D/s Naruto

Chapter 79 (Monday 18 June 2007, sunset)

When Gaara awoke, a little disoriented, the sun was close to setting. Shikamaru was sleeping soundly, no doubt from having spent the night mostly awake and suffering--clamped, plugged, gagged, and unable to come or pee. The Demerol and emotional breakdown also had something to do with his sleep as well. Gaara went and got Shikamaru’s wrist and ankle cuffs and the thick leather collar for his neck. He fastened them all on, linking a chain to the D-ring of the collar and to a hook on the wall over the head of the bed. He called and left a message for Naruto that he couldn’t come in tomorrow morning, determined to really kept Shikamaru in the bed for 24 hours, carrying him to the bathroom when needed.

Gaara adjusted Shikamaru’s head on the pillow, moving it so it looked more comfortable. He wanted to cook some dinner for when Shikamaru woke up, but he also just liked watching Shikamaru sleep. He had dried cum on his chest and cock, and Gaara went and ran the water in the bathroom sink till it felt just warm enough and moistened some washcloths. He cleaned Shikamaru, enjoying the little murmurs that suggested his sleep was peaceful, and that even in sleep, he liked Gaara’s touch. He turned Shikamaru to clean the back of his body and discovered he was sleeping in a wet spot from Gaara’s cum. The sight pleased him although Gaara gently lifted Shikamaru and covered the spot with a folded towel.

Then after having rinsed out the washcloths and hung them to dry there was nothing more to do but wait for Shikamaru to wake. But Gaara couldn’t help touching him, particularly looking at the very faint mark still there from the crop on his cock. And Shikamaru had pushed his head against Gaara’s chest and said he wanted Gaara to do it again! And they’d talked, they’d said all kinds of things. In the fading light in the little room, it seemed impossible that he, Gaara Suna, had said all those things—had called this man baby, love, treasure. But he was all of that, and his whore, his ass slut, his bitch, too. And he’d earned a bit of punishment today—what had it been? Two lashes for making them late leaving, three for dropping the two helmets and his motorcycle jacket at Kankurou’s, and one more for being a slut. Just like yesterday, six lashes. Oh, yes, and he’d added a paddling because he’d been angry at Shikamaru tempting him to fuck him in the side yard of his brother’s house. For some reason, it seemed important that when Kankurou first met Shikamaru it wasn’t while he was up against the wall of his house with his legs around Gaara or bent over his pool pump with Gaara’s dick in his ass.

Having sex with someone watching—could he do that? He’d come in Shikamaru’s mouth in front of his brother and Shino. But they hadn’t been watching, well, they might have been, of course, but it wasn’t like they were staring or getting off on it. But doing it, doing it for people to watch, to enjoy, to envy, to get them aroused so they had to do it in front of everyone too—the sort of thing that happened at Manda’s a lot or at Uchiha’s during one of the “waiver required” parties—could he do that? He didn’t tend to get naked when he “performed” on stage—and he’d always performed with his whip. He’d beaten bottoms with other things of course, but that wasn’t something that usually was worthy of an audience. But to have sex in public—to show off Shikamaru, his amazing craving for sex, humiliation, and pain, well, maybe he could do that someday. Maybe—but people were so cruel, so mean—they didn’t like Gaara. Why would they want to watch him have sex? They watched him whip someone because they couldn’t not stare—he frightened them, he was the one they threatened to send their bad slaves or subs to. But they might sneer or laugh or turn away from him if he was just fucking his slave. And that would hurt Shikamaru’s feelings—no, no public sex.

Shikamaru thought that people would try to steal him from him, would want him—so the brunette wanted to collar him. He also thought Gaara liked blondes—god, his slave was so odd, so wonderful! He didn’t talk too much or need to be doing things all the time like Sasori or Kankurou. And his skin was so warm, rich in color—not like his or his families’. “Bloodless freak,” “Albino,” and “Ghostboy” were some of names he was called because of his skin. As a child, he’d wanted a tan, everyone in California was supposed to be tan—but he only burned and then looked even uglier. Shikamaru’s skin reminded him of all the warm things he liked to drink—cocoa, café au lait, cappuccino, hot tea with milk and sugar. God—those gold earrings, that gold nipple ring against his skin—so pretty! The gold chain and doubloon should arrive tomorrow, but he shouldn’t put them on Shikamaru without a formal ceremony. Yet, he didn’t want to wait! However, he also didn’t want to seem like he was ashamed of taking this man as his. A collaring was a chance to show off your prize, your beloved slave.

Sasori would be very angry if he collared Shikamaru before even signing a contract. Gaara was pleased with the contract he’d finished last night as he watched his slave on the floor, struggling to stay awake and work after he’d begged permission to be allowed to do so. He wouldn’t put the collar on Shikamaru—he’d tease him with it, make him want it, want it desperately. He needed to find out just whom Shikamaru was close to, who he’d want at the ceremony. Chouji, the cook at Uchiha’s, was in that photo he had, so he had to be there. Maybe he’d make one of his famous ass cakes. The other man in the photo, Asuma, wasn’t a member of Uchiha’s anymore, wasn’t Shikamaru’s dom anymore. What had happened to him? Did Shikamaru miss him? Had he just settled for Gaara because the one he loved had left him?

No, no he wouldn’t doubt him. No, no, surely no one could share what they’d shared and leave that, give that up. He must not have experienced such things with that Asuma. No, no—his face wouldn’t have had that look of wonder, of amazement, if it hadn’t been the first time he’d felt such things. This Asuma, he could come and watch Shikamaru be collared if he wanted—or if Shika wanted. What of his family—the file at Uchiha’s said his mother and father were alive, unlike Gaara’s. Would they want to come? Did they accept their son, his lifestyle, his choices? Would they accept him? Gaara tried to imagine meeting Shikamaru’s parents and couldn’t. But he would contact them even though the thought of it was frightening because their son, this man chained to his bed, was the most important person in the world to him. He would try to find all the people in Shikamaru’s life that he found precious to make sure his collaring was perfect for him.

Would Shikamaru do the same for him? A shiver went over Gaara, and he thought about this man who had taken his virginity placing a collar around him in front of everyone important to him—his family, maybe even his grandparents Chiyo and Ebisu, Deidara and Temari’s girls of course, Baki, and maybe Shino, if Kankurou was still with him. And Hidan, Kakuza, Itachi, Yuura, and Kisame from the club might come. Maybe even Kakashi and Iruka or Orochimaru and Kimimaro—but, oh, Orochimaru had thrown him out. The last time he’d been at Manda’s, Orochimaru had told him that without a flicker of emotion. No, he wouldn’t want Orochimaru there. Gaara thought about Kimimaro—he liked him. He always watched him at Manda’s. They understood each other. They never talked, of course, since he was—no, had been—someone else’s sub, but Gaara had enjoyed the times Orochimaru had let him whip Kimimaro. Kimimaro loved the whip, Gaara could tell—but he loved nothing, nothing as much as Orochimaru. Why had Orochimaru sent him away?

Gaara remembered the last time he’d seen Kimimaro—he’d been in the piss tank in the basement of Manda’s, his long hair soaked with urine. Gaara had gone to Manda’s, and seeing that Kimimaro wasn’t with Orochimaru, he’d asked him if he was available for a scene. Well, actually he’d just gone up to the creepy owner who had one of his pet Burmese pythons around him and shown him his favorite whip, before saying, “Kimimaro?” Manda’s owner had laughed, making his python hiss with annoyance at his shaking. He’d given the python to a guy with glasses and led Gaara down into the basement.

Five men had stood around the tank or tub in the room. Those twins, Sakon and Ukon, were down there along with Jiroubou, a hulking giant of a man, and Kidoumaru, who wore his hair sort of how Shikamaru used to. As they’d moved to the center of the room, the men had moved letting Orochimaru and Gaara see Sakon pissing into Kimimaro’s mouth. When Kimimaro couldn’t swallow it all, Sakon had shouted at him, “God dammit, boy, this is no ordinary piss! Now drink every drop, or you’ll be here tomorrow night too!” Orochimaru had laughed again, and at the sound, Kimimaro had gotten such a look of happiness on his face even as he strained to capture Sakon’s urine. When Sakon could pee no more, Kimimaro had looked at Orochimaru, crying out, “Master, I love you!” He’d not even seen Gaara.

“Would you like to come upstairs and be whipped, Slave?” Orochimaru had asked.

“Master, Master, I want to be punished in the same room with you, to let you see how sorry I am I haven’t pleased you,” Kimimaro had said.

“You haven’t pleased me, and the sight and smell of you tonight disgusts me. No, no whipping for you. Play with him some more, you five. I want to hear the sound of his screams upstairs. Feel free to stay here, Gaara, and join in,” he had added. Gaara hadn’t, and he wondered at Orochimaru—he had such a treasure in Kimimaro and had treated him like shit—literally. The poor guy’s white blonde hair had looked yellow with piss—oh, no, blonde hair!

Shikamaru thought he preferred blondes. He might worry about why Gaara wanted Kakashi or Kimimaro there, maybe even worry about Deidara or Hidan. But those two had never interested him at all, and his interest in Kakashi and Kimimaro wasn’t sexual, it was—and suddenly he knew. It was because he’d sensed that same aloneness, loneliness he felt in those two as well, yes, and in Naruto, too. Kakashi, Kimimaro, and Naruto—they seemed to understand feeling different, feeling isolated from others, feeling that pain of no one understanding you, but yet they were able still to love. He’d wanted to bridge that one difference—and like they had, find someone special. And he had!

Gaara put his hand down and ran his fingers lightly over Shikamaru’s arm, his chest. He would tell Shikamaru when he woke up about why he had been interested in those blonde men. Hopefully that would make him smile. Gaara’s fingers moved to Shika’s lips, lightly tracing them. They were a little rough, and Gaara went into the bathroom and found the aloe lip balm he had. He grabbed the bottle of hand lotion with aloe in it as well and went back to the bed. He went back to thinking about collaring Shikamaru as he put the balm on his slave’s lips. Should Neji be invited? Wait, Neji, Neji at the club, the night he’d gone to get Shikamaru’s things. Neji had been eating dinner with Kimimaro!

Gaara put the lip balm in the nightstand drawer with the lube, and picked up the lotion. As he warmed some in his hands, he thought about Neji. He hated Neji, well, because he’d had Shikamaru, he’d fucked Shikamaru, and he’d said those cruel things to him when they broke up. But Neji was no Orochimaru—would Kimimaro ever be able to love him? Gaara sighed. He didn’t really understand most people—Orochimaru, Neji, Itachi, Deidara, Kisame, Hidan, Kakuza, every woman he’d ever met—and the list could go on. And for all his interest in Kimimaro or Kakashi, he didn’t understand them either. But Shikamaru, Shikamaru, he was different. Gaara’s stomach suddenly growled.

Damn, he needed to eat, Shikamaru would need food, too, but he didn’t want to go in the kitchen, he wanted to keep touching and watching his sleeping boy. He’d order take out again. The menu for the Chinese place that delivered was in the nightstand drawer. He called in the order from the bedroom, moving to the window, to see better in the fading light, not wanting to turn on the lamp. He spoke softly, but not softly enough, for Shikamaru interjected, “Steamed pork dumplings” from the bed. Gaara turned and walked over to give the paper menu to Shika, turning on the light so he could read it. The man on the phone repeated, “Is that all you want, Sir?”

“No,” said Gaara.

“Ah, Sir, what else do you want?”

“Wait,” replied Gaara.

“I didn’t get that Sir, what else?”

Gaara handed the phone to Shikamaru, who was still lying on his back. He said to the man on the phone, “Can you tell me the whole order again?”

Gaara watched as Shikamaru finished the order. He didn’t like talking on the phone, and now he had someone to do it for him. He began to strip the sheets off the bed, indicated with his finger that Shika should roll over on his side, then back. When he’d come back from putting the sheets in the washer, Shikamaru was off the phone, just laying there, with his hands under his head, looking at the ceiling.

“Since you’re confined to the bed, tonight’s punishment will be in here,” said Gaara, beginning to remake the bed. Shikamaru rolled as directed as he put on the sheets, saying, “Thank you, Gaara.”

“I emailed you the draft of our contract,” he said. “Read it.”

“Yes, Gaara.” The way he said that excited Gaara. He crawled on the bed, positioning himself over Shikamaru on his hands and knees, staring down at Shikamaru’s brown eyes.

“Make me a list of the names of the people you want to see you take my whip, take my collar, Shikamaru.”

“Yes, Gaara,” said Shikamaru, his voice even more breathy, more full of desire.

“I want to put it around your neck with your blood on your back and my cum running out of your ass.”

“Gaara! Yes, Master!” Shikamaru arched up his body, pushing up his own cock, brushing it against Gaara’s.

Gaara didn’t respond and just kept staring at Shikamaru’s face. His slave’s arms unfolded from under his head, and his hands slid up the chain that ran from his collar to a hook on the wall above the bed. His hands ran along the chain, and he moaned.

“I’m going to invite them, the blondes I’ve watched,” said Gaara, “Kakashi, Kimimaro, Naruto.”

Shikamaru’s eyes closed, and his head turned on the pillow. His hands fell away from the chain, to his own hair. He was hurt, and one hand trembled at the edge of his hairline, like he wanted to cover his face with it, but knew that a slave was never to hide his face from his master.

“I watched them because they seemed to be alone like me, to understand being different, to understand pain. But though they are like me, they aren’t; they have more--more what, I didn’t know. I wanted to have more too, and I thought that if I watched them, I could figure out how to get that thing I knew I wanted but didn’t know what it was.”

Shikamaru’s head had tilted back, and he was looking up at Gaara, his hands just lying on the pillow on each side of his head. His mouth was open, and his face now full of love.

“I don’t need to watch them anymore. I have what I want. I have more. I have you.”

And that look on Shikamaru’s face--that was better than a smile.

“Gaara, I love you.”

Gaara smiled down at Shikamaru, not moving.

“Gaara, Master!”

God, how little it took to get Shikamaru aroused, thought Gaara, still just watching. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, making the ring through his nipple shift. He was rocking his body, his mouth open, his eyelashes low over his eyes. His hands had found the chain again and were gripping it tightly. He arched his body, pushing his cock up, brushing it against Gaara’s.

“Master, Master, use me, please yourself with me, or give me an order and let me make you come!”

“When will the food get here?”

“Twenty minutes, Master, plenty of time.”

Yes, plenty of time to make Shikamaru even more desperate, more needy.

Gaara rose up on his knees, then stood on the bed, moving to adjust the chains on the ceiling.

“Right ankle,” he ordered.

“Master, I love you!” was the response as he was presented with an ankle. Gaara smiled. He wasn’t a fool like Orochimaru.

“Left ankle.” The ankles were hooked to the chains, hoisted, so they were above and behind Shikamaru’s head.

“Wrists.” The wrists were hooked together and attached to the front of Shikamaru’s collar by a short chain.

“Master, may I come?”

“No.”

“Please, may I have a cockring then?”

Gaara got out the thin, long leather strip he’d used the other morning and began to tie Shikamaru’s balls. He wrapped it tight around the base, and then between the balls and over them a few times as well before circling the base of the balls again and knotting it. Shikamaru’s ass was lifted in the air because of the chains on his ankles. Gaara went and got some weights, attaching them to the straps around the balls, making Shikamaru moan and wince. Earlier this afternoon when that mouth had struggled around the ball gag, he’d not been in a position to easily see it. Gaara went and got the gag and bell ball.

Shikamaru was trembling with excitement, his cock dripping, and his nipples swollen with blood as well. His mouth looked good stretched around that ball, and since Gaara had fitted it in, he’d started making noises in his throat. Gaara went to the closet and pulled out a bag of black clips. He started with Shikamaru’s nipples and then moved to his legs, running a row of clips down each. He added some to Shikamaru’s chest, his ass, enjoying the struggling, the noises, and the salvia spilling out around the ball in his mouth. The tears began after fifteen minutes had passed, and then with only five minutes until the food was supposed to arrive, Gaara leaned over and put a clip on the head of Shikamaru’s cock. He thrashed about, making the chains clink and the weights on his balls move. The noises from his throat sounded more piteous, and his tears came out faster. Gaara put another of the black clips on the shaft of Shikamaru’s penis, very close to the faint mark from the crop, but not on it. His own cock was now dripping, and he knew that it wouldn’t take much for him to come. He added another clip, now panting himself. But Shikamaru still held the bell ball tight in his hand. His arms were moving wildly, trying to push off the clips on his nipples, his chest. Two of them popped off.

“Each one you knock off, goes on your cock,” said Gaara, picking them up and clipping them on Shikamaru’s cock. Damn, the food had better be late because he couldn’t leave his slave like this, didn’t want to leave his slave like this. Three, maybe two minutes. Gaara slicked his cock and thrust in—he’d be lucky to last three minutes. Oh, god, Shikamaru, Shikamaru! The first ass he fucked, the only ass he would ever fuck! His, all his! After two thrusts, Gaara let go from trying to last and just pounded into Shikamaru savagely, roughly, growling and shouting as his cum exploded from him. This, this what he needed, what he wanted. He fell down on Shikamaru, knocking off clips, jerking at the gag, pulling it off. God, yes, the taste of Shika, his tongue, his mouth, his lips as his ass was tight around his spent cock—there was nothing he wanted to be doing more than this!

The doorbell rang, and he undid the chain holding Shikamaru’s wrists up by his neck. “Take the clips and weights off,” he ordered, getting up and heading for the door, “and don’t leak on the clean sheets!”

“Master, you’re naked!” called out Shikamaru, making him blush and curse. The doorbell rang again, and he wrapped a towel around himself to save time. The delivery boy was terrified of him and the glimpse he’d gotten of his living room behind him, dropping Gaara’s money and stammering. Gaara just shut the door, not wanting the change, his mind on Shikamaru. When he got back to the bedroom, Shikamaru was holding a pillowcase over his asshole, black clips scattered on the bed around him, still clearly hard and aroused.

Gaara put the food down on the dresser and got up on the bed and released Shikamaru’s ankles. “Lay on your side,” he ordered, getting down, and pulling the towel off his waist, putting it under Shikamaru’s ass.

“Thank you, Master,” said Shikamaru, “I love you!”

Gaara sat down on the edge of the bed, picking up and dropping on the floor by the bed, the gag, the weights, the bell ball, the clips. As he dropped each one, he just stared at Shikamaru, who looked anything but lazy, anything but mentally alert. When the last clip was on the floor, Gaara unknotted the leather strip and began releasing Shikamaru’s balls. His slave gasped, crying out, “Master, Master, I don’t know that I can hold back! Please, please, may I come?”

When Shikamaru’s balls were free and the leather strip on the floor too, Gaara got up on the bed on his hands and knees over his panting and wiggling slave’s legs. He lowered his head, and just before he took Shikamaru’s cock in his mouth, he said, “Come for me, Shikamaru.”

He didn’t need to suck, to lick, to stroke—the warm sperm was flying in his mouth the second he finished speaking. He drank it down, not because he liked the taste, but because it was Shikamaru’s, his Shikamaru’s, and he watched his slave’s face as he came. Then he only kissed him for a little while because there was food to eat. He got up, got plates and drinks, put in the Bleach DVD they were watching, and moved Shikamaru’s laptop to where he could get at it. He put Shika’s plate on his chest, smiling at how he seemed to be still lost in a daze of pleasure, but snapping his fingers to make Shika blink and grasp the plate. Gaara was already finished his sweet and sour soup by the time Shikamaru sat up and began to deal with his own food.

“That good?” said Gaara, carefully being ambiguous.

“Oh, yes, Master, that good,” said Shikamaru fervently, “Thank you.”

“So you want it again?”

“Oh, yes, please, Gaara.”

“I like the food from The Village Wok better, but they don’t deliver.”

“I’ll go get you food from there, Master, the next time you want Chinese,” promised Shikamaru. “But please, the next time you do that to me, Master, can you handcuff my hands over my head, so I can see every clip go on?”

Gaara smiled, very pleased. Yea, he could do that. Maybe he would put a mirror over the bed for Shikamaru to watch what was done to him. Hmmm.

“Please, Master?”

“Maybe.”

“I love you, Master.”

“Shut up and watch the show.”

“Yes, Master Gaara.”

Fuck! Why did he have to sound so erotic when he said that? He better not say anything else until he finished his food, or Gaara might have to fuck him again, the sexy little slut. His slut. His. Gaara looked over at Shikamaru and watched him eat a dumpling. Oh, fuck, that was hot! Shit, his cock was starting to get a little hard again.

Shikamaru watched Gaara shift a little on the bed and smiled as he ate another dumpling. His mind was awake and alert now. He picked up another dumpling with his chopsticks, letting out just the tinest little whimper as he inserted it in his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gaara reach for his water and gulp a lot of it down. Yes, Master would fuck him again tonight, no doubt about it. The only question was whether he would finish his meal first or not. Well, not if Shikamaru could help it.


Gaara lay on his back between Shikamaru’s legs, his head against Shika’s chest. He was exhausted, but he would open his lips and eat the bites of chocolate cake or the spoonfuls of ice cream that Shikamaru lowered to his mouth periodically. On the screen, Renji and Ichigo fought. “I’d like to see you cosplay Renji,” said Shikamaru, stroking Gaara’s hair.

“I hate wigs,” said Gaara.

“Then how about Ichigo? You’d look so sexy in a shinigami robe, with that zangetsu.”

“Not sexy enough for you?”

“Gaara!”

“You dress as Renji,” said Gaara, grinning, “your hair is just right; we could put in temporary dye. I’ll draw the tattoos all over you.”

“They’re all over his body? Oh fuck, that’s hot! Do we have to wait until Halloween?”

“There’s a cosplay convention down in Long Beach at the end of the month,” said Gaara. “If you’re good, I’ll get us costumes, and we can go down for a day and night.”

“Tell me how to be good—oh, damn, that’s a sweet move!”

“Being good means watching TV while feeding me my ice cream,” said Gaara.

“Yes, Master. Does it mean I get to be your ice cream bowl again?”

“Don’t be slutty, Shika, for just an hour or so, ok?”

“Ok, Master, I promise,” said Shikamaru. “But can I get a real tattoo?”

“What and where?”

“I want this—“ Shikamaru traced Gaara’s red tattoo on his forehead, “on my ass. I want everyone who sees my ass to know its yours.”

“Two more lashes, boy. I told you not to be slutty!”

“I’m sorry, Master,” said Shikamaru, holding a spoonful of ice cream in front of Gaara. But Gaara could feel his cock pressing against his neck.

“Maybe I’ll have that tattooed on your cock and your ass,” said Gaara. Shikamaru’s cock jumped and hit his ear. Gaara rolled over and bit one of Shikamaru’s balls, growling, his head knocking the ice cream and spoon away. “Feed me cream, boy, in the next five minutes, and I’ll forgo the extra two lashes,” he ordered. But whether the cream come on time, neither really knew—they were too busy to check the clock.