-thinking things and second-guessing myself. But in order to gain
distance and composure, I stood up off his knee and walked over to the
sofa on the other side of the coffee table. I sat upright and looked at
him; as if we were in some kind of Barbara Walters interview. Or a
business meeting. He regarded my move quizzically.

'Really?' he asked. In reference to me moving away from him.

'Yes,' I answered. Firmly and slightly primly. 'It'll help discuss things
more rationally.'

'I'm not sure that's really the way these things are supposed to be
discussed, but okay. Do you still want to talk about this, Rory?'

I could see hesitation etched in every line of his beautiful face. And I
was also perceptive enough to see a repressed, cleverly hidden, kind of
fear. He was afraid I would say "no." That I would renege on what I had
said to him last night in the car. I nodded an affirmative; telling him
that "yes," I did still want to talk about this. I think I realised in
that moment that in fact a crack would be inflicted on our relationship
if he thought I was the kind of boyfriend to say one thing when drunk,
then another when sober. As if there was a Janus-like quality of two
personalities; one with alcohol and the other without. I wasn't like that
and I didn't want him to think that.

'Yes,' I said, quietly. To re-iterate my nod. 'I want to talk about it. I
meant what I said last night. I'm just a little nervous.'

'Don't be,' he said. His shoulders sagged slightly; he had breathed out.
He was relieved by what I'd say. 'Don't be nervous, Rory.'

I nodded and looked down. 'I won't be. I'm not.'

'That's a lie.'

'I'm not nervous of you.'

'Good. Of what, then?'

'The pain, I suppose. They say it hurts the first time.'

'Are you sure that's all?'

My head snapped up. His eyes had that shrewd and perceptive look in them.
No point in trying to deny what he already knew. 'I don't want to
fuck-up,' I confessed. 'I don't want to disappoint you.'

He cocked his head to one side and a sad look glazed over his face.
'Baby.'

'Well, I don't.'

He got up and crossed over to sit next to me. He smelled incredible and
the fitted navy sweater sat beautifully on him. It clung to the muscles
on his arm. I felt my reserves ebb looking at them and at his slightly
clasped hands, the fingers of which were tracing in and out of one
another.

'Listen, I've been thinking about this and, well, how would you feel
about a little role reversal for the first time?'

I looked at him blankly. I wasn't sure what he meant and I assumed this
was the kind of conversation where one should avoid the grey areas of
confusion, wherever possible.

'What?' I asked. I'd said it slightly too loudly and the correct word,
after all, was "pardon." 'Pardon?' I corrected myself. He noticed the
correction; noticed the obsessive manners, even in a situation like this.
And he smiled.

'Would you prefer it if I took it up the ass the first time we have sex,
Rory?'

Well. That certainly cleared up the grey area.

'I ... uh...'

'Look, I've taken it before...'

'Who from?' I snapped. A trifle too harshly, I'll admit.

Sebastian waved his right hand in the air. Dismissing the question as
irrelevant. The logical side of my brain forced me to concede that, right
now, it was irrelevant; despite being surprised by the revelation. 'I'm
saying, Rory, that if you're worried about the pain, I'm more than happy
to have you fuck me.'

I paused for a moment, as I mentally considered, and imagined, sliding
myself into his ass. I had to admit that the idea did make me tingle. But
I followed my instinct and shook my head. 'No. No, Sebastian. That's so
... I mean, that's just so incredibly sweet of you and lovely and loving
and I appreciate it so, so, so much. But I don't want that. Not for our
first time. For our first time, I want you to be on top. I want you to
...'

'To?'

'Own me,' I finished, quietly. How mortifying.

He grinned and kissed me. 'So filthy,' he whispered. 'You want me to own
you?' Another kiss. 'You want to be my property, Rory?' I nodded. Another
kiss. His tongue slipped into my mouth and I lay back on the sofa. My
legs parted and he slid in between them, on top of me, and we kept making
out. I grew hard and so did he. We started grinding against each other.
It was bliss and torture, all at once. An exquisite kind of annoyance.

'When?' he asked, breathily.

'Which of us has a free house first?'

'My parents are taking my little sister up to London to see a show on
Saturday. They're going to stay in a hotel. I could ask Evan to give us
the house for the night?'

'Would he mind?'

'Not if I tell him what it's for,' Sebastian answered, matter-of-factly.

I sat up slightly. 'You'd tell him?'

'Of course. He's my brother. You think I haven't already told him that
we've been fooling around together?' (I cannot imagine that my face was a
pretty picture when I heard that.) 'Relax, Rory,' he smirked, trailing a
pacifying kiss along my neck. 'It's Evan. I've left the house when he's
brought back girlfriends to fuck all night.'

'You're disgusting.'

'That boner between your legs tells a different story.' He thrust against
me, tauntingly. 'Friday night, then?'

I nodded. 'Friday night. I love you.'

'I love you too. So fucking much, Rory.'

*

On Wednesday, Sebastian injured himself in a friendly rugby match against
Saint Thomas á Becket's -- a Roman Catholic all-boys' school about ten
miles from ours. Since we were Catholic, it had been my family's second
choice if I hadn't gotten in to Saint Edmund's. My Protestant grandmother
was deeply, deeply relieved when Saint Edmund's pulled through for us.

Irony of ironies, Sebastian injured his ankle in that game. A body part
which had come to occupy a curiously erogenous place in our in-jokes, due
to the fact that it was the first thing he and I had ever flirted over.
He sat on the sofa in his front room, with a packet of ice solicitously
placed over it by his mother. I let him rest the ankle of my lap, even
though the ice was starting to drip through onto already-faded jeans.

I didn't like being in this room, since I knew, or believed, from the
school's rumour-mill that it was here that Sebastian and Joshua had slept
together. On the same day he and I had started flirting with one another.
Every time I was in here, I tried to guess where it had been and
unwelcome mental images of the two of them locked together in
mutually-delirious sexual ecstasy bounced through my mind's eye. I didn't
initially think Sebastian ever noticed and he was currently grousing
about the fact that it had been his own team-mate, Dominic, who had
accidentally trodden on his fairly inflamed ankle.

'Well, I guess that means Saturday night's off?' I joked; careful to keep
my voice low, in case his parents overheard.

'What?'

'You're not going to be able to perform with your ankle ruined, are you?'

He got the joke and laughed. 'Oh. Got it. Oh, don't you worry, Rory. If I
lost half my fucking leg, Saturday would still be happening.' I smiled
and he lowered his voice to a whisper. 'Dude, you have no idea how
fucking horny I've been thinking about it. I'm rubbing out like three or
four times a day.'

'Did you just call me "dude?"'

'Shut up. Seriously. You've no idea what you do to me. I'm nursing a semi
right now.'

'That's nice to know - dude.'

'Fuck you.'

I smiled and stroked just above where his ankle hurt. 'I'm sorry Dominic
stepped on you.'

'Yeah. You and me both. Idiot.'

'Did he apologise?'

'You don't really apologise in rugby, Rory.'

'Oh.'

'Are you ... eh, are you looking forward to Saturday, too?'

'Did you just stammer? Are you nervous?'

'No!'

I gazed at him; taunting him slightly, but smiling.

'Okay,' he conceded. 'Yes, I am. But, in my defence...'

'In your defence? Why are you nervous? You've done it a lot more than I
have.'

'Never with someone I love.'

That stopped my teasing. I nodded and let the conversation drop. A few
seconds later I said, 'Yes.'

'Yes?'

'Yes -- I am still looking forward to it.'

At that, Sebastian's big brother, Evan, walked in. He was a lot like
Sebastian, only slightly thinner, two years older and he sometimes wore
glasses. He was wearing them now. Evan had graduated from Saint Edmund's
and gone off to study Law at a university in London. Which, according to
Sebastian, he didn't love too much but was very, very good at. Like
Sebastian, there was a little bit of a frat-star vibe to Evan; the
glasses temporarily covered it, though.

'Not interrupting, am I?'

'Fuck off, Evan,' Sebastian said, good-naturedly.

'Have you seen my wallet?'

'I think it was in the kitchen. Next to Mom's magazines.'

'Got it. Cheers, buddy. I'm driving into town; do you guys need
anything?'

I shook my head politely. 'I'd kill for some Pepsi,' Sebastian said.

'I'll get a couple of bottles. You guys still need the house on
Saturday?'

'Yeah.'

The two of them exchanged looks and I felt myself blush. Evan tried
valiantly to hide a smile, but it didn't quite work. God -- they really
did tell each other everything. Right before he left, Evan turned in the
doorway and said, 'By the way, Mom and Jenny are coming with me. And
Dad's over at the Kirks'. So if the doorbell goes in the next half-hour,
make sure you get it.'

'Rory'll get it,' Sebastian declared, pointing to his ankle. Needless to
say, I knew that Evan wasn't giving us a heads-up for the sake of the
doorbell. Sebastian had his dick out of his sweats and in my hand within
five seconds of the door shutting behind them. 'I cannot wait for
Saturday!' he groaned.

*

On Friday night, I suffered the mother of all neurotic breakdowns. It was
an internalised, unmistakeable, unstoppable vortex that was tripped off
at about eight o'clock that evening when I went for my shower. My
bathroom, which led off from my bedroom, had both a shower and a bath in
it. That night, when I was about to step into the shower as a force of
habit, I decided against it and to go for the more thorough option of a
bath. As I slipped into the searing hot waters -- too hot, actually; why
hadn't I waited before getting in? -- I felt myself sitting upon the edge
of a metaphorical precipice. I began to notice, or imagine, or worry
about, tiny patches of hair on my body. The hair that descended from my
belly button to my pubis was definitely a weird kind of pattern. Perhaps
it was too coarse? I began to obsess that my ass might be hairy. Or
certainly unattractive. And after all, wasn't that the key zone for
tomorrow night? I had a weird certainty that my nipples might be slightly
too large. That the emergent chest hair I sported was unsightly. Should I
shave it? But then, wouldn't there be bristle? And that was surely even
worse. Furthermore, wouldn't Sebastian notice that I looked different?
How many times had he seen me topless, though? Once. No, twice. For a
prolonged period of time. Either way -- it was enough. Enough to notice
if I changed anything. Plus, there was no guarantee that if I did change
something it wouldn't somehow result in making my appearance worse. Even
less desirable. Home improvements only become embarrassments when people
realise you had to do them and that they didn't quite work.

By the time I'd dried myself off, shaved (my face only) and begun to put
on some moisturiser (I have weird skin around my elbows; I think it's too
hard), I settled into a quiet, irrepressible hysteria. I even began
rattling off a rosary. A full one, which takes forever, and which was
something I hadn't done in years. The thought vaguely crossed my mind
that praying that I wouldn't be too hideous for my gay boyfriend to have
sex with me mightn't be what the beads were intended for. It might even
be blasphemous. But I'd never believed that God had a problem with gay
people, so I didn't dwell on it too much. Plus, as they say: once a
Catholic, always a Catholic.

Sebastian texted a few times that evening. Mostly inane chatter, which
ordinarily I loved. But my responses must have been too cursory or, with
his eagle-eyed attention to detail, he'd somehow sensed that something
wasn't right. At half-eleven, he called my mobile.

'What's wrong?' He asked, by way of greeting.

'Nothing,' I said. Even to myself, I sounded unconvincing. I heard
Sebastian sigh. It was a patient sigh, a knowing sigh, but a sigh
nonetheless.

'Rory. Tomorrow is going to go fine. Better than fine. We love each
other. You're beautiful. My ankle's recovered. And I cannot wait. Please,
please, please do not freak out about this.'

The only thing I hated more than freaking out was being the guy who
everyone knew was freaking out. Alright -- not everyone. Just the person
who felt like everyone. 'Okay,' I said, quietly. I could hear how sad I
sounded. 'Sorry.'

'Baby,' he whispered. 'Don't do this. You want me to come over?'

'Dad would freak,' I said. 'But thank you. I'm not freaking out, though.
I'm just... Nervous.'

'If I thought it was because of having sex and that you weren't ready,
I'd say we should wait. But it's not, Rory, is it?'

I shook my head and then remembered the fundamental point of a telephone
and spoke instead, 'No,' I admitted.

'This time tomorrow night, I'll probably be inside you and it'll be
wonderful and I'll be so happy. And I hope you will too.'

'You're being so sensitive. And sweet tonight. And very, very patient.'

'Don't freak out,' he repeated. 'Please, don't. We've done everything
else, like a hundred times. THIS is going to go fine. And if it doesn't,
if for some reason something goes wrong, it will have nothing to do with
you. Or the way you think you look. Rory, I just shot the biggest load
against my shower wall thinking about you. About every bit of you. Your
face, your eyes, your smile, your body, your ass, your cock, your legs.
Every single fucking bit of you turns me on. I've stopped jerking-off to
the image of anyone but you and me. What more do you want to hear from
me? C'mon, baby. Seriously -- allow yourself to enjoy this. You're about
to lose your virginity in a way most people would kill to have as their
memory. To someone you love and who loves you. Fuck knows - it'll be
better than my first time. Or most of the people's we know.'

When Sebastian turned the full avalanche of his emotional intensity --
his emotional honesty -- on you, it was utterly impossible to resist it.
You just had to let it crash over you and accept it for what it was. Even
if you didn't always agree with him, you knew, or hoped, that no-one
could sound so sincere and simply be saying it to make you feel better. I
believed -- I believe -- that he said what he said because he meant it.
Even if I found myself subpar, I knew he, for some strange reason, found
me attractive and I therefore just had to accept that. And enjoy it, as
best I could. I loved him so very, very much.

'Thank you,' I whispered. 'I love you.'

'Tell me you're excited about tomorrow,' he demanded. 'Please, Rory?'

'I am,' I answered. Far more clearly and confidently. 'I am, Sebastian.'

He sounded relieved, buoyant; a little cocky. 'Good! I want to give you a
night you'll never forget.'

'Ditto.'

*

I arrived at his house the next evening, just after 7:30. It had started
to rain and it pounded on the ground and windows in icy torrents. I could
not get over how cold it was, even for December. I was wearing a black
sweater and jeans. I was trying to go for casual, without overdressed,
without being unattractive. Making it look nonchalant had been almost as
difficult as holding my nerve in the shower and not texting Sebastian
afterwards to say that I couldn't come tonight. He swung open the door
and smiled confidently. In fact, it was more bravado. You could tell that
he was slightly nervous, too, which was unexpected in him but weirdly
comforting. He was wearing a rugby shirt and jeans. He wasn't wearing any
cologne or aftershave and I could smell cooking from the kitchen. The
house, as ever, was immaculately tidy but I could hear the crackle of the
fire from the lounge. A different room -- a more formal room -- to their
front room; where he'd last had sex with Joshua back in September. I
checked a smile -- so he HAD noticed how much I hated that room? I was
touched by the effort he'd gone to and smiled as he kissed me hello.

'You look great,' he said. And swallowed. We were both nervous; at first,
there was an awkwardness in our interactions with each other that night.
'I made dinner? Eh, if you wanna...'

'Great,' I smiled. 'It smells wonderful.'

'So do you.' He hesitated momentarily, before we talked into the kitchen.
There were two candles on the table. Little ones, that he'd obviously
found last minute. I smiled again and kissed him. The nerves dissipated,
if only for a second.

Over dinner, I struggled to eat anything. It wasn't that it didn't taste
good. It did. It was that I always found myself feeling sluggish and
unattractive when I'd eaten anything and tonight those were two
adjectives that I was fairly keen to avoid being applied to me. The lack
of food, coupled with a glass of wine, made me feel strangely alert.
There was a lightness and a sense of heightened elasticity to my entire
body. I felt keenly aware of everything around me. I was tingling
slightly as Sebastian chatted about school, horse riding, rugby, a new
book he was reading. I managed to pay attention, but only just. He ate
everything and didn't ask why I wasn't. When my fingers began beating
nervously on the table, he reached out and took my hand. It was the only
sign he gave of acknowledging my nervousness that evening. Later, as he
finished his dinner, I took a second glass of wine. I figured it was
permissible to take the edge off what was to come.

'Do you want to ...' he paused; hesitated and searched for the end of the
sentence. 'Maybe, uhm, watch a movie or something? Before.'

To Sebastian's credit, he not once suggested backing-out. He held his
nerve. I've often wondered what I would have done if I'd been with
someone with less self-confidence than Sebastian; with someone who had
less tenacity in holding their ground. Part of me thinks that I'd have
pulled myself together and pressed ahead with the plan, anyway, but
another part knows that it was Sebastian, guiding everything along, that
made all the difference.

I accepted the offer of the movie mutely. It was a delaying tactic,
designed to give us both -- and me, specifically -- slightly more time.
More time for what? It wasn't as if I would magically discover some
untapped inner source of serenity in the two hours it would take to watch
a movie. Then again, if I'd eschewed Sebastian's offer and demanded to
get on with things, it would have meant making the experience of losing
my virginity roughly comparable to participating in a bungee jump for the
first time. Best to 'get it over with' as soon as possible. Almost
certainly not the kind of message I wanted to send to the man I was in
love with. So I agreed to watch the movie and crossed with him into the
lounge. He took my hand as we walked.

Sebastian initially suggested the new 'Brideshead Revisited' movie, as a
very sweet gesture to the fact that it was my favourite book. I demurred
though. Firstly because I didn't think I could handle two Sebastians in
the room at one time and secondly because as portraits of gay love go,
'Brideshead Revisited' is probably about as depressing as a Truman Capote
biopic. He then suggested 'Interview with the Vampire,' 'Marie
Antoinette' or 'All Good Things.'

'What is wrong with you?' I finally laughed. 'Are you trying to set the
mood by picking the most depressing movies known to man?'

He laughed. 'Fuck. I don't know why I suggested any of those. To be fair
Rory, 'Marie Antoinette' doesn't have the revolution in it.'

'Yeah, and 'All Good Things' doesn't have the actual kidnapping and
murder in it. But in both cases, shit goes down, Sebastian.'

The laughter broke the tension and he pulled me in towards him. We kissed
and I felt the relief in his body. When we separated, he nuzzled his head
into my neck and kissed it, very softly. That was the moment where we
should have abandoned the DVD idea, but we didn't. When the kissing
stopped, Sebastian turned on one of the 'Harry Potter' movies, which he
is secretly obsessed with, and we sat down on the sofa. I lay down on top
of him, as he watched the movie and I watched the fire in the grate.

I could feel Sebastian's semi through his jeans and after a few moments,
I steadied myself and decided to get on with it. I was eighteen, I was in
love and this was the perfect situation. Nothing, least of myself, could
be allowed to stand in my way. I trailed my hand up, under his sweater,
and began caressing his stomach. The hard smoothness of his six-pack
never ceased to make me quiver slightly. I was in awe of it; of him. Of
the raw physical fitness that seemed so utterly effortless to him. I
traced my fingers along the contours of his abdomen and I felt him stir
slightly. I kissed my way up his neck and his mouth was waiting for me
when I reached it. He didn't break contact when he used the remote to
turn off the TV. The room was enveloped in a silence, broken only by the
sound of us making out and the crackle and hiss from the fireplace.

His tongue played along mine. He was a fantastic kisser and I was
suddenly drunk on him. When genuine love collides with physical
attraction, as well as total infatuation, it creates one hell of a
momentum. My whole body was aware of him; everything was about Sebastian.
I was lost in him, completely, and so entirely obsessed by him that as he
rolled me over and lay on top of me, my own body issues, my own
incessant, irritating, annoying neuroses, vanished. It was like they had
been stunned into temporary silence by Sebastian. Right now, all that
mattered was following where Sebastian led. It was what I had wanted --
what I had confessed to him in the car, when drunk -- that I wanted, in
some perverse and probably slightly regressive way -- to be owned by him.
To be dominated by him. To be Sebastian's property.

It was my first initiation into realising that what I might have found
slightly abhorrent, and certainly very annoying, in everyday life, was
something that I was quite willing, even eager, to accept sexually.

I was hard almost instantly, but Sebastian's erection seemed to have
taken on a new level of firmness. I could feel it throbbing inside his
denim and I knew that it had to hurt, being encased like that. I reached
down and unbuckled his belt, undid his buttons and pulled his penis out
into the air -- all in a matter of seconds. I felt him smile, teasingly,
in the kiss. He broke off, 'Slut,' he whispered. He repaid the favour and
trailed down to my crotch, before pulling my jeans and underwear of
entirely. He tossed them indifferently onto the lounge floor, as he took
my balls in his mouth. I arched my back in arousal and in one, slick,
fluid motion, Sebastian separated his mouth from the balls and took my
entire dick in his mouth. I nearly lost it there and then. I heard him
choke slightly, and the sound turned me on, but he soon took his head off
and began to slowly fellate me. Only going back to the deep-throat
occasionally. My hand gripped his hair.

'Sebastian, stop,' I said, hoarsely. 'Please. You have to stop.'

He looked up at me, with his hand still wrapped around the base of my
cock, where he'd been jerking it mid-blow job.

'I'm not stopping, Rory.'

'No, I mean -- you have to stop that. Otherwise, I'm going to cum.'

'Oh,' he laughed. 'Gotcha.'

He leapt up and kissed me deeply on the mouth. 'Take your top off,' he
ordered, pulling his own up and over his head. He stood up and began to
remove the rest of his jeans, underwear and socks. Removing them
entirely. 'Now, Rory.'

I stopped and stammered for a second. Without sounding unduly arrogant, I
am not stupid. I was therefore aware that at some point during the
process of losing my virginity, I would presumably be getting naked. I
had, however, hoped for the semi-darkness of Sebastian's room -- not the
firelight-bathed glow of the lounge. The request to strip completely
brought me back down to earth with a metaphorical thud and I was
instantly very aware of myself again. I was aware of the cerebral
tick-toc again.

I kept stammering as Sebastian kicked off his jeans and fluffed his cock
slightly. Seeing my pause, he swooped down and yanked the top up and over
my head. I struggled, instinctively, but he was stronger and faster than
me. It was off and hurled into the corner of the lounge before I could
speak.

'Sebastian!'

He rolled his eyes and hauled me to my feet. He kissed me hard and his
hand trailed down to my ass. I could feel my pre-cum and his, mixed with
his spit, rubbing together. The cerebral began to die away again. I was
flushed and breathless when we separated.

'Let's fuck,' he winked.

He took me by the hand, out of the lounge and up to his room. He pushed
me onto his bed and climbed on top of me. There was no hesitation, no
nerves, no stalling. Nothing. He was efficient and captivatingly
dominant. He knew what he was doing and he knew he was in charge. He was
getting rougher. I liked that. He could feel how I was responding to it.
He planted an enormous hickie on the lower base of my neck. I thought of
the one he'd left on Joshua Peterly in September, but then I resolutely
pushed that extremely unwelcome image out of my head. Hickies must be
something he did when especially turned on.

'Rory, I'm sorry,' he said, pulling out of the kiss. 'I have to have you.
Like, now.'

It was thrilling and intoxicating to be wanted this much. To be wanted so
clearly and so urgently. That sounds shallow and desperate on my part;
maybe it's both. But it is a wonderful feeling to feel like someone wants
you like this.

I felt nerves. Of course I did. But I wanted him, too, and I was dazzled
by him. Completely subsumed by his agenda and quite happy, even thrilled,
to let him take control. I nodded at his request and he flicked my legs
up into the air. He dived into my crack and began tonguing my asshole. It
felt sordid, sloppy, urgent and magnificent. I gasped and then groaned.
He didn't emerge from down there for what felt like five to ten minutes;
maybe it was less, maybe longer. But as he tongued further and further
inside, I could feel my hole expanding, relaxing and allowing his tongue
to enter me. I was writhing, gasping and cursing like a shameless bitch
in heat. I was demented with lust and I liked it. Loved it, even.

The only real genuine panic I felt that night was when he spat on his
finger and slipped it into me for the first time. It was the first proper
entry; if that makes any sense? And it did hurt. But I breathed slowly --
careful not to breathe too deeply or too loudly, in case he thought I was
upset and should stop. His eyes were on me constantly as he fingered me,
eventually adding a second finger. I could see he was trying to gauge
when, or if, he should stop, so I looked away from him as the second
finger went in. I didn't want him to see any pain or distress in my eyes.
There was some, but not enough for me to want him to stop.

I looked back at him once I'd grown accustomed to the intrusion. He was
kneeling between my open legs. I could see the contour of his muscles,
the firm line of his jaw, the throbbing erection, the tousled blond hair.

'Fuck me, Sebastian,' I whispered. 'Now. Do it now.'

He nodded and reached over to his bedside cabinet, extracting a container
of lubricant and a condom.

'No,' I said. 'No. Not that.'

'Not what?' he asked.

'The condom. I don't want it.'

'But...'

'No. Please, no.'

He nodded again and set it to one side. He then doused his fingers in
lube and returned them to inside my asshole. I hissed, only this time
with a kind of anticipatory desire, rather than fear. He then coated his
dick with a liberal amount. Probably more than he needed to. But given
the size of it, I wasn't complaining about the precaution.

He held my legs in his hands and looked down at me. There was a long,
pregnant pause. 'I love you,' he said. As the head of his penis touched
my asshole. I nodded in response. I was afraid if I spoke my voice would
crack.

He breached me and it took every ounce of self-control not to yelp. No
porno, erotic story or conversation about sex had ever prepped me for how
awkward it is to lose one's virginity. Sebastian was, is, big and he had
to ease himself in bit, by bit. I often wondered, although he'd never say
it, if it hurt him, too, in a way. I could see him focus as he slid in.

'You're so tight.'

'Sorry,' I said. He laughed.

After a few moments and awkward manoeuvres, he was inside me and he began
to move slowly. Deliberately. I pulled him down by his neck and kissed
him. For the first five or so minutes of it, he kept his eyes locked on
mine. My legs fell down to rest on his ass cheeks, as he slid in and out
of me. My hand ran up and down his torso. He dribbled lube onto my cock
and began jerking it. Bizarrely though, I was almost disinterested in my
own gratification. In anything to do with myself. It was all about him.
It was all I cared about. Him.

Towards the end, Sebastian began to pick up pace. A more feral,
domineering side of him came out. The rugby guy, if you like. The jock.
As he reached orgasm, he began slamming into me far more aggressively.
Another hickie was planted; this time on my chest. He leant back, up onto
his knees and put my legs in the air, holding them in a vice like grip.
He grunted and I could see sweat glistening all over his body. Then, he
buried himself completely in me -- balls-deep -- and emptied himself. He
flopped forward and kissed me, invading my mouth with his tongue, as the
last of the cum spurted into me. There was so much of it. It scalded
slightly. I loved it.

For a moment, he lay on top of me. A heavy, comfortingly oppressive
presence. He slowly withdrew and I felt empty and stretched as his semen
leaked from me. He propped himself up on his elbows and covered me with
kisses, all over the top half of my body. He didn't speak. The kisses
were lovely.

'Well, I'm not a virgin anymore,' I thought. 'I'm his.'

I felt a single tear spill down my cheek. It was a happy tear, but I
don't think Sebastian saw it. I was just very, very happy.

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