The Good Boy

The Good Boy

He’d always been good. As a child he’d been the good boy, the special one, the envied one.

He’d never wanted to be powerful, he’d just been born that way. He’d always been able to learn faster than those around him, always ended up in the top handful of whatever test, challenge, pile he’d been tossed into.

He’d earned praise, prizes, promotions.

If he was such a good boy, why wasn’t he satisfied?

Being good, graduating, making chuunin, joinin, ANBU . . . it didn’t bring satisfaction.

He wanted to be lazy.

He wanted to take naps.

He wanted to play with his dogs.

He wanted to read porn and masturbate a lot.

Well, he read porn, but he never had enough time for naps and masturbation. As for his dogs, well, it was all work and no play.

Shit, if he’d really been a genius, he’d have a life like Shikamaru. Did anyone care if the shadow-working ninja lay around napping all day?

But no, he had to do what was easy and obvious to him, and now people expected things from him all the time. He rebelled—in petty, silly ways.

He was late all the time.

His excuses were legendary for their lameness.

He read porn whenever he could. It’s not like he was fucking anyone. Cripes—in the last three or four years he’d had less sex than some thirteen year olds in the Academy.

How pathetic, to be 13 and still be at the academy.

Yeah, like being 13 and in ANBU was fun.

He wore a mask all the time because that way no one would know the great Kakashi of a 1,000 jutsu’s wasn’t as cool or as great as people thought. He got nervous, depressed, bored, and angry. But a mask made you seem with it, cool and controlled, even if you didn’t know what the fuck you were doing, well even if you knew, well, almost everything important.

Damn, if only as a kid he hadn’t been such a good boy. But no, he always had to do what needed doing. Even now, he did what needed to be done, did it faster and better than mostly everyone. Some people needed to be killed, and others needed to be protected. Ninjas needed to learn, and comrades had to honored. Jutsu’s were there to be mastered. And if he was ever to relax in peace, he had to know Konoha was in good hands—that was what had made him take on Team 7.

And he had fucked it up, fucked it up royally.

Thank god he was wearing his mask—it reminded him no matter what anguish and regret he felt, he would “keep his mask on.” It was the symbol that reminded him to keep playing it cool, keep being the strong, silent one.

Even when it was all wrong, all wrong. His father . . . Obito . . . Sasuke . . .

Kakashi flipped open his latest Ichi, Ichi novel and forced himself to focus on the words. Yeah, her breasts . . . like melons . . . like . . . who cared . . . it was the same old stuff, same old, same old. Lick, fondle, squeeze, screw . . . blah, blah, fucking blah . . .

It would have been so much easier if he’d been the one who died . . . not his precious, precious ones, his friends, his teammates. No more, now the ones that died were the fucking losers he fought. Hardly anyone was a challenge. And when he found someone who just might kill him, well, he couldn’t die because he had to take care of the others . . . always there was someone who needed help, or, damn it, helped him.

And there had been just too many battles, too many moments where the fate of his bit of the world was hanging in the balance for him to believe he was essential anymore. No one was. Yes, he helped, yes, he could make the world a better place, but it would go on without him. The sun would rise, people would eat, do good, do evil, do ridiculous things and great things . . . the waves would roll against the shore for thousands, no, millions of years, the world would spin in the sky . . . chakra would flare and flow . . . fire would burn . . . yada . . . yada . . . yada . . .

Maybe the cock-sucking scene in Chapter 8 would be worth rereading . . .

Cock sucking—when was the last time he’d had his cock sucked? Four years ago? Five?

“Attention,” snapped a voice.

Fuck! Why couldn’t a man lie around and feel himself up, dwelling on memories of his last blow job in peace? If he wasn’t as good as he was, he’d have jumped or, god forbid, actually snapped to attention. Fuck that, he wasn’t in ANBU anymore.

“Maybe I should arrest you for public masturbation,” said Ibiki looking down at Kakashi menacingly.

Kakashi knew that he appeared completely unmoved, completely unthreatened. Intellectually, he knew that he could kill Ibiki before the man could do anything to him. He could capture him, could do anything to him . . . but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even stop the feeling of dread, the feeling of fear inside him, although he could make sure his heartbeat didn’t race, his breathing stayed even, and, hell, he could even make sure the hairs on his arms didn’t stand up the way they wanted to. Why was he still afraid of Ibiki? Why had he ever been afraid of Ibiki? He’d felt less fear for men who were more deadly, more powerful, and more filled with a burning need to kill him.

If he was a student, he knew what he’d tell himself to do. He would do exactly what he feared, he would conquer that fear, master it.

“Please do,” Kakashi drawled in a voice full of boredom and amusement. “Jail would be a nice quiet place to pleasure myself.”

“So you think being in my jail cell will be pleasurable, Kakashi?”

His cock was suddenly rock hard, embarrassingly hard, and the little grunt from Ibiki confirmed that he knew it. Kakashi felt like he was six again, no sixteen . . . fuck, he didn’t know anything except he wanted to shiver, wanted to gulp, to lick his lips nervously, wanted to jerk his cock, stroke it . . . fuck . . . what . . .

Ibiki was bending down, was reaching down . . . and his cock was leaking like when he’d seen his first lover naked . . . no, worse . . . no, better . . . and Ibiki touched him.

They materialized in a small stone cell. Kakashi couldn’t tell where, couldn’t feel Konoha, couldn’t reach out with his chakra . . .

Ibiki put one gloved figure on the edge of his eye, on his bare skin, the one bit not covered by a patch, by a forehead protector, by his mask. And Kakashi knew where he was, knew that only Ibiki and he knew exactly where this cell was, for its makers were long dead as were the only ones who’d been here, who’d experienced Ibiki’s talent.

“Let yourself shiver, Kakashi,” said Ibiki. “You will do exactly what I say, you will obey me perfectly, or I will put this finger on the Fifth and show her you masturbating, show her your erection, how wet you are for me.”

Kakashi shivered inside and out. For the first time in years, he let his body shiver.

“Good boy,” said Ibiki.

His cock throbbed and dripped.

“So wet for me,” said Ibiki, “I want you to vocalize what you’re really feeling, I want you to let your body do what is natural. You are not Kakashi, the shinobi now.”

Kakashi, the man, shivered again and licked his lips.

“Good boy,” said Ibiki again.

Kakashi quivered, and his cock lifted up higher.

Ibiki moved his hands in a jutsu that Kakashi knew, knew how to stop, and would have stopped and maybe even killed anyone else for even trying.

“You are my slave boy, and slaves should be naked,” said Ibiki.

He was naked. He didn’t have a mask.

He didn’t have an eye patch.

He saw.

He saw with the Sharigan.

He was naked, more erect and dripping than he’d been since he’d first hit puberty.

He was afraid.

He wasn’t afraid.

He didn’t know what was going to happen.

He didn’t have to.

He didn’t have to be prepared, to hide.

His cock bobbed up and down, and dripped. His hair stood on end (well, more than usual), his nipples were tight, his breathing was uneven, and he let his heart race.

“Who are you, boy?”

“Ibiki’s slave,” said Kakashi.

Those gloved hands reached out and pinched his nipples, twisting them.

He could stop Ibiki. He could kill him. He didn’t need to kill or even hurt Ibiki to stop him. It would be as easy as blinking.

But he didn’t.

He let those finger twist, let his cock dance, let his mouth do something he’d not done for a long, long time—whimper.

“Good boy,” said Ibiki, and Kakashi moaned, a real, genuine moan. Hell, he was pushing his chest out, wanting the pain, which was not really a pain at all but pleasure, pure pleasure.

The clamps materialized in Ibiki’s hand, in those black leather gloves. They snapped on his nipples, a jolt of pleasure that made Kakashi’s world narrow down to his nipples. He panted, almost drooling.

“You want this,” said Ibiki.

Yes, he did. God, he whimpered and let his body jerk in pleasure. When, when he had been able to take off both of his masks? To be himself, his real self . . .

It was terrifying . . . the emotions that swamped him, the need, the desire to cry, to just let someone else be strong, be the savior, be aware, alert, ready . . .

He couldn’t let go, couldn’t . . .

A strap snapped down on his cock, and the pain exploded in him, and he cried out.

He’d cried out. He hadn’t done that since he was in the academy . . .

“Do you want me to touch your cock?”

“Yes.”

The little strap struck his cock, then his balls, “Yes, master,” cried Kakashi.

And Ibiki leaned in and kissed him.

Ravished him.

Fucked him.

No, it was just a kiss, but Kakashi moaned, trembled, melted, burned . . . no one . . . never had he been kissed like this or even anything close to it . . . his balls were telling him he was going to come, and he was almost, almost there . . .

. . . because his mouth had been taken . . . claimed . . . and he had done nothing..

It was the first kiss where he’d not felt the burden of his reputation, the need to live up his legend, that of the great Copy-cat nin, an impossible burden given his Sharingan and his porn . . . he was supposed to do everything, be everything . . .

And the slap on his face brought him back to the fact that right now, right here, he only had to be himself, to feel.

“I’m sorry, Master,” he whispered.

“Good boy,” said Ibiki. “I’m going to reward you.”

But the reward was a jutsu that made him unable to come, left him trembling on this edge. And the balm, the cream in the little jar that Ibiki suddenly had, the cream that Ibiki was rubbing on to him, oh, it burned! He wanted, no, he needed stimulation, needed to come, needed relief. He burned and hurt and wanted and needed . . . tears filled his eyes, even the eye that was his bane and his blessing. And he shut his eyes, the tears sliding down his face.

And a figure touched him, showing him what Ibiki wanted.

He gave it to him. He knelt down on the stone floor, pulling his ass cheeks apart, putting his ass up in the air, and he said the words . . .

“Please, Master, put your fingers in my ass.”

It was so awful, so humiliating, he was crying.

It was so wonderful, so simple, so good, he’d never been more aroused, more ready to come, more sexually stimulated. He wasn’t really sure if he was on the floor or in the air . . .

A thick finger in a leather glove speared into him, spreading him, anchoring him. The balm burned and tortured him. He needed relief, needed more, needed pain to take away the pain, needed, wanted, oh god, he wanted the finger, the fingers, more fingers to fuck him, to take him over the edge he was on . . . he cried . . . he begged . . . he received . . . but it wasn’t enough . . . more . . . more . . .

“Please Master, more,” he cried.

And he got it . . . he got it, he got everything . . . it was coming, coming . . .

Ibiki’s fist thrust into him, fucking him, breaching, branding him, his fist, his wrist, inside him, owning him, claiming him . . .

“Mine!” cried Ibiki.

He came like he’d never come before, like something out of one of his novels.

He came again when Ibiki’s cock replaced that fist . . . when he was fucked with a cock . . . a man’s cock, his master’s cock . . . and he knew that he was now and forever a cock-lover.

He’d wanted this, always wanted this.

To be the one taken, the one who just received, the one who wasn’t responsible, made to do what he’d always wanted . . . made to feel this pleasurable pain . . .

He was being fucked hard again and again. It didn’t matter if he cried, if he screamed, if he farted, he passed out, if he threw up . . . he wasn’t in control . . . he wasn't responsible . . . nothing was his fault . . . he just was, just was, oh god, was in heaven, in a place he'd never been before . . . oh, fuck, yes . . .

The cock was gone, and the fist was inside him again, claiming him, taking him, pounding him. He screamed and screamed, convulsed, pain and pleasure twisted, and he didn’t know anything, he knew everything, he was wind and shadow, and he was a body and blood and cum, more cum than was possible. He was going to die, to find the release, no, the end he wanted . . . but there was more pleasure than pain, too much, it was everything and nothing . . . and he was gone into unconsciousness.

He awoke as Kakashi, the famous ninja of a thousand jutsu’s, death waiting to unleash on something. But the sight of Ibiki naked at his side relaxing on the big bed—when and where and how had that come here? But who cared because Ibiki was naked, his body a mass of scars and burns and more magnificent than . . . everything.

There was a tray of hot tea and food . . . food that smelled unbelievable.

Ibiki smiled at him, saying, “Tea?”

Kakashi’s cock hardened.

Ibiki laughed and poured a little hot tea over Kakashi’s cock. It burned, burned so good he moaned, falling back on the bed, not caring if the tray tipped over. His eyes shut, his chest arched up, and he whimpered.

“Humpt,” came from Ibiki.

He spasmed, desire and pleasure controlling his body. He wasn’t a ninja, was nothing but a slave, a pleasure slave.

“Please master, punish my nipples too,” he whispered, his body straining, needing more, more pain, more Ibiki, more everything to get to that moment, that pleasure, that orgasm he needed, oh god, he fucking needed . . .

“I didn’t think you would be ready for more, slave,” said his master. “I was going to pamper you, but you’re too much of a slut, aren’t you my slave?”

“Yes, master,” he said pushing his cock up in air, arching his chest, licking his lips.

“Pick up the chopstick, slave.”

Kakashi obeyed, the silver metal chopstick smooth and cool between his fingers.

“Put it in your cock, slide it in your piss hole, and fuck that desperate cock of yours. Someday slave, you’ll beg for it, for a thick one, for a carved one, for a longer one. Am I telling the truth, slave?”

“Yes, Master, yes,” cried Kakashi, his lust, shame, pleasure, and need making him whimper like his own dogs.

The strap burned as his Master hit him, making him forget the sudden terror at the thought of his dogs finding this out about him, knowing, turning from him . . . no, no, the smell of his need, the feeling of the metal at his slit, penetrating, knowing Ibiki was watching, his master, demanding this, that he pleasure himself, pleasure himself more than he ever hoped or dreamed he could. Oh god, so good, so insanely good, he was fucking himself, he was a slave fucking himself for his master . . .

His legs were pulled apart, and Ibiki was there between them, watching him torture his own cock, no, god no, it wasn’t torture, it was pure pleasure, it was what he’d needed, this was what he needed . . . only he needed more, he needed Ibiki inside him.

“Please, master,” he begged.

Ibiki’s hand squeezed one ball, the pain too much, so much . . . so perfect . . .

And he needed to come, tried to come, but the stick in his cock wouldn’t let him. The pleasure and pain rippled through him again and again; Ibiki’s cock slammed into him, and he was lost, lost to everything but need . . . he couldn’t take it all in, couldn’t deal with it, but he had the Sharingan. His red eye opened and saw. He knew as Ibiki emptied himself in him, jerking out the rod, letting orgasm rip through his slave, he knew he would always see this, that he could relive it again and again . . . and the pleasure doubled and tripled, and he wasn’t sure if this was real or an effect of the Sharingan . . . but it didn’t matter . . . he was floating in a ocean of pleasure . . . Ibiki’s voice, his fingers, his cock, his whip, his clamps, all of it was the anchor, the source, the thing he’d always wanted . . . needed . . . and he fainted again from the pleasure or the pain . . .

He woke . . . or he dreamed . . .

The summons to reality came too soon, way too soon. He was a bad slave, a bad shinobi. He was punished, oh so delightfully.

And he was late as a result, making Tsunade furious but not surprising her at all. But she should be surprised. He was surprised. How could they not see? Not know?

But all they saw was Kakashi, Kakashi of the 1,000 jutsu’s.

No one could see beneath his mask—both his masks.

No one but Ibiki.

He completed this mission in four hours, the mission that supposedly should take forty-eight.

His master, however, thought he had taken much too long.

He spent four hours with a candle ensuring that Kakashi understood how important it was for him to not be lazy. Lazy boys were punished . . .

As he fucked himself on his master’s cock, he felt that he was finally getting to do just what he wanted . . .

Be lazy . . . and get himself off . . .

. . . hmmm, there were a few more more things he had wanted . . . but Master’s whip cracked and the pleasure and pain burned through him, and he screamed, screamed, coming . . . feeling nothing and everything . . .

“Slut,” said Ibiki.

“Yes, Master,” gasped Kakashi, “Please.”

“Please, what? Pleasure or pain?” asked his master.

“Whatever pleases you, Master,” said the slave.

“Good boy,” said Ibiki.

He was good, so good, yes, he was one of the best. He’d always been. But it just had never been quite so satisfying . . .

The whip snapped down, and his mind emptied of everything but the moment, his master, his pain, his pleasure, his or his . . .

Ahhhhh!

“More . . . more . . .”

Ah, more, more, now.

He whimpered, sweating, bleeding, leaking precum from his cock, tears from his eyes . . .

“Good boy,” said Ibiki.

Yes, yes he was, such a good, good boy.