D/s Naruto

Chapter 86 (Monday 18 June 2007, early evening)

Thomas had carried Hiashi to his bedroom, the broken arm against his chest, Hiashi’s good arm dangling so he could hold Kimimaro’s hand. Kimimaro couldn’t look at the house, at the decor, or the stairs (passed by for the elevator). He didn’t see the rich burl wood panels in the elevator, the elegant fabric-covered walls, the big room, or anything but Hiashi, whose face was so white, so strained. Then they were at a bed—a huge bed, a California king, ridiculously high up. The woman named Theresa was pulling back the thick comforter, exposing white sheets with a faint delicate pattern in them.

“Let go of Kimimaro, Sir, so we can settle you in the bed for him,” said Thomas.

For him. In the bed for him. The hands fell apart as the words seemed to jolt through both of them.

Kimimaro and Hiashi looked at each other, unaware of all the emotion they were showing. Luce and Theresa sighed and felt themselves starting to tear up at the love right in front of them. Luce swore in her head—and later repeatedly down in the kitchen--she would never marry unless a man looked at her like that: like there was nothing else in the whole world they could see. Henri blushed, feeling uncomfortable, wanting out of the room—they would at least wait until they left, right?

But Kimimaro was on the bed on all fours by Hiashi—and god, he wouldn’t look, no—Henri raced for the door, pulling Luce with him. Theresa and Thomas moved behind them as well. Thomas had intended to show Kimamaro the bathroom—but, well, as he pulled the door shut, he could see that head of platinum blonde hair lowering down. Thomas shut the door and turned around to find three pairs of eyes staring at him. He sighed. “I’ll tell you in the kitchen,” he said. “I don’t know much—” A faint cry could be heard through the door. “Downstairs, now!” Thomas snapped.


In the room, Kimimaro cried out as Hiashi pulled his mouth from his with a harsh tug on his hair with his good arm. “Undress me, now, boy,” he ordered, his voice harsh and commanding although quiet.

“Yes, Sir! I’m sorry, Sir!”

“You’ll have to cut off my shirt. There’s scissors in the desk drawer over by the window.”

Kimimaro looked around the room, and for the first time noticed the elegant, rich wood furniture that looked like it belonged in an antique store. The desk must be that table with three drawers and those curved, carved legs by the window, oh, yes, because that leather armchair with wooden legs was the desk chair. Kimimaro slid off the bed, softer than the few he’d ever slept on, and went over to the desk quickly. He couldn’t look at the furniture, at the rich patterns of the rugs under his shoes, at the elaborate drapes—master had given him an order—an indirect order, but it was easy to understand. Kimimaro moved as quickly as he could, grabbing the scissors, scurrying across the big room (so big!) then up on the high bed. Oh, yes, now, now he could began the task of undressing Master—no, Sir! Oh, yes, he could now remove his shoes and socks, his belt, then his pants, and underwear. Oh, god, he wanted to stop and kiss, lick, suck that hard cock! To touch it, to touch those balls, that dark pubic hair!

But there was the tie, and the heavy, shiny scissors—so large, would they be large enough to cut the fine fabric of Sir’s shirt? The silk tie was gone, and the shirt fabric held taught, and Kimimaro cut it off with a speed and focused intensity that made Hiashi smile and whisper, “You look so fierce, pretty Kimi, are you a switch like Sai?”

Kimi? Who was Kimi? Kimimaro had been turning away from the Hyuuga patriarch, and his head turned back so fast, his long hair swung at the speed. “So pretty, so very pretty, boy,” whispered Hiashi, his hand catching at the white locks and pulling a strand up to his face. “Put down those scissors and kiss me, slave,” ordered Hiashi.

His hand was shaking, Kimimaro noted, and he focused on making it steady. He couldn’t answer that question. No, he would just obey, just—and he was suddenly falling as his hair was tugged forcefully.

“Yes, Sir, always, Sir,” he replied and moved his mouth up to Hiashi’s. Kissing—oh, god, kissing a man with such dark hair, the man who thought he was worth not just a beating, a rape, and a broken arm, but more. Hiashi moaned into his mouth, and Kimimaro answered with a moan of his own. They kissed and kissed and it was—it was—oh, everything, breath, saliva, tongue, desire, teasing, breathing—kissing, it was kissing. Oh, this was making out! Making out! It was more like flying, or dancing, yes, this was love. He’d thought he’d loved Orochimaru—and the reality of how that love, that love that was all he had had (then, back then!), oh that love was in comparison to the love inside him now—like thinking a piss tank was the ocean, and then splashing into the sea for the first time! He’d never been to sea, but he felt like he was in it now, riding the waves. Suddenly laughter bubbled up under his kisses, and he was laughing and crying and panting into the kiss, kissing with all the love he felt, as much love as there was water in the all the waves of the world.

But Sir, no--Hiashi, Hiashi, who he loved, was pulling his face from those firm lips of his, “Ah, baby, Kimi --”

“I love you, Hiashi! I love you!”

“God, boy, god, damn, god, fuck! Put your cock in my mouth, just do it, do it now!”

“I love you, Hiashi! Oh, god, god, Master! Sir! God!” He must be dreaming—but no, no, that was the mark on his cock from the three blows of the belt. His cock, his beaten cock, going to be in Sir’s mouth! It couldn’t be true.

“Don’t tease, showing me my marks on you! Put it in and let me feel that welt, that beaten cock of my boy’s in my mouth, the cock hard for me!”

“Sir! Sir! I’m going to come from your words, Sir!” gasped Kimimaro, hastily lunging forward to put his cock in that mouth as Hiashi tried to lunge forward.

And then teeth bit down on that welt, making him cry out at the sudden pain, and then his cock was inhaled down Sir’s throat like it was nothing. Sir sucked cock like a sub! Was Sir a switch? Was that the question? Did Sir want this? Did Sir need this? Sir’s eyes were closed, and he was sucking him so desperately, so needy, that all that was keep Kimimaro from coming was—was—needing, needing to see that look on Sir’s face. It was frightening and wonderful and terrifying—Sir loved cocksucking as much as he did! And the image formed in Kimimaro’s mind, something long forgotten, a dream that he had so long ago, so foreign to all that had been his life: 69.

“HIASHI! HIASHI!” he screamed, his head thrown back, “I LOVE YOU!”

He was coming in Sir’s mouth!

He was kissing Sir again, tasting himself in Sir’s mouth, kissing him wildly, his hands on Sir’s long hair, tugging, pulling on the beautiful stuff, the feel of it making him shudder wildly and his body shake although his cock was spent and floppy.

The bite on his tongue was so hard it drew blood. And then another on his lips too—he whimpered and stilled, and now he was being kissed, kissed hard, kissed by a master, the taste of the blood beautiful in his mouth. Master’s knee came up and pushed into his leg, and his lips moved back, and that dom’s voice said, “Stupid slave, shouting like that! Now how are the servants going to think you are my therapist!”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” said Kimimaro, genuine remorse flowing through him, but not one drop of fear. My! So THIS was love! He was sorry; he wanted to feel punishment, to feel pain, to please Hiashi, to never displease him—but he wasn’t afraid of being thrown away. For all he’d done, Orochimaru would have killed him, and he, foolish he, no doubt would have believed he deserved that! His eyes stared at Hiashi, blatantly bad, shockingly unlike a slave.

“No, they know now,” said Hiashi, and Kimimaro could see he was trying to look displeased. “What do you have to say for yourself, slave?”

“Perhaps, Sir, would like one of them to punish me, until Sir’s arm is better?” suggested Hiashi, lowering his eyes now, like a good slave, or well, as much as a good slave can when he’s laying on his master’s bed his body relaxed and sated.

Hiashi laughed, and Kimimaro laughed, and then they laughed again. Kimimaro’s stomach made a loud hungry noise, and then they both laughed again. The laughter felt like a wave, like a high . . . oh, god, this was better than subspace—it was lovespace! Lovespace! He laughed again, leaning in to kiss Hiashi, to kiss Sir. Oh, god, kissing, kissing, ah, this was lovespace!

But he pulled back at the soft bite, somehow knowing that was what Sir wanted.

“Don’t be stupid, slave, my servants are respectable upright people!” The voice was stern, like a Dom’s, but it had music and laughter and sunlight in it. Kimimaro’s mouth twitched, and he tried to look serious as he rolled his tongue into a tube in his mouth and tried to suck on it, to taste the kisses, to feel that tongue in his mouth still.

“You’re just a little gold-digger, a boy toy to them,” added Hiashi trying to sound harsh—and sounding adorable—“and you’ll stay that way because I’m too old to let people see me act like a young boy in love or the sick old perv that I intend to be because, well, we are that kind of people, my Kimi, aren’t we?”

“We are,” said Kimimaro, his voice and body shaking as the words came out of his mouth—we, we, I and he are we, we, we, we . . . “. . . we . . .” he moaned orgasmically—and it felt that way, felt like he was coming, even though he wasn’t . . . and then we were kissing, we, he, me . . . kissing . . . kissing . . . oh god, lovespace . . .

He didn’t know how much time had gone when they surfaced again.

The order came twice before he rolled over, a fist full of his hair in Hiashi’s hand, pushing the button that contacted the kitchen. He arched his back and moved his ass muscles, exposing his anus. He concentrated on making it flutter, on showing what a hungry hole it was . . .

“Sir?” came Thomas’s voice over the intercom.

“Food, Thomas,” said Hiashi, “and I need Mr. Kaguya’s room prepared for him.”

Mr. Kaguya??? Kimimaro slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter at that and rolled over to stare at Sir.

“Oh, and could you call Hinato and Anko, Thomas, and ask them to come over to see me tonight?”

“Any particular time, Sir?”

“No . . . but, ah, have Ms. Anko call me if possible in the next hour. I’ll need her arm to do something for me,” said Hiashi in a voice that was somehow full of laughter and growl, both firm and a little weak—or so Thomas thought.

But then there was laughter—no two people laughing—definitely two people—followed by the click of the intercom going off. Thomas put his hand over his face—how long, how long since he’d heard laughter in this house? He was crying, and Mr. Hiashi—oh, Mr. Neji—oh, oh, it was too much, too much . . .

He felt Theresa hug him, and Luce was sobbing, while Henri handed him a glass of Mr. Hiashi’s finest whiskey. He drank it, and ordered Luce to stop sobbing and start cooking. He heard Theresa on the phone asking for Dr. Pete, as she would call him, for it was Dr. Pete’s deceased father who was still in her mind, “Dr. Hampstead.”

“Woman, get off that phone,” he growled, going over and snatching the phone out her hand. But when he tried to explain why Theresa had called, he couldn’t talk again—the memories of all the tears, all the horrors—the shock of it all—Mr. Hiashi coming out! Accepting Mr. Neji! Mr. Neji getting married! He handed the phone back to Theresa, embarrassed, and let Luce help him back into a chair. Women! Know-it-alls! Sometimes he understood the perversions of the Hyuugas, sometimes. But, oh my, Miss Hinata coming over! Dear lord, yes, they better have Dr. Pete . . .

“Hinata . . .” he said, and Theresa nodded, understanding. Well, sometimes it was useful that they were know-it-alls . . .