D/s Naruto

There is now art for this chapter. It's a little hard to get to, however, since you have to join the site to view it. The site is

http://yaoi.y-gallery.net

and the art is at

http://yaoi.y-gallery.net/view/285965/

It's called "Dominate or Bleed" by Allys and shows exactly what happens in this chapter!

Chapter 15 (Saturday 16 June 2007, noon)

Nara Shikamaru watched the fury growing on Neji’s face, a fury that suggested he was going to fail as a dom. Being a dom wasn’t about humiliating your sub because your feelings and pride were hurt. But Neji, ahhh, Neji—his journey into Dominance and submission had really barely begun. As a dom, he wasn’t fulfilled because he didn’t understand himself, his needs, his role. Over a month ago, Shikamaru had agreed to a two-month contract with Neji for May and June. He been drawn to Neji initially because of his looks, but what had him willing to submit to the Hyuuga was the complexity Shikamaru sensed him. It was as if Neji had a blackhole inside him, sucking in and swallowing up his emotions, constantly draining him, leaving him empty and craving. The cool, snotty, rich boy exterior and the needy, hollow inside were a puzzle that intrigued Shikamaru.

But on the third night he’d spent chained at the foot of Neji’s bed, sleeping on a large dog bed, Shikamaru had suddenly understood what seethed inside and twisted Hyuugi Neji. He knew then that Neji’s cold sneers and petty cruelty were his desperate efforts to patch up his self-esteem, to stanch the emotional bleeding of his psyche. It was painful to listen to that whimper in the night begging, pleading, “Stop, Uncle, stop, please stop,” when you were literally chained so you couldn’t touch that tossing head, that sweating and moaning body that seemed even more alluring in its dream-induced angst. Yet, a sub’s place was not to comfort his master, to wake him in the night from what frightening tortures revisited him in the guise of dreams. The dom has no one to hold him when he is trapped in a nightmare--but often, Shika had softly risen, moving so his chain didn’t clink and soothed the tossing, sweating body, that beautiful sculpted piece of masculine flesh he had long admired. He’d stroked that hair that fascinate him, whispering words of consolation unheard in the dark dreamworld in which Neji suffered.

For six long weeks, Shikamaru had known that his and Neji’s current contract wasn’t what either of them needed. However, even though he knew the relationship would ultimately disappoint, having just worked out and signed that two-month contract and moved himself into Neji’s place, it was too troublesome to end it so soon. So Shika submitted, observed, and thought. He noticed that Neji never had nightmares the nights he rewarded his sub with sharing his bed. Then they would cling together, sleeping like lovers. Neji needed closeness, needed touch, and subs got more touch than doms in so many ways. And their world was simpler, less complex in a sense, for although a sub might do more physically—cleaning, cooking, fetching, serving—the dom had to plan, had to always be responsible, always be focused on his sub, his sub’s needs, and ways to make his sub find his limits and push at them. Neji hadn’t been able to do that, expect for a few rare nights that Shika would keep in his memory for years to come.

So Shikamaru had submitted, not feeling challenged or like he was getting closer to knowing what he was capable of. He’d watched carefully at the club, subtly manipulating Neji to spend more time there, so he could consider all the unattached subs and doms, shifting through them in his mind, spinning out possibilities even as he knelt, kissed Neji’s boots, felt his fist penetrated his body. There was no one in the club currently who could do for Neji what he needed, nor anyone who seemed to be what Shika was looking for. But it wasn’t bad to spend a few weeks with eye candy like Neji. But now, here in this boutique, Shikamaru knew that it was time to end it. Naruto, the new dom, was going to change everything. Look at what he’d done for Sasuke already! And the ugly pettiness he’d brought out in Neji—well, that, was probably a necessary step. Neji had to learn to go into his darkness and confront it, master it. He should be subbing.

But now they were standing outside on the walking mall downtown by one of the bubbling fountains, just a block away from the boutique where they’d encountered Sasuke and Naruto. Shikamaru carefully checked the area, and when he was sure they wouldn’t be overheard, he committed to the troublesome task ahead: breaking it off with Neji.

“Hey, Pixie Dust and Sarsaparilla, Neji,” said Shika, reciting his safe words, step one of ending a contract. He then reached up and unhooked the brown leather thong with a little circle of jade on it from around it from his neck. “Here’s your collar, Neji.”—that was step two.

Neji’s skin was pale, but it went a sickly chalk white as his hand reached out and took the collar. Shikamaru hardened his heart to the Hyuuga although now, the moment it was over, he remembered all the reasons he’d wanted to sub to Neji. Visions of that long brown-black hair flowing around him as Neji fucked him exquisitely, skillfully, flashed into his mind, making him doubt his reasoning for a second. But then Neji opened his mouth, spilling out hurtful words. And Shika knew that to help Neji, he had to set them both free.

Predictably, Neji hid his hurt in belittling comments, “How is a lazy ass like you going to find a new dom, Nara? But really, it’s not like I was going to renew our contract anyway. You should have waited until I bought you something decent to wear before giving my collar back. At least then you’d have a better chance of attracting someone.”

Shikamaru merely smiled, and said, “Thank you, Neji, for some good memories.” Neji’s lashing out told him that Neji had cared for him in some ways.

“Why are you in such a rush? The two months are almost done—I surprised you are making such an effort, going to the bother of breaking this off early. You’ve got someone else lined up, haven’t you? Did you think I didn’t see you considering all the other doms, judging them, studying them? You’re a cold bastard, Nara,” said Neji in a bitter voice.

Ahh—so he had noticed, hadn’t been as oblivious as he had pretended. “What kind of dom lets a sub shop around for his own replacement, Neji? Ask yourself that, and think about if you’re playing the right role. Sasuke’s right in a way, it can be freeing to switch between dom and sub, to explore what takes you farther, what will let you soar,” said Shikamaru, sounding a little more poetic than he intended. “Maybe we could learn something from watching Naruto and Sasuke switch off between dom and sub.”

“Naruto, Naruto is the blond who spent the night with Sasuke?” asked Gaara, startling both Neji and Shika. The Nara was not only startled, but upset. How had he missed Gaara? It was so important to be discreet about D/s relationships, and here he was letting someone tall with a shock of red hair that couldn’t be hid sneak up on him. Damn, he liked Neji more that he wanted to admit. This was more painful, more distracting that he’d expected. But no time to dwell on that with Gaara standing so close, unsmiling, with that creepy look that drove all but the brave and curious from his side. Shikamaru was both.

Neji shuddered, ignoring Gaara, and just said, “Spout all the philosophy you like, Nara, it won’t warm your ass like I did.” He then tossed that head of hair, second only to Haku’s in length and beauty. But while Haku’s hair made him seem more of a woman, impossibly feminine, Neji’s seemed to make him look more masculine—a beautiful, cold male beauty like some elven prince, elegant, deadly, and indifferent, a masculine femme fatal. And with his nose pointed in the air, he took his terrible beauty away, and the fountain seemed a little more mundane, the street a little dingier without him. Fuck, he had a killer ass. But no time to think about Neji. Gaara, Gaara was a loaded gun ready to go off as the cliché went.

“Hi, Gaara,” said Shikamaru, smiling. “As you can guess, I just broke up with Neji.”

“Naruto and Sasuke switch roles?” asked Gaara.

“Yes,” said Shika, watching Gaara, noticing the differences in him today, an undercurrent of excitement welling up to the surface just a bit, making Gaara’s green, green eyes brighter and more, well, normal.

“Where are Sasuke and Naruto?” asked Gaara, his obsession obvious.

Shika remembered Gaara’s stalking of Kakashi and sighed. He should take Gaara in hand. No one else seemed willing, and Shika’s clever mind was leaping ahead, predicting what would happen with Gaara and Sasuke interested in Naruto, Itachi confronting Sasuke’s interest, and Iruka’s insistence on playing mother to the new blonde dom—well, there were about fourteen highly plausible ways this could go, and maybe ten or eleven of them weren’t very good. It would be such a bother if Uchicha’s stopped functioning so smoothly. Shikamaru was happy with his club and didn’t want to have to find a new one. Visions of lawsuits and angst, even bloodshed, appeared to him when he thought about just letting the madness that was Gaara fixate the on the hyper blonde.

“I like you, Gaara,” said Shikamaru, “Can I buy you some lunch? There’s three or four places we can see from here that are all good. I know it may seem like I’m just trying to pick you up on the rebound, but it’s not that. I’ve been watching you. Did you notice?”

“Yes,” was all Gaara was capable of saying. What the Nara had just said—no, he couldn’t have heard that right? Was this some cruel joke? Was he drunk? But the lazy brunette never joked or spoke when silence would do. Gaara liked that. People who spoke simply were easier to understand.

“Do you think you could like me too, Gaara?” asked Shikamaru.

Gaara frowned, confused. No one had ever asked him such a question. He just stared and stared at Shikamaru, and his mouth fell open a little bit.

That was when Shikamaru leaned in and softly kissed him on the lips, his tongue flicking into Gaara’s open mouth just a little bit. It only took seconds, but time seemed to suddenly go funny for Gaara. That—that soft wetness, that feeling of breath, that faint strange taste of other—that was a kiss! He’d been kissed!

Shikamaru watched, fascinated by the play of emotions on Gaara’s face. It was beautiful, he was beautiful—all white and pink under that flame of red hair, that bright red tattoo, with eyes that glowed like a tropic summer sea. This sweetness, this shyness—where had this come from? It was as if Gaara had never been kissed, was a virgin, thought Shika. But he remembered seeing Gaara crack a bullwhip over a back, seeing trails of blood on a sub’s body—and a frightening, intense bloodlust etched on this face that now, now seemed like a confused, lost child’s.

Perfect purity and innocence, raw power, and a history of pushing things to the edge— how to reconcile these conflicting images of Gaara? What was the true essence of Gaara? Shikamaru looked in those big, big aquamarine eyes, looked at those soft pink lips and bent his head again.

His arms slid around Gaara, pulling him close. This kiss, Shika put effort into, trying to coax a response other than dazed passivity from the man in his arms. But nothing, none of his gentle knibbles, his flickes, his light sucking drew a response other than a complete submission, a complete passivity. Shikamaru felt as if he could do anything to Gaara’s mouth, his tongue. He could feel Gaara’s heartbeat loud and strong against his chest. He raised his head a few inches and felt himself sucked into the aquamarine ice of Gaara’s eyes.

“I love your eyes, and your lips,” said Shikamaru, his right hand coming up to touch that white and pink cheek, and his thumb ran over those soft pink lips of Gaara’s he’d just kissed.

“Fuck me,” said Gaara.

Shika blinked, hardened, and pulled Gaara close for another kiss. This time kissing Gaara was like biting into a jalapeño or sucking a teaspoon of wasabi. Gaara’s lips were crushing, pushing his against his teeth. His tongue was aggressive, his teeth sharp, but it was the suddenness of the change from passivity to passion that made Shikamaru reel. His hands reached up and tightened in that flame red hair, and he pulled Gaara off his face, saying, “I don’t have an apartment right now. Can we fuck at your place or should we go to the club or get a motel room?”

“My place,” said Gaara. “Now.”


But “now,” was a twenty-minute walk away, to one of those little California homes built in the twenties that was the size of a three-car garage or so. Despite the fact that beautiful palms and old live oaks shaded the street from the June sun, the neighborhood was hardly ideal. While there were geraniums the size of bushes, big oleanders of white and pink, and large tea roses in many of the tiny front yards, some of the homes had windows boarded over with plywood. The fences between each tiny home were tottering, rotten wood or ugly chain links. It was easy to tell that everyone living on this street was poor.

Shikamaru was a little surprised, not because he’d thought Gaara had money, but because he knew that Sasori, Gaara’s uncle did. He had retired young, a designer of the robotic devices for assembly lines. He lived on the top of a hill with a view over the city. Two years ago he’d thrown a large 4th of July party, inviting most of the staff of Uchiha’s and many of the important members—and Shikamaru wasn’t one of them. Instead he had gone as the guest of Chouji, the cook. The two had gone to high school together and still hung out on occasion. Chouji was straight, or at least he claimed to be, but he was pretty much asexual. Overweight and obsessed with food, he didn’t seem to care about dating or sex. So he’d taken Shika to have someone to talk to, and they’d poked about Sasori’s million-dollar home.

Gaara’s place was barely a thousand square feet, clearly lacking central air or insulation. He let them in the paint-chipped door. The living room was dark, for overgrown oleanders covered the windows. But the old floor was golden oak hardwood that had been loved over the years, and the Spanish style fireplace had fabulous art deco tiles on it--albeit that several were chipped. There was a simple wooden table centered in the room on the rich golden oak hardwood floor and a futon beside it, once white but now with a splattering of stains. The white walls, however, were pristine and bare. But all Shikamaru had eyes for was the chains that hung down from the ceiling with leather loops on the end, suspended just a bit above that table. A long narrow wooden bench along the wall behind the door had leather harnesses, whips, crops, cuffs, belts, ropes, and spreader bars scattered across its surface. A shiver ran up Shika’s spine as he realized the spots on the futon were probably blood.

Shikamaru studied the chains, seeing how the two with the big leather looping straps were meant for legs to slide in. The loop would fit around the knees, holding them in the air, legs spread wide, and vulnerable. The other set of chains held a swing like strap that would go under the upper back. And yet another dangled a pair of wrist restraints. To fuck a body in the straps and restraints, all one would need to do was push away the table. “Do they hold your weight?” Shika finally asked.

“Yes.”

“If this is the living room, I can’t wait to the rest of it, Gaara.”

Gaara seemed to take that as a serious request. The tour of his house took about three minutes. There were four rooms: the living room, a kitchen that did double duty as a laundry room with a washer and dryer by the back door, a bathroom with more beautiful but damaged tile, and finally Gaara’s bedroom. The bedroom was startlingly like the living room: white walls, a double bed covered with white sheets, and chains hanging from the ceiling. It occurred to Shika the only chairs in the house were the three around the small kitchen table.

Gaara went over to the dresser on the far side of the bed, retrieving a paper. He handed it to Shika, showing him a recent set of medical test results declaring Gaara clean.

“I don’t have my test results, any condoms, any lube,” said Shikamaru.

“I have condoms and lube in the bathroom,” said Gaara “but I know you’re clean.”

He seemed so confident, Shikamaru asked curiously, “How?”

“I read the report on you at Uchiha’s,” said Gaara.

“The confidential reports that are kept in a secure locked location?”

“It’s a pretty hard lock to pick, but not hard enough,” said Gaara as if that explained the situation.

Shikamaru shrugged his shoulders, saying, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

“Do you want to give me an enema?” asked Gaara as if he was offering pretzels or soda.

“No,” said Shikamaru, abruptly turning for the bathroom. Once in the yellow and black tiled room, he shut and locked the door, leaning against it. What the fuck had he been thinking? He had been letting himself get picked up on the rebound. He didn’t even like topping—it was too much work. And there was no contract here, no rules, no safewords, and out there in that living room was a blood-splattered futon and enough whips for a convention of lion tamers. And this was Gaara—why had he thought it would be better to have his attention on him than Naruto or Sasuke?

Because, dammit, I didn’t believe he wouldn’t take me himself, roughly. I want to be the one with my arms chained above my head, suspended by straps around my arms and legs, opened and exposed, vulnerable. I want to watch over a gag as my Master fucks me, spreading my legs wide, thrusting into me. I want to feel my body swing, suspended, so vulnerable, so helpless. I want that certified clean cock of Gaara’s inside me, filling me.

Shikamaru washed his face, sighing—he’d kissed Gaara, he’d followed him home. Though he felt like a cheap whore, he’d put out for the redhead. After rinsing his face, he grabbed a towel, and looked in to the mirror to wipe his face. He flinched at the sight of Gaara behind him, naked. Their eyes met in the mirror.

“You don’t want to fuck me,” said Gaara, his face grim. Shika couldn’t help but peek—oh. The hair down there was red, really red.

“I like being fucked better, Gaara, but I do like you. I’ll do it,” said Shikamaru, glancing down again at Gaara’s thick cock, that had a distinct curve to it at the tip. He never seen a cock that seemed to curl forward like a cobra before.

“No,” said Gaara, “No.”

“Well, then, I guess I better go,” said Shika tearing his eyes from Gaara’s cock and hanging the towel up carefully.

“Yes,” said Gaara, stepping into the little narrow hall to let Shika pass by to the front door. But as Shika went by, suddenly Gaara’s hand was on his ponytail, jerking hard, and once more Shika felt his mouth overwhelmed by Gaara’s. Then he was pinned against the wall in that narrow hallway, and those big, pretty aqua eyes stared at him unblinking, hard. “You teased me, Nara. You need to be punished. I’m not going to fuck you because you like that. I’m going to whip you. And when I’m done with you, you’re going to wish you’d buried your cock inside me more than anything in the world.”

Shika slid out from under Gaara’s arms, trying to flee for the front door. But Gaara tackled him, exactly half way to the front door, and they fell on the futon under the chains, struggling. It was too perfect, he’d had to have timed that just right, had to have practiced chasing fleeing bodies to know just when a flying tackle would send them right down on that futon. Struggling on the mattress it became clear while Shika and Gaara’s bodies were similar in build--thin and wiry—Gaara was stronger. But Shika was clever. They thrashed about, thudding onto the hardwood floor, smashing into the table legs. Shikamaru was now desperate to master Gaara, to pin him and save himself a troublesome afternoon. He realized quickly, however, a purely physical approach would only lead to Gaara’s whip on his skin. But there was more than one way to fight on a mattress—and Shika switched to fighting with kisses, licks, pinches, and strokes until Gaara was panting, a pink flush on his white skin.

He took advantage of Gaara’s distraction to pull them to their feet and shove Gaara back on the table. The redhead let himself be positioned with the swing like strap under his back. A strap buckled around Gaara’s chest, the loops were slid up his legs to rest around his knees, the cuffs buckled around the thin white wrists, and the table finally shoved away. Gaara’s body swung, then settled, his chest rising and falling. Shika freed his cock and grabbed a tube of lube lying amid the crops and whips on the bench. Then Shika was between those white legs, looking down on that curving cobra-like cock rising up from a red nest of pubic hair, his fingers coated with clear lube. He dropped the tube on Gaara’s stomach and grasped Gaara’s cock, using the redhead’s penis to still his body from the swing of the chains.

Gaara’s ass was so tight, it seemed hard work to push even one finger in deep. But Shika had heard the truth in Gaara’s threat to punish him for teasing. He would dominate or bleed, and now that he was committed to controlling the redhead, the rush of having such a responsive, sexy body before him made his hands firm and sure as he worked his fingers in and out of Gaara, carefully watching each expression on Gaara’s face. His expressions—oh, they were exquisite, so full of surprised amazement, that Shikamaru felt as if he was initiating a virgin. The thought aroused him even more, and he took his time fingering Gaara’s ass, watching his face transform with pleasure. How could this body that lusted for blood tremble at the teasing touch of a finger on a nipple, a playful pinch on an asscheek?

When Shika slid a third finger in and pressed hard on Gaara’s prostate, the redhead even gave a little half shriek that that truly seemed surprised, even shocked. Oh, Gaara was good—he was making Shika feel like he’d never felt anything as good as the touch of Nara’s fingers, that he never craved like this, whimpered, and shook. It was so fucking hot, that Shika forgot to be envious, and found himself eagerly slicking his cock wanting to make this last as long as he could.

He pushed the tip of his cock in, stunned at the tightness. The sensations—god, he’d forgotten how it feel to be sheathed in tight heat, to feel it squirming, alive, pulsing around you, like it was a mouth devouring you, but more, so much more. And those eyes—what was that color—a rich mix of green, aqua, and pale blue, so exotic and unusual they seemed the eyes of an alien, some fanastic being from another planet. But a visitor from another plant was unlikely to let out a scream of “Fuck” as Shika’s cock found the bundle of nerves he privately thought of as the “cum-button.” Having found Gaara’s, he worked it, amazed at the way Gaara responded—cursing and shouting things that Shika couldn’t understand. They seemed not quite words, not quite sounds. And above that noisy mouth, those alien aquamarine eyes rolled.

Oh, Christ, Shika had never had anyone make this much noise and be believable. What in God’s name was Gaara doing domming, which left him cold and cool when a simple fucking had him on the edge, more emotional, more tormented, practically screaming, and literally shaking beneath him? When Gaara started to cry, Shika lost it himself and jerked Gaara’s cock frantically as he rapidly pounded in one, two, three, four quick strokes before he screamed, “Fuck, Yes!” Gaara’s own sperm sprayed up, and the brunette rocked his head forward, wanting to feel that cum hit his face, wanting to watch the shock and ecstasy in the pink face under that red, red hair. And then he stood, tired, exhausted between Gaara’s legs, one hand clinging to a chain, listening to the strange babbling coming from Gaara—a blend of obscene phrases, little sobs, and whispered thanks and praise.

Dear Fucking God.

He’d dom for Gaara anytime, anywhere.