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From theory to practice.

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.


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.

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