D/s Naruto

Warning: nipple and anal torture from sandy fingers, enema, brief mention of enema-related fantasy, WAFF

Chapter 31 (Sunday 17 June 2007, early A.M. hours)

Sand! How had he ever thought sand was soft, innocuous? The sand grains in the cum grated at his nipple as Gaara rubbed his hand over Shika’s chest. Sand on his anus, in his butt crack, so painful—what a fool he was thinking he needed no safewords, no contract.

“Master, Master, please!”

“Tell me, tell exactly what you were thinking standing there by the stove,” ordered the voice, rubbing harder, too hard.

Shika gave a little scream, sobbing, “Master, Master, I can’t, I can’t,” meaning he couldn’t remember because the pain was too intense.

But Gaara, thinking he was disobedient, reached around and thrust a cum-and-sand coated finger in his ass, and Shika screamed, “Cutlass! Cutlass, Master!”

And then he was lying in the fountain, Gaara washing himself under the cold water of the outdoor shower, then coming over, hands clean, washing away the sand on his chest, rolling him to rinse his back, his ass, moving him down to part of the fountain not contaminated with sand, asking, “Shika, what should I do?”

“I wanted to tell you, Gaara, it just hurt so much I couldn’t think,” said Shikamaru. “I’ll need an enema to get all the sand out, but that—“ Shika had been about to say “can wait,” but Gaara was already carrying him into the kitchen, down the hall to the bathroom. That’s right, that bathroom with the enemas in it.

“Oh, Master, thank you, thank you,” he said, desire suddenly filling him again, his cock hardening. Gaara said nothing, but as he was carrying Shika like a bride he could hardly not see the brunette’s cock stiff and erect. Shika looked at his face and thought he saw the muscles in one cheek tighten. Was Gaara trying not to smile?”

Gaara let go of his legs, putting him on his feet, ordering, “Get an enema from the medicine cabinet and start talking.”

And Shikamaru spilled out all his dirty fantasies as he crouched on the bathroom floor, ass in the air full of saline water. He tried to get up to release his bowels, part way through his confession, but Gaara held him back, forcing him to hold it in, until his voice was shaking, and he could only focus on the painful, urgent need to let it all out. “Master, Master, I can’t hold it, I can’t, please, please.”

And finally Gaara let him race for the toilet, his need so violent he gave a little scream as it all came pouring out. He looked up at Gaara, humiliated, and the redhead grinned at him, saying, “I’d have held you there until you spilled it all over the floor and made you kneel in it and blow me if you weren’t abraded. Then you’d have to be whipped, of course, for making such a mess and clean it up with the whip marks on your back and ass. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, my dirty, slutty slave?”

“Yes, Master,” said Shika humbly, shamefully aroused.

“Well, we’ll give your skin a few days without any sand first. Take some more pain pills and use the lube with the Benzocaine. Then clean up the wet footprints in the hall. I’m going to reheat dinner,” said Gaara. “Oh, yeah, I packed your rhubarb jam and Dijon mustard in your suitcase. Get them out, and put up anything you’re worried about wrinkling.”

“Yes, Master,” said the slave, marveling at how Gaara could cheerfully talk of degrading and whipping him and give him demeaning job while at the same time making him feel cherished, loved. The complexity that was Gaara was a marvelous puzzle he had his whole life to solve. Oh, and Master was reheating the pasta, meatballs, and sauce—the very foods he just told him he’d fantasized about Gaara eating off his body, filling his body with. Then Shika’s stomach growled—shit! He was hungry. One of those cold beers in the refrigerator would taste good too—oh, Christ, he’d talked about having one of those cold bottles shoved up his ass—what the fuck was he thinking, being so honest?

He could wipe up the floor, take the wet towels into the kitchen, and spy on Gaara before dealing with his suitcase. But what if Gaara thought he was already finished? Oh, god, no matter what, he’d better put that lube in his ass. And take one of those pain pills—oh lord, maybe something more serious than Vicodin? Not Morphine though, god that just sounds like something for a drug addict—ok, Demerol. After taking the pill, Shika massaged the lube around his anus and then inside him. As he did that, he decided he’d lube himself every time he went into the bathroom. That way he could be ready for Gaara anytime, no need for Gaara to get his fingers sticky, especially with a whole garden of sand out back. Sand, he’d need to rake tomorrow—or was that something special that Gaara would want to do himself? Shika remembered that intricate pattern on the sand he’d wanted to study and hoped he could watch Gaara as he shaped that someday.

It didn’t take long to wipe up the floor, put the towels temporarily in the sink, hang up his few nice pants and shirts, his motorcycle jacket, and pull out the jam and mustard. He grabbed the towels, too, and headed for the kitchen. But somehow he dropped a few. He bent to get them, cursing. He got the fallen one and scuttled in, ready to drop them on the dryer—damn, the clean sheets and underwear were already there while Gaara’s clothes were on the washer. Confused, he dropped another towel, cursed, and then, frustrated, just dumped the whole lot on the floor and went to put up the jam and mustard. Oh, that beer looked good. Oh, wait the towels. He went over and got Gaara’s clothes and took them back to the bedroom, sniffing them. They smelled of Gaara, sweat, and cum. They smelled good. Yummy. Shika slid the t-shirt on and put the other clothes in the hamper.

He looked up confused when Gaara said, “I brought you a beer.”

“What?”

“Just lay on the bed. Here’s your dinner, Shika.”

Wait—I’m the sub, thought Shika, but laying on the bed sounded good. And his stomach growled again. The meatballs smelled good, and it was hot. And a roll with rhubarb jam! He started to eat. Gaara was soon back with his own plate, opening the wardrobe at the foot of the bed, flopping down on his side, and turning on the tv that was in the wardrobe. Shika blinked—the show was one of those weird cartoons from Japan.

“It’s a dvd player, too?” asked Shika.

“It’s Tivo right now, but yes, there’s a dvd,” said Gaara. “It was paused on something I was watching.”

“You watch cartoons. Gaara the whipmaster watches cartoons?”

“Every whipmaster does,” said Gaara.

“You made a joke!” pointed out Shika. Gaara ignored him. Shika turned back to the cartoon, ate more of his spaghetti and meatballs, and drank some beer. There was redheaded character with black facial tattoos that was in a sword fight. They ate in peaceful silence. The cartoon was actually interesting. When it was over, Gaara said, “Another?”

Shika shrugged, saying, “Sure.”

This one also had the redhead in it. He was hot, but he wasn’t Gaara. When Gaara started to fast forward through another set of commercials, Shika tried to comment on the fact that a red tattoo with red hair was much sexier that red hair with a black tattoo. But it sort of came out weird, making him giggle and spill a little beer. Then Gaara took the beer and plate away. When he came back, he picked Shika up, making him giggle again, pulled down the sheets, and put him back down. He turned off the lights, got in bed under the sheets as well, and started back up the show. Shika tried to make his point about tattoos, again.

“His isn’t as good as yours, not the right flavor.”

“What?”

“This,” said Shikamaru, moving over till he was pressed against Gaara and reaching up and tracing the tattoo. “Not as good.”

“Mine or Renji’s?”

“Rengee’s, wrong color. Yours sexier,” insisted Shika, feeling tired and putting his head down on Gaara’s chest. “Red’s the best.”

Gaara just said, “Ummmm.” The way the sound rumbled under his cheek felt so good. He felt so good, sort of floaty.

“Love you,” said Shika.

Gaara didn’t say anything, but his hand came up and started stroking Shikamaru’s hair.

Shika mumbled something Gaara couldn’t hear. He paused the tv, saying softly, “Shika?”

“Love you,” said Shika again.

Gaara smiled and turned off the tv, lying there in the dark awake, his heart pounding. He could feel Shikamaru in his arms, his head on his chest, but somehow it didn’t seem real.

I’m loved.

I have a slave.

I’ve fucked a hot guy.

I made him cum.

I made him cum a lot.

I got fucked by a sexy bastard.

I’m living with a slut that fantasizes about me sticking things in him and beating him.

My slave cooked me dinner.

He made me a cake.

He washed my sheets.

He washed and folded my underwear.

He kissed my boots.

He kissed me.

He gave me a blowjob.

He begged me to fuck him.

He gave up smoking for me.

He picked me, not Hyuuga Neji.

He called me baby.

He called me Master.

He said he loved me.

He used his safeword, but he didn’t leave.

He got hard just minutes after he was in so much pain he used his safeword.

He’s fucking kinky as all shit.

He’s fucking hot.

He’s mine.

He loves me.

He said my tattoo was sexy when he was so loopy on pain pills he couldn’t lie if he wanted to.

He has a gold ring in his right nipple.

He giggles when he's loopy on pills and beer.

He loves me.

He doesn’t say too much.

He makes good coffee.

He really loves being fucked hard.

His hair is sexy and soft.

He smells good.

He’s mine. He’s my slave.

Mine.

I can fuck him right now if I want.

But he’s sleeping.

And it feels good to just lay here, holding him, holding my slave.

The clean sheets feel good on my skin, sheets my slave put on my bed for me.

My cock’s a little sore from being ridden so hard.

My slave was a fucking animal out there in the moonlight.

He said he loved me. He shouted it again and again.

I’m loved.

I love?

Love?

I desire.

I want.

I crave.

I need.

I love.

I love.

My love.

My slave.

My lover.

My love.

And Gaara rolled his head over and kissed Shika’s head. And stayed with his lips just above Shika’s hair for a long moment. Then he said softly, “Love. You.”

That wasn’t that hard to say.

His head rolled back.

He yawned, and his eyes closed.

Sleep came.