D/s Naruto

Warning: short (a few words) watersport fantasy

Chapter 29 (Saturday 16 June 2007, evening)

Shika stirred in the tub. After twenty minutes, his body had felt fine. After forty minutes, he felt restless. Normally, he’d like nothing more to just stay in a tub and soak for an hour, maybe even two hours. But he kept imagining Gaara coming home—god, it was already home—and that made him think of bed and the messy sheets on the bed. He didn’t want to sleep in those sheets with sweat, lube, and cum on them; and he really couldn’t see Gaara changing them. Besides, he was the sub for now, the way he preferred it. Subs did the cleaning and cooking although that had never been something he really liked about being a submissive.

Shikamaru dried off and made sure the bathroom looked as pristine as it had when he’d walked into it a little before noon some six hours ago. Had it only been six hours? Or had he slept through a whole day on that white circle of pillows? How long does it take to fall in love?

Satisfied that there would be no ring in the bathtub, the towels would dry, and the floor wasn’t slippery, Shika used the toilet and washed his hands. But the sight in the mirror shocked him. He hadn’t seen his hair dry without being styled in years. As a kid, he’d hated his curls. But that figure in the mirror with the dark loose curls falling around his face—he looked good, sexy. Not that he couldn’t look sexy with his hair how he normally wore it; it was just, well, his hair didn’t usually look sexy. He didn’t look like Shikamaru. With his hair not pulled back, you couldn’t see his widow’s peak as much, the way his hairline formed a point in the center and swept back above his temples. Hmmm, maybe he’d wear it like this more often.

It took a little while to find clean sheets. There was only one other set, and they were in with the white towels for the bathroom. Shikamaru stripped the bed, put the clean sheets on, and checked Gaara’s laundry basket for anything that could go in with white sheets. He had a number of plain white y-fronts that could. Soon the washer was running, and Shika was washing up the dishes from their late lunch. Dinner, what to make for dinner? There were eggs, but they’d had that for lunch. There were no vegetables, lunchmeat, or leftovers in the refrigerator. In the freezer, the brunette found some frozen beef, not much. He put it in the microwave to defrost. He’d seen pasta in the cupboards earlier and maybe in that shelf of cans was some pasta sauce. Ah, yes. It wouldn’t taste the best, but he could add some spices, which amazingly Gaara had plenty of.

If Neji could have seen Shikamaru, his hair down and in curls, happily cooking naked, he wouldn’t have believed it was the Nara that had lived with him for the past month and a half plus. Shika’s “cooking” for Neji usually involved less work. He didn’t make meatballs from beef and spices, shaping each one; he heated up frozen premade, precooked ones. He didn’t fuss over the pasta sauce—he shoved the jar in the microwave to heat it up and then poured it right on the food. And making a batch of rolls from a mix, even that was more energy than Shika had spent in his kitchen. Why bake when you could buy muffins, rolls, breads, and cake premade?

But having found the shelf with the packages of mixes on it, Shikamaru was already planning ahead. The pancake mix would be for breakfast. Fortunately, there was a bottle of syrup as well. And the chocolate cake, well, Gaara deserved dessert. Oh, god, that pack of cigarettes and the cigarette in the living room—they had to go and go now. The kitchen windows on the side of the house looked out at the wall of Gaara’s small one-car detached garage and the garbage cans. But to walk out the front door to those trash bins? God, he couldn’t leave the food, and to go out meant dealing with the damn lock and getting dressed. Shika grabbed a large clear ziplock storage bag and put the pack of cigarettes, the one he’d lit that caused Gaara to freak, and the empty sauce can in it for weight. He opened the window and chucked the bag at the trash bins, noting with satisfaction it landed neatly on top of one.

Surprisingly the air outside didn’t smell of trash but of jasmine. Shika moved his head and realized that the wall of the house was covered with jasmine. The scent was incredible—heady, sweet, exotic. He left the window open. The beautiful smell made him worry about the living room, however. He went back in and examined one of the white pillar candles on the mantelpiece. Vanilla-scented. He put two in the fireplace where they could safely burn unattended and lit them with the matches that had been concealed behind the candle on the left.

Time to put the wash in the dryer. The meatballs were in the sauce, just staying warm. The pasta was in a glass bowl, ready to be quickly reheated in the microwave. The dinner rolls on a plate under a clean towel, also ready to be reheated if needed. The chocolate cake was baking. Shikamaru washed the dishes he’d used. He dried them. What else was there to do? Oh, he could grind some coffee beans, and put the coffee and water in the coffee maker and have it ready to go. But just as he was opening the freezer to pull out the bag of coffee beans, he heard a motorcycle coming up the street. Gaara! Shikamaru’s cock hardened.

What if Gaara wanted to fuck, not eat? Oh, god, that would be good—but damn, the food. Shika turned off the heat under the meatballs and fretted over the cake—it needed another eighteen minutes. Oh, well, so what if it burned. Yes, yes, the bike was pulling into the driveway—and a car. Shikamaru walked to the doorway, struggling against an irrational desire to run to it. He knelt down, head bowed. He sniffed—thank god, it didn’t smell of cigarettes. The car was no doubt Sasori’s. But who was driving it? Shika thought and decided mostly likely Sasori, much less likely Deidara or anyone else. Then voices—ah, yes, Sasori.

“He did agree to this, Gaara, didn’t he? You don’t have him in there chained up and bleeding, do you?” Oh, how, cruel, thought Shika.

And then the dials on the door were spinning, and it popped open. And Gaara’s boots appeared in front of him, paused.

“Welcome home, Master,” said Shika, leaning over and kissing those boots. He knelt again, still not looking up at Gaara, like a good slave, asking, “How can I serve you, Master?”

“Take the helmets and put them up in the closet,” said Gaara, handing him both of their black helmets, the exact same brand and model. Shika rose and headed to the hall and its closet, thinking a little smugly, `How do you like that Uncle Sasori? I doubt your Deidara greets you like that.’ He put up the helmets, listening.

“I apologize, Gaara, wow, curls? And he cooks? Damn, it smells good in here. I haven’t had time to eat. Well, don’t forget dinner next Sunday.”

Shikamaru returned to the living room, noting his suitcase and backpack by the door, which was still open. He didn’t care if Gaara’s neighbors could see him naked through it if they happened to be looking. He walked over to Gaara, eyes lowered and moving gracefully, conscious that his Master and Master’s uncle were watching him. He lowered himself to his knees by Gaara and felt Gaara’s hand on his head, petting his hair. He pushed his head up into that touch, a little sound of pleasure coming from his throat, almost a purr. There was the sound of the door shutting, the dials spinning, and then Gaara walked towards the kitchen, slowly. It would be too much of a bother to get up and walk there and then kneel again, so Shikamaru just followed on his knees.

“What all have you made, Slave?” asked Gaara.

“Pasta, meatballs in sauce, rolls, and the chocolate cake is baking. I didn’t have time to make any icing yet, Master.”

“Put up my coat, bring me some lube, and then serve me dinner,” said Gaara.

“Yes, Master,” said Shikamaru, rising up to take the leather coat and feeling suddenly insanely happy. He was told to get lube, and Master wanted to eat his food. When Shika returned to the kitchen, Gaara was seated at the table, taking off his boots. Shikamaru flew to his side, kneeling and offering the lube first, then removing the second boot.

He hesitated for a second before Gaara growled, “Food.”

Then he was fixing Gaara’s plate, asking, “What would Master like to drink?”

“Ice water.”

Gaara’s plate went into the microwave to reheat, and Shika got silverware and the ice water and took it over to Gaara who had taken off the rest of his clothes, just dropping them on the floor. Shika bent and picked them up, carrying them over to the washer and laying them neatly on top of it. The microwave dinged, and he tasted the food and then asked, “Does Master want anything on his rolls?”

“No.”

Then taking the food over, placing it before Master, kneeling so he could look at Master’s cock, hard and rising up from those red, red curls. Ah, he could take care of that so Master could eat. He crawled under the table, kissing Gaara’s feet, licking up one leg. And then the legs spread, an invitation. Oh, yes, yes—sucking cock, yea, he liked to suck cock. It wasn’t as good as being fucked, but a cock in the mouth, in his throat, balls under his hands, the taste of cum—oh, god, Gaara’s cum was all the dinner he needed. For he would swallow this time. But sometime soon, Master might let him pull back and be sprayed on his face, his neck, his chest. Let him bring his hands up and rub his cum into his skin, then lick his fingers. But, now, now, he had this cock with the strange curved head in his mouth, in his throat. He heard the table being pushed back, giving him more room to move. He moved his head back and forth on Gaara’s cock, then stopped to lick, then went back to sucking, his hands working over the parts of the shaft his mouth couldn’t reach. Oh god, hard cock in his mouth, filling it, stretching it. That scary feeling of almost gagging, the struggle to breath through your nose, the excitement of pulsing flesh under his tongue, his teeth, the way his jaws felt stretched as wide as they could go, the pleasure of sucking, of sucking hard. Oh, and that taste, that taste.

The ring of the stove’s timer startled Shikamaru, and he bit down on Gaara harder than he intended, and he quickly moved his head back to apologize. But Gaara, instead of being angry, cried out and came, spraying Shikamaru on the face, neck, and chest. Oh, god, it was just like he’d fantasized: wet, sticky, sprayed out hard and fast, hitting him with almost a sting. And his hands came up and rubbed it in, rubbing it on his cheeks, his lips, his throat, his chest, his nipples, over the one gold ring in his right nipple. He loved this, god he loved this, smearing himself with cum. He was a dirty bitch. Yea, he loved it when his Master came on him, even pissed on him, or better than that, smeared him with food. Ah, but cum, jizz, spunk, sperm, man juice dripping on him, drying on him, splashed on him, oh yea. Shika moaned and tugged hard on his nipple ring, sucking Gaara’s spray off the other hand. But then Gaara was jerking at his hair, ordering him to deal with the cake and with the dryer, which had given a loud buzz as if it was jealous of the stove’s continual ringing. Dazed, Shika got up and took out the cake, turned off the stove and timer, popped the cake layers out of the pans and set them on the waiting cooling rack.

Shikamaru washed and dried his hands before taking the sheets and Gaara’s underwear out of the dryer. He folded them, careful not to let the cum on his face and chest get on them. But he didn’t want to wipe it away. For all that his ass had been sore an hour or so ago, all he could think of was Gaara using that lube and fucking him. When he finished folding the wash, he turned back and saw Gaara finishing his dinner.

“Get yourself some dinner, Slave. Eat at the table, so I can watch that cum-covered face of yours while I eat,” said Gaara.

“Yes, Master,” said Shika, feeling a little guilty for not wanting to enjoy Gaara’s kindness in granting him not only dinner, but the right to eat it at the table. He wanted to be spread out on that table, Gaara’s dinner all over his body. Suddenly he could imagine Gaara’s fingers pushing a meatball into his ass. Oh, god, oh god—to have Gaara stuff his ass with meatballs, to feel pasta and sauce all over him, to feel one noodle slowly sucked off his body as his ass bulged and strained, wanting to force those meatballs out, to be punished when inevitably one shot out, Gaara's arm descending with a strap, his body tensing, waiting, tightening . . .

He picked up a plate and began putting spaghetti on it. “Do you want any of your food reheated, Master?” He looked over at Gaara’s face to see if he nodded, and the hunger and desire on that face beneath that gorgeous rich red hair stunned him. God, god, his master was so sexy, so scary looking, his wildness radiating out. Was that why his hair was red, was it the passion, the anger, the intensity inside just bleeding out into his hair, his lips, his nipples, the tip of his cock?

“If you keep looking at me like that, Slave,” said Gaara making Shika flinch, realizing he had just been standing there gawking, mouth open, “I’m going to fuck you right there, bent over that counter.”

“Oh, yes, Master, please, please,” said Shika, dropping the plate and pasta server on the counter, still with the spaghetti wedged in it. “Please fuck me anyway, anywhere you want.” Images came to him so quickly now—Gaara fucking him over the counter, on the washer, by the refrigerator, inserting a cold bottle into him, putting ice on his nipples, slapping him and cuffing him when he struggled, gagging him so he couldn’t scream, thrusting in without mercy . . .

His master made no answer to Shika’s plea, but he stood up and picked up the lube, walking to him. Shika shivered and reached out one hand to steady himself. Dear god—he was literally weak-kneed because his Master was going to fuck him. Oh, god, he needed fucked, he needed mastered, he needed to be held down and forced to submit. And then Gaara’s mouth came down on his, and he picked him up. Shika wrapped his arms and legs around Gaara and let himself be carried into the garden. They didn’t make it to either of the sets of cushions. Gaara just laid Shika down on the soft white sand under the stars and began to lick his face, his chest, cleaning the cum from him. He somehow managed to open the lube with one hand and coat his fingers with it, gently pushing one, then two fingers into him. Then he sucked down on Shikamaru’s cock, pushing three fingers in, and impatient, feeling desperate, the brunette started to beg again. This was too soft, too kind.

Ahhhh! Yes! Fucked on the ground, his one leg in the air pointing to the stars, those eyes he now loved staring down under that red tattoo. The moon was close enough to full to see Gaara’s face, for him to see his. Oh, god, this was what it was like to have sex with someone you loved—loved so much you’d do anything for them, everything for them. There was nothing Gaara could ask for tonight he wouldn’t give him. Nothing—contracts, clauses, safewords, no, none of it mattered, none of it was needed. Even his death, for to die here under the stars at the hands of his love—did one need to experience more of life? Submission? No, he’d never submitted before, never surrendered, never gave it all—body, heart, soul.

“Master, Master, Gaara, I love you! I love you!”

There was no answering cry, no answering words of love, just Gaara fucking him hard and deep under the stars and moon. Just as it should be.

Oh, he was just a slave, a dirty, slutty, needy slave, and slaves didn’t get words of love. But that too, that was what it meant to submit, and now, now, he couldn’t refuse, couldn’t deny his helplessness, his love, his enslavement. And the fact that he loved being tied up, beaten, fucked till he couldn't think, could only feel.

“Master! Oh my master, I love you! Ohhhhh!”

And Gaara jerked his body up, kissing him, kissing him so savagely that in the kiss Shika tasted blood along with pasta sauce, cum, dominance, and love. Then his master rolled them, so he was lying face up underneath him.

“Show me,” he demanded.

And Shika thrust himself down, and then rode his master hard, brutally, until they both screamed with passion in the moonlight, one beast with two throats.