D/s Naruto

Chapter 17 (Saturday 16 June 2007, afternoon)

“Christ, I need a cigarette,” said Shikamaru, finally supporting his own weight. He zipped up his pants and stumbled over to the long bench covered with Gaara’s stuff. Now that he was really looking he could see that the things on it weren’t all bondage tools or restraints and instruments of punishment. Amid the whips, cuffs, belts, harnesses, and all were some toys too: a butt plug, a dildo, some condoms, etc. Shika cleared an ass-sized spot with his foot and then sat on it, not caring that a leather flogger, a spreader bar, and few other things no doubt fell on the oak floor. He pulled out a cigarette and lighter.

“Not inside,” said Gaara.

Shikamaru looked over at Gaara naked and suspended above the floor and clicked his lighter. The reaction from Gaara was immediate, and Shikamaru let the flame die out as he watched. Gaara’s body tensed like a gymnast's and taking all his weight on his wrists and upper body, he slid his legs from the leather loops around his knees. It was done with a grace and speed that was beautiful to watch. His feet landed on the floor, and he turned to the cuffs. Using his mouth he undid one with a speed that suggested he’d done this before many, many times. The other wrist restraint soon followed. Gaara turned to Shikamaru, the leather strap of the support for his upper body the only restraint left. He looked lethal and deadly despite being naked and still linked to chains running to the ceiling. He was clearly going to make trouble if Shikamaru smoked inside.

Sighing, Shika stood up and went to the front door. To his surprise the lock was something bizarre he’d never seen before. There were some odd dials, like those on an old fashioned safe or a high school locker and no actual handle. Rolling his eyes, Shika turned and walked into the kitchen, heading for the back door he’d seen during his tour. The lock on this one was normal, and after opening the door, he carefully checked to make sure that the other side of the door was equally normal. Then he looked into the backyard and froze.

Beautiful. Peaceful. Tranquil. Pristine. The words hardly did the garden justice. For this, this space could not be called a yard.

Tall bamboo formed a lush fence on the three sides of the garden away from the house. Shika knew very little about bamboo, but he recognized that there were at least five different types here, and all were doing well—lush, tall, graceful, and intensely green. A low white cement wall separated the bamboo from the center of the garden, a sunken area some three feet lower than the level of the bamboo. None of the bamboo had spread to the inner area, so likely the cement wall went deep, thought Shika since the one thing he knew about bamboo was it was difficult to contain to a single spot.

The white cement wall forming the line between the sunken garden and the bamboo was wide enough to sit on and capped by a blue-green stone that was probably slate or Pennsylvania bluestone. Where the steps down from the white cement stoop outside the kitchen door ended, a path of the same stone began—a path set in dazzling white sand. Amid the carefully raked sand, the path wandered between three circles. The curved shape of the path and the spirals and whirls raked into the sands around the three circles made a beautiful, elusive pattern. Shikamaru knew he could spend hours looking at this alone to tease out and understand the nuances of that pattern and to just appreciate its beauty. He shoved the cigarette and lighter back into his pants, his need to smoke forgotten and replaced by his desire to explore the garden. And to smoke here—it would be sacrilege—what, would he throw the butt on the pure white sand and destroy the pattern? On the white rocks all over the ground under the bamboo from the blue-capped wall back to whatever fence line there was?

The first circle was made of the blue-green stone as well and two semi-circular benches of black cement or stone curved around the edges of this small island in the white sand. At the center of the circle was what Shikamaru initially thought was a black waist-high concrete column with a strange sculpture sitting on it. It was however, just a rock—but what a rock. It was a rich green-black thing of sinuous curves and a shape that seemed to hint at something meaningful but elusive. Shikamaru circled the stone, and each angle he viewed it from showed him something different, yet equally intriguing and elegant. The stone seemed to radiate a sensuality and allure. He drew close, needing to touch it, to stroke its strange shape, to try to understand it. When his hands at last were on the stone, only then did he realize it was part of the column below and that column was a dense black stone shaped and polished and the rich green above was somehow something born in the matrix of the black rock. Had it been shaped by years of water wearing away the black stone or had some artist removed that to reveal this treasure of deep, dark greens? Again, like the pattern of the floor of the garden, here was something he could stare at for days, each hour shifting just a little to study the rock from a different position, and repeating that as the earth rolled away from the sun changing the light over time.

But there was still more. He moved away reluctantly to the next circle. The one was raised up, a circular platform of what looked like about eight or ten greenish-glass tabletops piled one on the other. Or maybe it was one giant circular slab of green glass that rose up from the white sand. On top of this circle was a large white circular cushion made of that outdoor grade canvas just about all outdoor cushions are made of—a sort of outdoor futon. On top of it, some other pillows were scattered, which as first glance simply seemed white as well. But looking closer, Shikamaru could see they were an odd mix—some needlepoint, some embroidered, one a mix of leather and fur, another a richly textured brocade. But the patterns of on each were done in white on white, with hints of cream or ecru, and so subtle and complex that each also needed to be closely stared at to perceive its pattern, to tease out its design. His hand reached out to the closest and smoothed down its surface enjoying the feel of the wool and silk, the softness and the nubby sections. The pattern of the threads was geometric, yet spiral—or was it? If you focused on the wool, not the silk, it suddenly seemed to be just random shapes. But, now was not the time to stare at a pillow. Shika raised his hand and eyes and turned.

He moved along the curving path to the third and last circle. This was a raised wood platform topped with an arbor. Wisteria vines rose around it, twining up the many supporting column and forming a roof of thick green leaves. In winter, the vines would be bare and form a grey latticework, and in spring, the heady smell and beauty of their violet and lilac colored blooms would be lovely. Another circular cushion covered the raised platform with more of those pillows that at first glance appear to be plain, but with examination revealed rich, but subtle details. The cushion and pillows on this platform were green.

The path curved and circled around this platform, looping back on itself, letting those who followed it now for the first time, focus on the fountain that ran from one end of the house to the kitchen stoop, forming the fourth wall of the garden. Along the bottom three feet of the house a silver metal sheet undulated across the house with a curve at the top from which water endlessly spilled down into a shallow pool. The pool was only a few inches deep of white concrete. Just by the stoop, the low pool widened to make a circle around an outdoor shower made of copper metal pipes partially covered with that lovely green patina copper gets from being outside. As Shika watched, Gaara stepped up to the shower and pulled a long chain with a large ring on the end, and the shower sprayed down on his naked body, washing away his sweat, Shikamaru’s cum, and any traces of lube. His hair turned darker under the water, but his red tattoo by his right temple stayed violently red.

He was beautiful, Shika observed objectively. All white and red, perfectly proportioned, and symmetrical, save for that tattoo. It wasn’t the sort of beauty everyone would like, a classic beauty like Neji’s, but it was in its way as perfect, if not more so, for being so rare. Red is the rarest of hair colors, and a dark rich red like Gaara’s was even rarer. And to find that startling red that so many dyed their hair to get above white skin not marred by a freckle was even stranger. A natural redhead without freckles—Shikamaru had never met one before. And he’d always assumed Gaara’s hair was dyed, but today, having seen that the hair around his cock, under his arms, and on his chest was that same red as the hair on his head—well, it seemed clear it wasn’t dye making all that red. Hell, even his eyelashes were red.

It was so confusing, so strange. Looking at this garden, remembering their sex, Shikamaru felt he’d misunderstood Gaara completely. Sighing he went to the glass platform and climbed up on it and fell back on the soft cushions, staring at the sky. He needed to think. He sensed Gaara close and opened his eyes. Gaara handed him a wooden cup full of a clear liquid. He sat up and drank—water, cold and pure. He drained the cup—had water ever been so satisfying before? Gaara took it and returned to the shower. As Shikamaru watched, he tugged the chain and refilled the cup. Then he filled a second wooden cup, taken from a shelf evidently cut into the concrete stoop out of view from Shika’s position.

Naked under the blue June sky, his skin as white as the swirled, raked sand, he strode over to Shikamaru, handing him one of the cups. He took the other and went to the wisteria-covered platform with the green cushions. He lay down on them, lifted his cup to Shika in a toast, and drank a little. Shika watched him set the cup down and then lay back. He didn’t move, and soon the brunette fell back on his own cushions of white. He felt like he was in some dreamworld, a magic garden in a fairy tale. He remembered as he drove his cock into Gaara’s body, that strange sense he was a being from another world. Lying here in this exotic, strange garden, it seemed like it could be true. If he pushed through that bamboo, would he find a rotten wood fence or ugly chain link one—or would the bamboo never end for miles, until he broke free and gazed on a strange land of plants and rocks like none on earth? Or an ocean, an ocean as white as this sand, an ocean of white water which foamed red, red as blood, red as the hair on Gaara—an ocean whose waves crashed endlessly on a beach of silver metallic sand? With strange thoughts like these, Shika slid into a state half dreaming and half awake.

The cry of a hawk awoke Shikamaru—he watched the bird circle lazily above until it vanished from the patch of sky that the Nara could see. Had he dreamed that cry or not? He’d never head a hawk cry before, did they? He sat up and felt dizzy, hot. He likely had sunburn, maybe even sunstroke. He drank the rest of the water from his cup, but it was hot and tasted strange. He got up and headed to the shower with his cup. The water felt wonderful on his arms as he filled his cup. It tasted even better. He smelled, no he stank of sweat. He glanced back over the garden. He could see Gaara’s white body under the canopy of green leaves. He was naked. Who could see him here? It felt like the two of them were miles from civilization.

It seemed natural, inevitable, right he’d strip off his clothes. He pulled the tie from his hair and stepped in the low pool around the shower and grasped the copper chain. The sun had shifted so the house’s shade covered the shower and fountain. The few inches of water around his feet were cool as was the metal of the copper chain that he pulled to turn on the shower. The water was shocking on his hot skin, making his hair stand on end, and his nipples harden. His hot skin cooled, and the almost burning feeling of the cold water grew less intense. His hair began to slide down around his head, curtaining his face, and he reached up and began finger combing it as the water washed away the gel he always used in it.

When he was young, his hair had just hung down naturally. Sparring at Kakashi’s dojo when he was what—nine, ten—he lost and lost a painful chunk of hair in the process. He hadn’t known why Iruka sensei was so often at the dojo back then, but the kind teacher had taken him aside and shown him how to slick up his hair and fasten it up on his head like he did. It would stay out of his eyes that way, and a hand trying to grasp it would either slide off or get slippery from the gel. Shika had worn his hair that way ever since, although he’d changed the type of hair gel he used. It was an easy style, and it added inches to his height. At only five foot eight, he was a little conscious of being short here in America, the land that worshipped the tall.

As Shikamaru combed out his hair with his fingers under the water, Gaara watched, fascinated. The brunette’s baggy, oversized clothes did nothing for him, making him look thinner and weaker than he was. Underneath those concealing clothes was a proportioned body: lithe, not scrawny. His skin was neither white nor tan, but that color of heavily creamed coffee or tea. On his right nipple, a small gold ring gleamed that matched the tiny gold hoops in each of Shika’s ears. His brown hair, freed from its usual ponytail, was shoulder length. Shika turned off the water and shook himself. His hands came up and pulled his hair back, twisting, then released. Gaara blinked. Shikamaru’s hair felt down in loose curls. He turned to Gaara and smiled.

Gaara stepped forward towards him into the white sand, destroying some of the carefully raked lines. His toes curled into the sand. Shikamaru looked like he had emerged from the cover of a romance novel or a slick Madison-Avenue ad for underwear that cost more than a day’s work at minimum wage—of course without the underwear. The curls danced around his face, shifting to show the golden hoops in his ears and then covering them again. A pirate, thought Gaara—no, too beautiful and scarless—a pirate’s slave, a prized treasure that men had died for. Yes, and that ring in the nipple—that would be his master’s doing. Gaara reached the pool and stepped in, suddenly aware of the five or so inches he was taller than Shikamaru. With that ponytail that shot up a good three to four inches above his head, he’d not really noticed.

Gaara was left-handed, and that gold ring in Shika’s nipple seemed to call his fingers. His left arm rose up, and his left index finger slid into that ring and tugged, pulling it towards him and bringing Shikamaru with it. His right hand reached up and played with the brunette’s loose curls before finally he lowered his lips to those of the body now a captive in his grasp. And like a pirate he plundered that mouth.

When he finally pulled away his mouth, Shika’s brown eyes were full of desire, his body pressed up to Gaara’s, his arms clinging tight. Gaara pushed him away slowly until his back was against the copper pipes and his arms fell back down to his sides. The redhead picked up Shikamaru’s t-shirt and pulling Shika’s wrists together, he knotted the shirt around them and then raised them above the brunette’s head, now knotting the shirt around the jutting bar that ended with the shower head. He moved back along the fountain-edged part of the long narrow pool, admiring how his captive looked with his arms above his head, his nipples and cock hard, water still dripping from his hair and skin.

Gaara reached down and stroked his own cock. Shikamaru moaned and his body twisted. Gaara let his other hand play with his nipples, then his balls. The café-au-lait colored body undulated sensuously. Gaara stuck two fingers in his mouth and sucked. Shikamaru moaned and rocked forward twisting his hips and thrusting out his chest, then groin. Gaara raised one leg and set in on the raised edge of the pool. He thrust his fingers in his anus, pleasuring himself. Shikamaru’s mouth fell open and his eyelids lowered. He panted and swayed, whispering, “Please.”

Gaara shook his head no, but he shifted so Shikamaru had a better angle to see what he was doing. Shikamaru moaned again, his voice louder now, “Gaara, Gaara, please.”

Gaara licked his lips, but didn’t move.

Shika turned his body and thrust out his ass, wiggling, offering himself, his face looking back over his shoulder, pleadingly.

Gaara’s fingers found his prostate, and he spasmed a little with pleasure. He pulled his hand out of his ass, using both his hands to manipulate his cock, that thick rod with the curled head. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue slowly across his top row of teeth.

Shikamaru turned to watch, panting. “Please, Gaara, fuck me,” he said at last, “Please put your cock in me.”

Gaara smiled, a wicked smile made Shikamaru feel desperate with need. The redhead’s hands moved from his cock to his thighs, then slowly ran up the sides of his body.

Everything in Shikamaru wanted, wanted that white and red body to come claim him. And suddenly he knew what Gaara was waiting for. “Master, please, please take me.”

And then Gaara was at last moving close, closer, almost with in touching range. Shikamaru arched his body out, trying to close the distance. But Gaara reached where the pool expanded around the shower and moved along the edge till he could reach down to the shelf in the stoop. He pulled a clear plastic bottle with a black cap off the shelf. It could have been shampoo, but Shika could see that printed band of H20 around it and recognized it as a popular brand of water-based anal lube. Oh, yes, god, yes. Gaara lubed up his fingers and then, stepping close, kissed Shikamaru again. But his fingers, oh yes, then reached down and found his anus, sliding in. Shikamaru went wild, pushing his body first into Gaara and then back on his fingers, his mouth trying to suck in Gaara’s tongue, his chest rubbing against Gaara’s, so he could feel the metal of the nipple ring against him.

Then Gaara pulled away, and Shika cried out at the loss of contact, arching forward as far as his hands tied above his head would let him. “Your word for me to stop what I am doing is cutlass, and your word for ending a session completely is parrot. Do you understand, boy?”

Shika stopped moving, save for his chest which was rising and falling rapidly. He was silent, and he turned his head to stare out over the garden as if there was something there, something that was gesturing to him. “You move in, you wear my training collar,” added Gaara. Shika still was looking away behind Gaara, and he turned and glanced. The garden was as he had left it—aside from his footprints on the sand, it was perfect, tranquil. He turned back to look at Shikamaru, still unmoving. The sound of the water spilling down the silver metal into the fountain was subtle, soothing. A breeze blew and made the bamboo rustle and sway. Behind Gaara, a leaf fell from one of the bamboo species that was more bushy. The brunette's eyes followed the spot of green as it slowly fell, landing at last on the white cushions where he had slept. Then his head turned, and he looked into Gaara’s eyes and said, “My safewords are cutlass and parrot, Master.”

His eyes lowered, and his head tilted, sending some curls to slidefrom his shoulder across his check, “Please, Master, will you fuck me and make me come?”

Gaara moved forward, so his pale white body pressed against Shikamaru’s, pinning him against the copper pipes of the shower. His hands reached up, but not to free Shikamaru’s. Instead he pried open a link on the copper chain that you pulled to turn the water off and on. He wrapped the copper chain loosely about Shika’s neck, carefully lifting his hair to avoid it being caught. The large copper ring on the end of the chain was centered at the base of Shika’s neck. Gaara carefully pried open another link, then closed it, then twisted the chain once around the ring, letting the end of the chain fall down. The end stopped at Shikamaru’s belly button. Gaara jerked on the end of the chain testing it. The link and twist held, and the chain didn’t tighten around Shika’s neck like a choke collar but merely pressed against the back of his neck, pressuring him to lean forward—forward into Gaara, who brushed away his hair and leaned in to lick his ear, making Shika shiver and cry out.

Then Gaara’s hands and mouth were all over him, exploring and probing, tugging and touching, pinching and pleasuring. Shika lost himself in the sensation, lost himself in that state where he could do nothing but respond, and even that occurred without thought, without effort. He was the instrument, and Gaara played him, making his body sing out and fill this bamboo glade with his cries and moans.

When the wetness that was Gaara’s tongue, finally finished its long slow trail down from the nape of his neck to plunge inside him, Shika felt his balls tighten and his release coming. But suddenly the shower was on, the cold water making him scream, making his cock, which had been just seconds from release, limpen.

“Master, master, please! Please!” he cried out, and the cold water stopped. But Gaara was gone from his body, behind him. But then he heard the clip of the lube bottle being opened again. He turned towards Gaara, and the redhead lifted up his legs to his waist, putting his weight on the t-shirt holding his hands above his head. He felt the knot loosen and grabbed at the copper pipe to hold himself up. Gaara waited until he had a comfortable grip and moved so his cockhead was against Shikamaru’s anus. Oh, god, yes. This was Shikamaru’s favorite thing about being a sub—being fucked. The feeling of being penetrated, taken, claimed—the pleasure from the brushes on his prostate, the feeling of his muscles contracting around a hard cock—he could never dom fulltime, never give this up. He pushed down, trying to force himself on Gaara, wanting, needing, craving that cock.

“Tell me what you want, boy, tell me what you need,” ordered Gaara.

“I need you to fuck me, Master! I need that cock inside me, pounding me! I need you to shove it deep in my ass! Please, please, Master.” He did, oh, he did. Neji had found that being denied a rough, hard fuck was the one thing that made lazy Shika work to please. He’d enjoyed listening to Shika beg for it, refusing to fuck his ass. It had been three long weeks since Shikamaru had been fucked like he wanted, but even so it had been much, much longer since Shikamaru had felt this desperate, this aroused. His anus fluttered.

Then with a wordless shout, Gaara thrust in, and Shikamaru felt that tight ring of muscle stretch in a painful pleasure, and he came with a scream. His humiliation and embarrassment at his need and premature ejaculation made tears come to his eyes. But the pleasure, oh god, the pleasure. Gaara, Gaara fucked hard and deep, and his body swung helpless between Gaara and the copper pole. Even though he couldn’t get aroused again, it was making his body shudder with pleasure. When Shikamaru finally mastered himself and could talk again, Gaara was driving into him rapidly, yet each thrust going fully in and slamming against his insides, just the way he liked it.

If he came too soon with Neji, it would be days or even a week before he would get fucked again. “I’m sorry, Master, I’m sorry,” said Shika, “I’ll try to hold back next time. Please forgive me for coming too soon, Master. Oh, god, Master, perfect, so perfect. Thank-you—Ahhhhhh! Master! Ohhhhh!” Unable to talk as the pleasure sweep over him again despite his softened cock, he looked up into Gaara’s eyes, pleading for forgiveness. In the shadow of the house, they seemed even more alien than they had in the house: big and bright, that incredible color that was so hard to describe—not quite green, not quite aqua, the color of seafoam or a mermaid, perhaps. And they looked down on him with an expression unreadable, so intense that Shika could only close his eyes and give himself up to the sensations ripping through him.

He had no choice: his master was taking his pleasure and all Shikamaru could do was submit.