D/s Naruto

Chapter 80 (Monday 18 June 2007, evening)

Shikamaru smiled down at Gaara’s sleeping face. He had ended up on Shikamaru’s side of the bed, his head on one pillow, the pillow without the cover in his arms, and one hand tightly gripping the slack in Shikamaru’s chain. The DVD had played through and turned off. The Tivo was paused on a screen showing an alligator head rising up out of a swamp. Shikamaru sighed. He didn’t want to wake Gaara by jostling the chain or trying to pry the remote out of his hand. Getting his computer was impossible, and he was supposed to be reading that contract and making his invitation list. Not to mention he should check his work emails to see if any crisis had come up with him out of the office today. Gaara’s laptop was sitting on his nightstand—well, it might be a punishment to use it, but Shikamaru smiled, he wasn’t likely to get it tonight. He hadn’t even got the six lashes (he was pretty sure he’d managed to get the two extra lashes waived) nor the paddling. Not that he was going to mention not having had his punishment. He pulled over Gaara’s computer and opened it.

Oh god—he couldn’t help but see the title of the email in Gaara’s inbox saying, “Your Gold Doubloon 18K 1715 Shipped Today.” He looked over at Gaara and opened the email. Holy fuck! It was not only gorgeous; it was expensive, at least for Gaara or normal people, not the Hyuugas or Uchihas of the world. That little piece of nephrite jade on his collar from Neji had been an antique Neolithic carving about 5,000 years old, and still cost less than half what Neji spent on one of his “casual” (i.e. not hand sewn) suits—a mere 600 dollars. For Neji, that was cheap. For Gaara, he’d have thought that expensive. But the doubloon, without a chain, was over 4,000 dollars with tax, and as Gaara didn’t have much money, that was excessively extravagant.

From that story about his tattoo and the mention of about not being able to replace the bike because of money, it was clear that Gaara didn’t have thousands lying around to spend. He also didn’t have a credit card (although he had PayPal), which Shika had also learned from the tattoo story because Gaara had told him how one of the first things his brother had asked him when he arrived to bail him out was if he had to call his creditors to cancel his credit cards—a question that had confused and hurt Gaara. It wasn’t that the inquiry rubbed in the differences in their income, Shikamaru knew, but that it implied that Kankurou cared more about things like money than Gaara. But Kankurou likely hadn’t a clue that his simple query had caused enough pain that years later Gaara still could repeat it.

Having already committed the sin of reading Gaara’s mail, Shikamaru snooped. There was a chain coming too, one of 24K gold and as expensive as the doubloon pendant. Oh, Gaara, I do love you, thought Shikamaru. Worried about Gaara running out of money and wanting to surprise him, Shikamaru went online and bought a Renji and an Ichigo costume. Fortunately he had a PayPal account too because getting up to look up one of his credit card numbers was not an option. Then, instead of reading his own email or the contract, he got distracted looking for a collar for Gaara. For he would buy him a collar, not a ring or a bracelet. It didn’t take long for Shikamaru to decide he would have something custom made. But what?

He put aside the issue of Gaara’s collar and decided he would have a red leather bullwhip made for Gaara to use in his collaring ceremony—the one for which Gaara had promised to draw blood. Shikamaru shivered. His right hand left the laptop and reached over his left shoulder and pressed the place he’d felt Gaara’s whip yesterday. It was still tender. But he hadn’t struck hard enough to draw blood—oh, god, he loves me so much! He was so angry, so hurt, and he didn’t draw my blood—and he likes doing that! But then again, Gaara got so little praise in his life, how could he not enjoy the admiration his perfect and precise use of the whip produced? In Kankurou’s bathroom with mirrors on two walls, he’d seen his back. The marks looked exactly alike, completely symmetrical. That was very, very hard to do. Yes, taking Gaara’s whip, showing off Gaara’s skill, it would be perfect for the ceremony. And then he knew what he wanted for Gaara’s own collar—he would have it made of the same red leather as the bullwhip, something no dom would be ashamed to wear. The clasp could have a stone set into it, just as the whip should have a stone in the end of the grip.

A sudden vision of Gaara naked save for that collar, holding a matching whip—but no, not wearing just the collar but armbands of braided leather—oh, god, what a vision that was! Damn, that would be so sexy! Gaara, god, Gaara was magnificent naked—it was good thing he rarely showed off his body, or Shikamaru might not have been so lucky to pick him up. He would be naked, or nearly naked at his collaring no doubt—I have to give him my collar first, he thought irrationally, for despite the many novels of masters with harems or sets of boys, that really wasn’t the norm in the D/s community that centered around Uchiha’s. But when Shikamaru thought about Gaara, he had a hard time not imagining other people wanting to sleep with him. Maybe Gaara will let us share the ceremony, he thought, before deciding that wasn’t likely. Had there ever been a double collaring ceremony? Doms, slavemasters, didn’t wear collars—but Gaara was going to wear his! If he pleaded, maybe he could give the collar to Gaara just before the ceremony—yes, very likely. For Gaara, the famous sadist, the Red Whip, was kind, sweet, and loving to his slave. Shikamaru looked down at Gaara sleeping and other adjectives rose up in his mind: adorable, sexy, stunning, strong, sensual, sensational . . .

Forcing himself to focus on the computer, Shikamaru systematically researched gems and minerals. He considered red stones, red to go with Gaara’s hair, his tattoo. He looked at stones of every shade of blue and green, but without Gaara’s eyes open, it was hopeless trying to match the color. Even if he could, none of them would really capture how amazing Gaara’s eyes were—truly unusual, almost unworldly or alien. Shikamaru remembered his dreams that first day in Gaara’s garden, and suddenly it seemed so obvious what stones needed to be on Gaara’s collar and whip—meteorites. Only a rock that had hurled through space and smashed through the atmosphere, reshaping the land beneath it and sending shock waves across a continent—only such a rock would be worthy of Gaara.

But if you wanted a stone set in a whip, shouldn’t it be a bloodstone? After all, that bloodstone was red and green was so appropriate. Maybe he could find some bloodstone where the green came close to capturing the color of Gaara’s eyes and the red really looked like blood drops or a line of blood splatter, or at least was the color of Gaara’s hair. Shikamaru searched online for both stones. He would get more than one stone—he would have those armbands made for Gaara as well, and a ring for when Gaara didn’t want to wear his collar—he couldn’t swim in leather. But then maybe he shouldn’t have a collar of leather? Black titanium? At any rate, he knew what stones he was looking for now. Shikamaru purchased some meteorite nuggets that were an odd shimmery silver and some bloodstones, also buying a sphere of the stone he would give to Gaara as soon as it arrived. He researched whipmakers and carefully composed some inquiries to several of them.

At last, content with his purchases and progress toward the collar and whip so far, Shikamaru checked his email before finally beginning his assigned tasks of reading the contract and composing his guest list. The contract—oh, god, he’d better do the list first. It didn’t take long to complete and email to Gaara, and then, no escaping it, he had to read the contract. Fuck! He didn’t have a cockring on—how could he read this? He’d been directly forbidden to come without permission, and he needed to be good—surely there was a cockring in Gaara’s drawer? But Gaara’s grip on the chain didn’t allow for him to move far enough to open the drawer. He’d have to use his hand to keep himself from coming—and not let touching himself turn into masturbation. Oh, Gaara—oh, god, to see his future with Gaara there on the screen—everyday, everyday with Gaara, paddlings each mornings, punishment each night, and duties, duties—duties he was eager to do, craving to do.

He would clean Gaara’s whips with saddle soap, he read, and feed the leather once a month, and after they dried, he would spend three hours polishing each one. Three hours caressing each of Gaara’s whips—oh, god, he was already hard and breathing heavily just thinking about it. How would he last three hours without being able to come? Shikamaru whimpered and went back to reading. He wasn’t aware that the more he read, the more noise and movement he was making—whimpers, moans, and little mewls. Once a week, he was to clean Gaara’s boots and shoes with a brush, then his tongue, and then work beeswax into the leather using his cock. Every other week, he would--

Gaara’s sudden jerk on the chain of his collar when Shikamaru was only half way through the contract was all it took to make Shikamaru’s emotions to override his brain. The laptop was tossed on the bed where he had been lying, and Shikamaru threw himself at Gaara, frantically kissing him and between kisses incoherently quoting bits of the contract juxtaposed with words of love and shameless begging. When Gaara finally extracted himself from Shikamaru’s arms, he found the ball gag on the floor and forced it in Shikamaru’s mouth even though he hadn’t cleaned it yet. He cuffed Shikamaru’s hands to still their efforts to hold him, chaining them above his head to the wall. At that point he realized he’d forgotten the bell ball, and to his annoyance, it had rolled under the bed. Then he realized there was just too much he wanted to do to leave Shikamaru gagged—he wouldn’t hear the bell ball in the bathroom or kitchen, and he had wet sheets in the washer not to mention dirty take-out cartons and dishes to deal with.

He rescued his laptop, which was precariously near the edge of the bed, and told Shikamaru, “I’m taking off the gag. You are not to talk. The only words you can say are your safewords. If you need to say them, shout them. I’ll be in the house, and I’ll hear you. I won’t go outside. Nod if you understand. Your safewords are cutlass and parrot. Nod if you know your safewords.” Shikamaru nodded, but he was trying to beg for a cockring without being able to use his hands or mouth. He bucked up with his crotch, and Gaara rolled him over and smacked his ass, five or six times, before taking off the gag. It took all the little concentration Shikamaru could muster not to come at the feel of those slaps. Then Gaara took off the gag and walked out of the room with it.

The next forty minutes were, excluding of course his fit of panic, the worst ones of the day for Shikamaru. He hadn’t been able to pee since he’d woken up, and his need to pee and his need to cum were mixing and magnifying each other. He might pee or cum on the bed, and either would displease master. Enduring those clips, the ice cubes in his ass, and even the crop stroke on his cock had been easier that this silent waiting because Gaara had been there watching and touching and enjoying. Suffering with desire when Gaara wasn’t even there to see his pain and to make it a pleasure because it was pleasing him—this was indeed suffering. His state of agony wasn’t as scary as the fear that had gripped him earlier, but it wasn’t without fear because Shikamaru knew in the past he wouldn’t have had so much trouble not coming. Gaara wasn’t even in the room! Shikamaru could hear him in the bathroom, the hallway, and the kitchen. Would he always want Gaara this much, this desperately? Or would his desire lessen—or grow?

Then, at last he returned—with a wicked looking paddle with holes in it and studs as well. When Gaara set it down, Shikamaru registered that he had other things in his hand as well—a riding crop, some tubing, and a glass jar. With his need to urinate, Shikamaru immediately knew what Gaara was going to do with that tubing and jar—oh, Master, Master, god, I love you! I love how you control not just my cum, but my pee too!

Gaara gestured for him to move as close to the side of the bed as his chains would allow. But when Shikamaru was there, and he was about to slide the catheter into his urethra, Gaara paused, then tilted up Shikamaru’s face. “You want this, don’t you?” he asked with just that subtle difference in his inflection that Shikamaru knew meant he was surprised. He nodded, pushing up his cock at Gaara. “No one wanted me to do this before,” said Gaara, beginning the insertion.

Jealousy came over Shikamaru like a cat on a mouse. One minute he was full of desire, and the next he was upset over Gaara, his virgin Gaara, sliding catheters in other men’s cocks and having other men in his bed. So he hadn’t had penetrative sex with them—but what had he done? Had those men sucked that gorgeous cock of his with its distinctive curved head? As the tube slide deeper into his cock, he moaned not so much at the feeling of the tube, but of the thought of other men in this bed, chained, and Gaara sliding this tube into them. As his pee began to flow out the tube into the jar, he tried to hold it back, but of course he couldn’t. He had no control over this, no control at all. One has no control over the past—it’s done; it can’t be changed. He had a past, and Gaara had a past. But—he’d never felt this irrational hatred for a sexual partner's x’s before—this stupid desire to be even more special than being Gaara’s first lover. As he watched his pee fill the jar, he couldn’t help but hate the nameless, faceless men that had been in Gaara’s home, his bed.

Gaara sensed Shikamaru’s mood change. It was like the blonde thing. But he’d not said anything about blondes, he’d just said he had bottoms that didn’t like this. But could Shikamaru be jealous of the other men he’d drained of urine? That was so ridiculous, but, then Shikamaru was weird like that. “I did it,” Gaara said, testing his theory, “because I wouldn’t let them in the bathroom—I didn’t let them anywhere in the house but the living room. I don’t like pee on the hardwood.”

Dear god—Shikamaru had been jealous! He was glowing again. Gaara left the room to deal with the urine, wondering what else Shikamaru might be jealous of. He had more reason to be jealous than his sexy brunette sub, but how could he? A slut like Shikamaru could never be celibate. But he would in the future be monogamous, faithful. I can’t have sex with him in public, Gaara suddenly thought, because other people will want him, will ask for him, and he’ll want them, want me to let them have him. He said something about me forcing him to have sex with Kankurou—force him! How can you force a slut like him? He deserves that paddling and the extra lash for being a slut, decided Gaara.

Standing in the doorway to the bedroom, he watched Shikamaru on the bed, twisting with sexual need, his body aroused, ready. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt angry at Shikamaru’s arousal, but he did. How many times had he let his slave come today? Too many! Yet, still, still Shikamaru wanted more—the greedy, greedy wanton slut! Gaara went to his drawer and pulled out a simple leather cockring and put it on Shikamaru. Then he picked up the paddle and ordered Shikamaru to present him with his ass. His slave struggled to do so with his wrists attached to the wall by the chains. He couldn’t support himself on his elbows, so he moved close to the wall, gripping the chain and leaning on the wall, so he could hold his ass out for his master’s punishment.

Then Gaara began to bring the paddle down. With both holes and studs, the paddle was designed to cause maximum pain. “Tell me, tell me why you’re so hard, slut,” he ordered as he landed blows methodically on Shikamaru’s ass.

“Because of you, Master Gaara, you! Thinking of you doing this each night, disciplining me in the morning, cleaning your boots, your whips, your body—and this day, these 24 hours in bed, you are spoiling me, so good to me, so loving. Oh, god, it hurts, it hurts, but it’s for you, to please you. I keep thinking of what it will be like to fucked and whipped by you in front of everyone I care about. It scares and excites me. Ohhhh! It burns, Master! Oh, Master, Master, I’m sorry I displeased you today, so sorry!” And now Shikamaru was crying again, the paddling hurting so bad he wasn’t hard any more, and was having difficulty holding himself still. He wasn’t really—his ass was moving and jumping, he was clenching and arching his back, flinching at the blows.

Shikamaru’s words made Gaara’s worry vanish, although he was a little alarmed that Shikamaru had assumed the cum in his ass at his collaring would be publicly inserted. But Shikamaru’s tears, struggles, and reddened ass made his own cock hungry to sink into between those red, red cheeks, and made thinking about anything else impossible. But he would push his slave to the edge, just a bit farther. Five more blows—four—three—two—one. Paddle down, lube open, applied—then gripping those red cheeks, pulling them apart, driving in with one thrust. There was little resistance, however. Shikamaru’s ass had been fucked so many times in the last few days, and he’d spent last night with a plug in his ass, spreading him, that his body was ready for more cock. And that’s what he would get, for the brutal paddling had awoken Gaara’s lust, and perversely, after having been annoyed at Shikamaru’s almost constant desire for sex, he now wanted to do nothing but spend the next hour working his cock in and out of this ass in a series of positions.

Refreshed from the nap and food, his need to come diminished by the many orgasms he had this day, Gaara knew he was finally ready to give Shikamaru what he was craving—a long, hard, steady fucking. No clips or clamps, no ice cream or ice cubes, no dildos or buttplugs—just cock in the ass, in and out, again and again, on and on, until even Shikamaru felt he almost couldn’t take anymore. Gaara felt that same thrill that he always felt when he had someone tied down for a beating whom he knew was a pain slut, who craved what he was going to do, what many doms didn’t have the stomach to do. An ass slut, a fuck slut, well, it wasn’t much different than a pain slut after all—and it feel so, so much better. Fucking Shikamaru made the belt, the crop, the whip seem boring—instead of just watching, listening, and smelling the reactions of the body he worked over—now there was feeling and taste too, feeling his slave’s every convulsion and contraction tight around him and tasting his saliva, his sweat, his cum. And come his little slut would, he would come violently and screaming like he was dying.

He’d been wanting to come since Gaara woke up over an hour ago, and by the time another hour passed, he’d be beyond desperate, maybe convinced he wouldn’t be permitted to come at all—making his orgasm when it did come, even more intense. Sure, he could have let Shikamaru rub himself off, kissing him, crying out those words of love, but it wouldn’t be the sort of orgasm that took hours to recover from—the sort of orgasm he’d had the first time he’d come on this bed. Now, forty-eight hours after that first amazing fucking in this room, Gaara was feeling like he knew more about sex, more about both Shikamaru’s body and his own—and that he could take them both farther, deeper, higher.

Shikamaru was already crying out, bucking, writhing, screaming his name, sobbing, begging. In another ten or fifteen minutes, he’d be incapable of speech, and in a half an hour, he’d be in a state of ecstasy without even coming, soaring in subspace. Gaara thrust in deep and draped his body over Shikamaru’s so he could reach over to his wrists and his neck and undo the chains. They were only in the way—he didn’t need them. Shikamaru was already at the point he would do anything, anything for Gaara. And he wanted to watch his slut’s face, to see the love, to see the need, to see everything. He wanted to do everything, feel everything. And all he needed to do that, to feel that, was to fuck his Shikamaru, fuck him everyway possible.

Everything—yes, with Shikamaru, he had everything.