D/s Naruto

Chapter 23 (Saturday 16 June 2007, late afternoon)

This was what it felt like to fuck. It felt even better than being fucked. And this lithe, thin body with the café-au-lait skin, this Shikamaru with his intense brown eyes, cascading curls, and soft lips, was his. He hadn’t trusted himself to take him until he’d agreed. He’d agreed to move in, to be his, to stay. He seen Gaara naked, seen Gaara cry, seen Gaara’s home, seen, well, everything it seemed—those dark eyes that could look so lazy and indifferent told a lie. They looked at everything. Gaara knew—he’d watched on cameras Shikamaru hadn’t know about, hadn’t played to, and had seen the lazy eyes turn cold, calculating, ruthless. And now he knew that they could fill with desire and need too. Shikamaru had not wanted to run away—he could have left the minute he’d put Gaara in the restraints and chains. If he’d tried to leave then, Gaara would have told him how to open the front door and let him go—ok, well, maybe after covering his back with whip marks, but still, he hadn’t needed to come home with Gaara, hadn’t needed to fuck Gaara, and certainly hadn’t needed to beg to be fucked.

The begging, the begging was a lie, most likely, Gaara knew. But he’d agreed to wear his training collar, to call him Master—that wasn’t a lie, that wasn’t something the usually silent Shikamaru would do and not mean. He’d agreed before Gaara had even fucked him. He really must not care if I mess up, if I don’t get it right at first, Gaara had thought. And then those eyes, dark brown eyes, had seemed to beg, to need. Nobody looked at Gaara like that unless they were begging him to stop, to go away. It was like Shikamaru somehow thought he was someone else, someone you told you liked, someone you asked to take to lunch, someone you kissed, someone you fucked, someone you begged for, wanted, desired, someone who made you come with one thrust of their cock.

Shikamaru had come, he’d sprayed out his sperm and thrashed, he’d been overcome with pleasure, the minute Gaara thrust in. That sight, the sounds, the smell of the cum, the feel of his body tightening down on him—it all had taking away that nagging worry that Gaara couldn’t make someone orgasm, couldn’t do anything but make them lie there in fear and just let him do what he wanted, wanting him gone. That orgasm had made him feel like a god, Shikamaru’s god. And then he’d begged to be forgiven, seemed to think he’d done something wrong, that Gaara would stop, wouldn’t want him, would be angry. How could anyone be angry experiencing Shikamaru come in their arms, around their cock? And now to see him loving it, loving each thrust, each one of these forward movements that feel like—I can’t describe this, I can’t put in words in my mind how it feels to fuck Shikamaru, Gaara thought. I can’t take this all in—

“Ahhhhhh! Master, oh god!” cried out Shikamaru. And his cock was hardening, getting stiff, getting big again as Gaara slammed in and out of his ass. In one part of Gaara’s mind all he was doing was fucking, feeling, responding. That part wanted to come now, come soon. But the other part, the part that was trying to put into clear thought, into words, what was happening, what was going on, was making him wait, making him hold out. This was never going to happen again, this was the first time, and there was only one first time. This bliss, this intensity, this could be a dream, this could be a mistake, this could be some cruel exception—this was like swallowing the sun after having been fed on the light of glowworms or distant, cold stars. He would make this last as long as he could. He would see if he could make this body he was in come again, shatter again. One more time, one more time.

Shikamaru was now crying, sobbing, shaking, twisting, his body swaying as his hands clung to the copper pipe connected to the showerhead, his head and eyes rolling back, his nipples and cock so hard, so red, so stiff with blood and need. And those legs of his, his ass, gripped him tight, pulled him in. The gold hoops in Shikamaru’s ears glittered as his head tossed, and those strange curls, unbelievable curls, flew around his face. His body was wet with sweat, with his own cum in spots, with water droplets from his damp hair. And then his hands slipped from the pipe. The knotted t-shirt held for seconds and started to give way, but Gaara had grabbed his treasure, this precious body, and pulled it up against him. Face to face, chest to chest, cock to belly, ass to cock.

Walking, walking with his cock hard, hard and inside a hot wet squeezing ass. Then at last spilling them down on the white circle of pillows under the late afternoon sun. The copper chain flying back, over Shikamaru’s shoulder. The hair like a black halo around his head. His arms, his hands free, free to reach for Gaara, to pull him close, to drag him down, to kiss him, to pull their bodies so that—impossibly--Gaara was both inside Shikamaru yet above him in the missionary position. And then it was just too much, and the Gaara that just wanted to fuck, wanted to come, took over his brain, his body. With Shikamaru now against something solid, Gaara pulled those legs up, angled, and thrust, and there was no swing, no give in the hot tight wet warmth. He slid in deeper than ever before. And Shikamaru went wild. And Gaara let himself go, go to where he was beyond thought, beyond anything but a need to thrust, to pound, to slam, to explode, to burst, to spray, to come in one long eternal moment.

And beneath him a body that took it all, that welcomed it, that too found pleasure, that sprayed out seed, that convulsed, that sent out sounds. They were sounds he heard without hearing, not quite all here but partially somewhere else, somewhere where the body and the mind were second to a way of being that was beyond the senses, beyond thought. Later, later when Gaara would to try to pin a word to it, it was when he seemed to be stripped down to just the soul, the spark that made his flesh alive, not dead.

But no one can stay in that state for more than a moment. And under the sun on the round white platform, two bodies sexually satiated struggled to breathe.

Hot, sticky, sweaty, with sandy feet--another shower. Then inside to pull apart the kitchen, and Shikamaru making an omelet and hot muffins and coffee and filling his kitchen with a mess and with smells that made him hungry, with movement, with food that he would never have made, that tasted magical because they were made by this miracle in his kitchen. This sexy, naked body that seemed to want him again because by the time the omelet was gone, and there was only muffins and coffee, the blood was puffing up his lips, his nipples, his cock. And Gaara’s own cock, nipples, lips swelled up too.

This time, this time he carried that smaller, weaker body to his bedroom, to his bed. And that milky cocoa-colored body once dropped on the bed, thrust up an ass at him—a willing, wanting ass, and begged for it. Begged for what he would have probably pleaded for himself, what he thought he might never get, never be offered, never know. And now, both having come twice before, they took their time. And Gaara learned what made Shikamaru tremble, what made him gasp, what made him scream. And he taught Shikamaru that his ass, his ass that never seemed to get enough fucking, never once had felt fucked to the point he could take no more, could reach the point where each stroke was both one of pain and pleasure, where he felt taken past a limit he’d never even sensed, to where he was so helpless, so bruised, so sore, so dominated, so claimed, so sexually aroused, he was lost. There was no more Shikamaru, there was nothing but Master, nothing but Master’s cock, nothing but Master’s needs. The pain began to overwhelm the pleasure, but it brought a new pleasure, a pleasure that was deeper and more intense and more thrilling than merely feeling good. This was pure submission, a subspace deeper than any Shikamaru had ever reached, and then, then, when he was nothing, nothing, Master gave him everything—the orgasm that ripped through you, the one you could only babble about in terms of global or even galactic cataclysms. An earthquake, a hurricane, a volcano, a tsunami, a supernova, the big bang. The one that would haunt you, the one you always chased and never caught.

Except today he had. A Saturday in June, late afternoon.

Unable to move, unable to think, Shikamaru lay on the double bed looking up at the chains that had not been touched, not been used. Gaara washed him, massaged him, examined—no, studied him. The sunlight grew brighter in the Western-facing window—a window looking out on nothing but some shaggy, neglected cypresses against a tottering dry wood fence. Then the light turned pink and orange, and the room started to dim around them on the bed. Then Gaara finally broke the silence, asking, “Do you have a lot of stuff to move?”

“No,” was all Shikamaru said, just being himself, not a sub.

“How far and how much?” asked Gaara.

“Fifteen minutes by car, and a suitcase and a backpack.”

“I’ve a Suzuki Bandit, but only one helmet,” said Gaara, “I can go buy another one, or I could go borrow whatever car Sasori drove to the club today.”

Shikamaru grinned, saying, “I’ve got a V-Strom and a helmet, but they’re at Neji’s, fifteen minutes away. I think we could make it without being stopped by the cops.”

“You wear the helmet,” said Gaara.

“You got at least a cap for yourself?” asked Shika.

Gaara got up and opened the small closet door, and poked around before turning around with a dingy black ballcap with a patch on it saying, “The Rockin’ R Bar, Bozeman, Montana.”

Shikamaru raised an eyebrow at Gaara, which was his way of asking when the redhead had been to Montana. Gaara shrugged, indicating he hadn’t, and the cap was just one of those things that had its own long, mysterious history, ending up far from its origin in the hands of someone who’d never even set foot in the state. It didn’t occur to Shikamaru he might have read that shrug wrong, nor did Gaara seem to notice that they didn’t need words to talk.

Shikamaru went out to the backyard to get his clothes. When he came back in, he was conscious that he hadn’t smoked since breakfast and that he had a copper shower chain around his neck and hanging down to his navel. He’d fastened his hair at the back of his neck, not on the top of his head. Without the paste he used to make it stick up, straight and stiff, he’d look ridiculous with soft curls spilling down on all sides of his head. At least now they just hung down a bit in the back.

Gaara tossed him a black helmet and held out a black leather motorcycle jacket. He had on a brown leather WWII-bomber style jacket and the black cap. He waited at the door. Shika took the black leather jacket and put it on, just holding the helmet. He watched as Gaara turned the two dials so the 3’s were at the top, pushed up what hadn’t looked like a plate that moved, and pushed in a button. It was weird and made no sense, but the door popped open. Shika knew one day soon he would spend time examining that lock, literally unlocking it to find out its secrets, its workings. As he was about to step off the front stoop, Gaara suddenly turned and his hands went to the chain around Shikamaru’s neck.

“Wait,” he said taking it off and then went back into the house. Shika stood outside the door, smiling. He had wondered if Gaara would taken the risk of the chain flying out or catching in something on the bike or not. But the redhead was giving him the thicker leather coat, the helmet, taking off the dangerous chain. Shika reached into his pocket for a cigarette and his lighter. `Hmmm, he seems to want me in good health,' he thought as he took a deep drag.

He heard the door swing open, and then things became troublesome, as he would later say. He was dragged back in the house by the back of the leather jacket. His lighter and the helmet fell out of his hands, hitting the concrete stoop, bouncing into the grass. He clamped down on the cigarette in his mouth, so it didn’t go flying as he was thrown on the oak floor, not the futon. The door slammed shut, and Shikamaru had time to notice—for everything seemed to be moving slowly--that the dials spun themselves around. But then Gaara’s hand crushed the lit cigarette in a fist, as if it wasn’t something burning, and hurled the cigarette towards the fireplace.

Oh.

He grabbed Shika’s faded green t-shirt in a fist, pulling his torso up from the floor. Shika watched as Gaara’s other hand trembled and flexed as if it was holding back from slapping or fisting. Then Gaara just started for the kitchen, pulling Shika along the floor by his t-shirt. It ripped, and Shikamaru rolled on his side. Gaara grabbed the back of the leather jacket and tugged, dragging him to the kitchen, to the sink. He turned the water on and shoved Shika’s head down towards it.

“Get rid of the taste,” he said. Then he added the words that went straight to Shikamaru’s heart, something he never expected. “My father died in my arms with the cancer growing out of his body in red and black lumps, so putrid, reeking—“ Shikamaru looked up at Gaara as he rinsed out his mouth with water. Gaara looked frightening, demonic in the near darkness of the kitchen at twilight. Shika reached for a half-drunk mug of coffee and used a mouthful like mouthwash, churning it in his mouth, then spitting it in the sink.

“Pick,” was all Gaara said, and Shikamaru could see that he was close to breaking, holding back all sorts of emotions, those emotions that only seconds ago had made him seem some nightmarish demon. But his thin, tall body just stood there still. His face was frozen, blank, and his eyes like ice again. And Shika knew--knew with a certainty that went to his core--if he wanted he could slip out of this leather jacket, walk out of this kitchen, this house, and Gaara’s life without Gaara harming him or even saying a word to him. He meant enough to Gaara that he wouldn’t beat him and hold him against his will, he wouldn’t even try. But if he stayed, he’d never smoke again.

It was such an easy choice, it wasn’t even a choice. Shikamaru walked over to that frozen figure and wrapped his arms around him, hugging him. Gaara remained stiff, like a statue. In his normal voice that seemed loud in the dark kitchen, Shika said, “I pick you, Gaara. Be my master, please. And sometimes, please, be my sub. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Gaara said nothing, but his arms came up around Shika and pulled him in tight. That thin, but strong body shook in his arms, and the face pressed against his was wet, but there was no sound. And then the voice, a voice full of pain, shaky, said, “Don’t leave me, Shika.”

And that was the lock on Shika’s cage, Gaara’s raw need for him, his silent sobbing. And Shikamaru’s hands went up to stroke Gaara’s hair, and he said, “Shhhh, baby, I’m not leaving, I won’t ever leave. How can I go when you’ve stolen my heart, my soul?”

“Shika!”

“I’m here, baby.”

And then they were pulling off the clothes, and Gaara spit in his hand, slicked his cock, and once more slid into Shika, still loose, still sore from all the fucking. But this wasn’t fucking anymore, it was softness, tongues, kisses, clinging. And the pain Shikamaru felt was lost in the wonder of knowing he was in love, in love for the first time in his life. But he wasn’t very hard when Gaara spilled into him, and he couldn’t help the little cry that was clearly more pain that pleasure. But then as he lay on his back as the blackness fell around him, Gaara’s mouth and hands pulled away all the clothes he still had on and worshipped him, stimulated him, till the pleasure once more made him cry out. Then Gaara carried him to the bathroom, turning on a dim light, and set him in the tub. He adjusted the water until Shika said it was perfect and let the tub fill. He brought Shikamaru six bottles of pills along with a glass of water: aspirin, Tylenol, ibuprofen, Vicodin, Morphine, Demerol. Shikamaru carefully took some Tylenol and ibuprofen, feeling a little shiver that Gaara kept some Schedule I drugs in his medicine cabinet.

Gaara then brought fresh towels, a bottle of spring water, and his own cellphone. He vanished and returned dressed to go out, this time with the black leather jacket on, motorcycle gloves in his hand. “I’ve put my cellphone number in as speed dial four,” he said, “and my uncle Sasori’s as five. Call if you need to, and if you can’t get me, call Sasori and tell him your mine and what you need. I’ll get your stuff and your helmet. We can get your bike tomorrow.”

Shika, comfortable in the warm water, blinked and thought about how Gaara was going to do that. He couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll be waiting,” he said.

Gaara leaned over the tub, and one pale hand touched Shika’s hair, his earring, his chin. And then he was gone. Shikamaru sunk down in the warm water with a sigh. The water felt so good, so relaxing. Suddenly, the solution to the nagging problem with the computer software he had wrestled with from Tuesday through Friday at his job just emerged in his mind with crystal clarity. He reached for his cellphone and called his office phone to record the solution on his answering machine even though he knew he wouldn’t forget it before Monday.

When he hung up, he reached up with his toe, spinning the faucet to add more hot water to the tub before sinking back down in a state of blissful relaxation. Maybe he should replace the tub with a Jacuzzi one, he thought idly for a second before wincing at the thought of remodeling, workman, and only one bathroom. Life was always better when you kept it simple. There was nothing that needed to be changed about Gaara’s house except the empty state of his refrigerator and cupboards. There was plenty of time for food shopping tomorrow, Sunday. Tonight, tonight, it was just perfect.

Shika let his eyes fall half shut and dreamed.