Warlord

Chapter One

Umino Iruka watched his young charges fondly. In the five years he had been with this household as a tutor he had seen two of the master’s sons off to university. Now, the third and final son was preparing to make the same journey. Although the girls had studied along with their brothers, there were no elaborate plans for their future education, the family’s need for a tutor ended today.

The young man pondered where he would end up after this. He had almost forgotten what he really was in this nurturing environment. He sighed when he realized that tomorrow he would find himself back in the marketplace, waiting to be sold into a new home. At least he was educated, that kept his price high and people were less likely to abuse an expensive piece of merchandise.

He began to carefully pack his few belongings, neatly folding several worn but clean changes of clothes, adding a few books his previous master had gifted him with and finishing with his most precious possession, a small photograph of himself and his parents.

Iruka’s mind wandered back to happier times, when he, himself, had been the favored son of a privileged family. All that had changed when his parents were killed in an accident. His new guardians were distant relatives, all too happy to take him in, or so it seemed. Once he had been transferred to their care, however, he found they were actually all too happy to steal his inheritance and sell him into slavery.

He shuddered when he thought of his first few years as a slave. The first days, especially, were a nightmare he preferred not to dwell on. The auctions were still frightening, even after all these years, but the terror he had felt at being torn from his life of ease and dragged naked onto the stage to be eyed and poked by rough-fingered strangers still made his heart race.

As much as he hated it, he forced himself to examine the most painful memories, hoping to bolster himself for the ordeal to come. The noise was the thing that came back first, it had been deafening, he’d cowered in the corner of the pen, covering his ears and trying to avoid the press of unwashed bodies. It’s just a dream, he kept telling himself, right up to the moment when a strong arm yanked him up in the air and carried him, kicking and flailing, onto the stage.

He had tried to cover himself with his hands but they were jerked up over his head, leaving him exposed to the eyes and hands of potential buyers. His muscles were felt, his mouth pried open and teeth counted, even his eyes examined, as if he were a prime piece of horseflesh rather than a human child.

The next part always replayed itself in slow motion. The man mounting the stage was, at first glance, not markedly different from those who had passed before him. His grey hair was pulled back into a low tail and his round glasses and mild expression made him appear less daunting than the men who had gone before.

Iruka winced as the memory continued, this was the part he hated himself for most. Thinking that this man seemed the best of a bad lot he stopped his struggling, hoping to show his desire to be chosen. I asked for it, I asked for it all, he berated himself. He remembered how shocked he had been when the man examined not his teeth or his eyes, but his genitals. He had frozen in shock when his penis was handled and his balls rolled, but what almost made him die from embarrassment was the finger that had probed his ass, scraping roughly over his tender pucker.

When the bidding had started Iruka found himself wishing he hadn’t encouraged the groper, as he enthusiastically topped every offering. When the hammer finally fell he found himself being led away by his new owner, his mind conjuring ever more horrible visions of what was to come.

Thank gods I hadn’t the imagination to anticipate what was actually in store for me, Iruka thought with a shiver, remembering his childish terrors, thoughts of beatings, hard labor and hunger the worst his boyhood mind could conjure.

Ten year old Iruka’s new master had a unique profession, he purchased young, pretty boys and trained them in the ways of sexual pleasure until their twelfth birthday. At that time they were castrated to maintain their youthful feminine appearance, and sold as pleasure slaves.

A tremor ran through his slender frame as the tutor remembered his first ‘lesson’. As soon as they were in his master’s carriage his clothes were roughly stripped from him. Large hands stroked and rubbed him wantonly, fueled by his weak struggles to free himself. Finally he was pushed to his knees, finding himself face to face with the master’s hard length. “Suck” he was told as the rigid member pushed against his lips. He had reluctantly opened his mouth only when his nostrils were pinched shut. As soon as he did, it was filled.

Iruka grimaced as he remembered his first taste of another man. I may have gotten better at it, he wryly concluded, but I never learned to like it. He did, however, become very adept at giving pleasure with his mouth and his hands. He and the other boys serviced the master and his guests in this way. The boys also learned to prepare themselves for sex, tonguing and fingering each other under the master’s watchful eye. The worst, however, was the stretching. Each night before going to sleep they lined up in front of the master, bending over so he could insert a dildo which they were to wear during the night. The size of these was gradually increased until even the smallest boy was able to endure penetration by the most well endowed of men.

Actual penetration, thankfully, was the only forbidden act. The boys’ value being highest if they were virgins at the time of purchase. Iruka unconsciously traced the scar across his nose . . . the scar that had saved him from that life. Two weeks before his twelfth birthday was Rei’s. When the master came to take him to surgery the boy fought back. In the struggle Iruka’s face had been slashed, rendering him imperfect . . . and therefore unfit for his master’s clientele.

So it was that the almost twelve year old found himself back in the marketplace, drifting behind his master as he made the rounds, visiting buyers who supplied the brothels and pleasure palaces, hoping to recoup his investment. Listlessly waiting while his master talked, Iruka overheard a man asking for slaves who could read and write. Hearing the jeering response of the trader Iruka had taken a risk and piped up “I can read and write.” Prove it, the man had demanded, and Iruka easily read the paper put in front of him, gracefully cutting and inking a quill to pen a reply. The next thing he knew he was leaving with his new master.

The old man had been kind, and Iruka’s duties as his scribe were not overly demanding. Under the guise of training him to do his job better this new master continued his neglected education. When the man had died his scribe had been sold to this house as a tutor and had enjoyed five years with them, living more as a family member than a slave, thriving under the freedom and intellectual stimulation. The children were like the siblings he never had and he was sad to be leaving.

The next day dawned crisp and bright. Iruka presented himself to the master of the house for the trip to the marketplace. The master, however, had to leave on business. Therefore he thanked the tutor for his service and sent him off with the butler, giving him the instructions for the slave’s terms of sale.

Back again, Iruka thought morosely, wishing without hope for a day when he would be free from this humiliation forever. It could be worse, he reminded himself, glancing over at the pleasure slaves with a shudder before taking his place with the group of scribes and tutors. He composed himself and sat gracefully, purposefully refusing to engage in the conversations swirling around him, trying to set himself apart as a serious and sober man, one who could be trusted with the education of a family’s treasured children.

He watched idly as people scurried out of the way of an oncoming group. Soldiers roughly clearing the way for the man who came behind. Iruka found himself looking straight into the eyes of the man responsible for all the commotion. He’s very tall, the tutor thought, and those eyes . . . I wonder how old he is? The fascinating stranger, though tall and lean, was well muscled. His face was handsome, with a strong chin, high defined cheekbones and an aquiline nose. Seen in profile he was beautiful. When he turned to face the tutor, however, he could clearly see a large scar bisecting his eye. The iris on that side was blood red, while they other was a stormy grey. The effect of those mismatched eyes was terrifying, Iruka felt like a rabbit pinned under the gaze of a circling hawk.

Hatake Kakashi idly observed the group of slaves for sale as scribes and tutors. They were mostly older men with serious expressions who were passing the time debating each other in hopes of attracting buyers. All in all an unimpressive lot, Kakashi thought to himself, still . . . more interesting than that. That being the group of pleasure slaves his men were currently examining.

The warlord was not a man who indulged in pleasure in any form. He was a soldier, a formidable opponent who never wavered once he had set himself a goal. A man who, at the tender age of thirty, had built himself an empire on the strength of his sword and his men’s devotion.

The generals who had been with him for years worried about his isolation. Believing they understood his reluctance for emotional involvement, they had suggested he purchase a pleasure slave. What was I thinking when I agreed to this, he chastised himself, imaging the groans of complaint after a day in the field. He studied the primping pampered pets on display with disdain before turning again to the group of scholars, still wearing a look of haughty superiority.

This time, however, the crowd had shifted and his gaze locked with a slender young man sitting slightly apart. Now he, Kakashi thought, looks like a man who could handle the rigors of my lifestyle. His eyes roved over the bronze body before locking with rich chocolate eyes. A scribe would be a useful thing to have, his train of thought continued, besides, if he’s educated he’ll be more interesting to talk to.

Decision made the warlord merely pointed at the man he had been observing “That one.” he told his aide, turning to head back to camp.

“But, my lord,” one of the generals hesitantly began, “he is a scribe . . . not a pleasure slave.”

“A slave is a slave,” the warlord replied, “He does his master’s bidding, like it or not. I have made my choice. If you will excuse me, I have pressing business to attend to. Leave the slave in my tent and I will deal with him when I have finished.” With that he turned and strode away, his mind already returning to more pressing matters.