splix | FIC: Miseshime

Don't get excited. This isn't new, nor is the next story I'm going to put up. I just realized I'd never put them on my LJ and thought I might as well, since my website is no more.

Title: Miseshime
Author: Alex
Fandom: The Pillow Book
Pairing: Jerome/Publisher
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Bondage, breath control, borderline noncon.
Disclaimer: Peter Greenaway, Channel Four Films.
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: to kimberlite and LaConstance, for support and beta. Also, thanks to Rahalia, Van, and kimberlite for research assistance.

**********

I have procured the use of this house from a
grateful client, an Israeli-born banker who wanted
Moses' Book of Exodus transcribed with purple
shellfish ink on handmade Egyptian papyrus and
bound in calfskin and gold. Jerome assisted me on
the project; he believes this soujourn is a reward
for his diligence.

He slips off his shoes and carelessly hands his
bag to the maid, turning to kiss me. His tongue
tastes of the plum wine we have drunk on the
journey. He whispers endearments in Japanese; his
soft voice and imperfect accent please me.

His indiscretion, however, does not. I have not
instructed him to remain faithful to me; that is
beneath me. He was careless -- he fell in love. I
cannot make him love me, nor do I wish to. But I
will not have a house divided.

"I want you to bathe."

He pulls back, slightly affronted. "Do I smell?"

I repeat myself, slowly. "I want you to bathe.
Inside and out."

He smiles, understanding, and follows the maid
into the bath, looking back over his shoulder
once. It is a simple act of vanity, one that
compels me to haste, though I know Jerome will
take his time in the bath, taunting me.

Atsuko has put our clothing away and lighted the
brazier, placing incense inside; the fragrance of
pine fills the room. I change into a simple kimono
and take items from my satchel, spreading them on
the tatami mat near my zabuton. I settle onto the
cushion with a copy of Les Liaisons Dangereuses.
We have been commissioned by an American film
company to produce a rococo edition, fit for
Versailles, as a gift for the self-important actor
who has been chosen to play Valmont. The challenge
is to take the ghastly request and turn it into a
thing of amazing beauty.

Jerome slides the screen aside and closes it
behind him, standing still for a moment so I might
gaze upon his naked body. I can smell him from
here, a complex arrangement of herbs, flowers,
sandalwood, and healthy young male. His skin is
pink from the bath, his hair, not fully dry,
pushed back from his face.

He spreads his hands. "Clean enough?"

"Perhaps."

He laughs and sinks to the other zabuton, sitting
in seiza, his legs folded beneath him, resting his
weight on his heels, hands clasped demurely,
concealing his genitals. "I wonder about that,
Yachi-san. I thought I was fastidious -- what's
all this?" he asks, leaning toward the items I
have placed on the tatami. His eyes widen in
curiosity. "Yachi-san!" he exclaims. "This is
new."

"What makes you say that?"

"It's just unlike you, that's all." Jerome picks
up one end of a coil of hemp rope and gives me a
flirtatious glance. "Shibari," he says, using the
word for sexual bondage.

I correct him. "Hojojutsu." I prefer the Edo term,
the art of restraining a captive. It is more
subtly nuanced.

He frowns, not understanding the term.
"Yachi-san..."

I place my book upon the floor and rise, picking
up the coil of rope. "Have I your permission to do
this?"

Jerome looks uncharacteristically uncertain. "Of
course, Yachi-san -- anything you like. What would
you like me to do?"

I point to the futon. "Kneel."

He uncoils his body gracefully and rises from the
cushion, kneeling upon the futon, his hands at his
sides. I reach down and touch his smoothly shaven
face. He kisses my fingertips and smiles at me.

Retrieving the jar of sweet almond oil, I massage
some onto his lips, making them pliant,
glistening. His lips part slightly, and he leans
forward, sucking on my fingers. I permit this for
a few moments before withdrawing.

His sex is stirring. He shifts on the futon, eyes
fixed downward, his hair hanging in soft, damp
waves, his skin paled from pink to cream, dappled
gold here and there by the setting sun shining
through the paper screens. He is perfectly
vulnerable, and utterly aware of the effect he has
on me.

I feel a sudden violence, an urge to push him to
the floor and take him by force, to remind him who
owns him, body and soul. Instead, I take the rope
and uncoil it, letting the hemp brush against his
skin, pleased when he shivers.

I have already prepared the loops in the rope; I
work swiftly, with no wasted movements. I pass the
rope around his neck, threading one end through a
loop and pulling so that the rope is taut, but not
enough to restrict breathing. I place the rope
diagonally, wrapping it around his left upper arm
three times, then pulling it under the diagonal,
across to his right arm, where I repeat the
maneuver. I slide the end of the rope under the
second diagonal and let the rope hang, then move
around him to examine my initial handiwork.

Jerome looks at the ropes wrapped around his upper
arms and rolls his shoulders experimentally,
testing the strength of the cords. He lets out a
soft breath of air and nuzzles his mouth against
me, seeking my sex.

I step behind him and pull his hands up to the
small of his back, crossing them. He obediently
keeps them in place, relaxed, lowering his head
once again. Marveling at his natural instincts, I
bind his wrists tightly, cinching them in the
center and provoking a small noise of discomfort.
I then tie his little fingers together, making
escape virtually impossible.

I step in front of him once more and examine him.
His sex is hard, erect and deep-red with blood,
but he seems embarrassed now; he cannot meet my
eyes. I put my fingertips under his chin, forcing
his eyes to meet mine. "Hojojutsu sprang from the
Edo period," I inform him quietly. "In that time,
persons of stature felt that the disgrace of a
rope around their necks or knots on their bodies
was an unbearable affront. Death was nearly
preferable."

He stares at me, his lips still parted as though
he is about to speak. His chest is rising and
falling with greater rapidity than before.

"Were I Samurai and you my captive, I would have
had hirelings bind you. A pity -- to deprive
oneself of so much pleasure."

"Yachi-san --"

I place a finger on Jerome's mouth. "Be silent." I
take a second rope and loop it through the rope
encircling Jerome's neck, pulling it down to his
erect sex. I wind the cord around its base, around
his scrotum. He winces as I pull the cord just
tightly enough to cause a moment's pain, finishing
the knot around his neck.

He stretches his body and lets out a soft moan.
"Yachi-san, it hurts."

"Struggling will result in intense discomfort. A
wise captive will still himself and marshal his
strength." I take the sweet almond oil once more
and rub some onto Jerome's nipples, slowly
pinching and pulling until they respond, hardening
like little stones.

Jerome whimpers obligingly.

I take more oil, coating Jerome's sex, feeling it
firm and hot in my hand. He arches toward me,
groaning. "Oh, please -- Yachi-san --"

"Lie on your belly."

Apprehensively, Jerome looks at the futon, clearly
trying to gain enough balance to lower himself
without injury. I come to his aid, helping him
into position.

He groans as his sex is pressed to the cotton
covering. "Yachi-san, please --" His voice is
strangled. I will attend to that presently.

I take the trailing end of the rope binding his
wrists together and pull it down. I take his feet
and cross his large toes together, tying them
tightly. I pull the rope up again and lash it to
his wrists.

Jerome laughs; he sounds nearly hysterical.
"That's all? My toes?" He shakes his hair out of
his eyes and glares at me. "This is silly,
Yachi-san."

"Are you able to move?"

"Of course I am --" He struggles, panic lighting
in his eyes as he realizes he is immobile,
helpless. "Yachi-san, stop this. Help me -- don't
leave me like this." He arches and groans again,
gritting his teeth. "I can't move," he whispers.
"Please."

I take the sweet almond oil and coat my fingers,
then move behind Jerome's bound, prone form and
insert two digits into his body, sliding back and
forth. "The ancients believed that binding a woman
frees her soul," I murmur, stroking his legs and
the soles of his feet with my free hand. "Binding
a man, however, only serves to degrade and
humiliate. It makes him a captive, a slave."

Jerome gasps, twisting fruitlessly to escape me.
"Yachi-san, not like this. Please, not like this."
He is frightened, ashamed, bewildered -- and yet
understands that he is being punished for some
transgression. "Yachi-san, what have I done?
Please --" He moans and struggles again,
attempting to flex his limbs.

The noise is beginning to annoy me. I take a dark
blue silk square from the mat and roll it into a
ball.

Jerome stares at it with wide eyes. "Not that,
Yachi-san, please. Not --" He shakes his head
wildly, moaning in supplication as I push the
wadded silk into his mouth. As I reach for a long,
dotted silk scarf, I hold my hand over his mouth
to prevent him from expelling the cloth. I wind
the scarf around his head, covering his mouth and
nose as an added discipline. It will be difficult
for him to breathe, but not impossible.

Jerome sobs, tears spilling from his eyes. Part of
his hair is caught by the silken gag; the rest
hangs in his face, soft and waving. I slide my
hand beneath him, feeling his sex. It is still
hard as stone and he thrusts into my hand, his
fingers curling helplessly in the air.

Satisfied, I return to my zabuton and resume
reading Laclos. My own sex is hard, but I have far
greater control than my captive. My peripheral
vision affords me glimpses of his body; bound,
writhing, nude, muffled, he belongs to me -- if
only for an hour. He won't last longer than that.

I continue to read the epistolary adventure,
wondering what calligrapher can best accomplish
the task I will set before him or her.

Jerome squirms feebly now. His sobs have become
soft, pleading whimpers.

Valmont is admirably devious, a master of his
game.

Jerome moans, then attempts to speak to me. I turn
the pages in silence, concentrating on Laclos.
Frustrated, Jerome screams in anger, but very
little sound penetrates the silk binding his
mouth. He struggles madly to free himself; his
shoulders heave with his strenuous efforts, but he
effects no change upon his captivity.

After ignoring my prisoner for nearly twenty
minutes, I look up. His eyes are wet; realizing I
am indifferent to his cries, he accepts the value
of silence, wisely allowing his beautiful eyes to
beg on his behalf. I suspect his sex is still
hard.

I rise and retrieve the sweet almond oil. Turning
so Jerome cannot see, I rub the oil over my sex,
pulling at it, biting at the inside of my cheek.
Crouching beside him, I smooth his hair back from
his sweating brow. "Are you ready for me?"

He nods, closing his eyes. His exhaustion is
apparent. I move behind him, once more reaching
beneath him; despite his fatigue, he is still
hard, his bound sex still awake and ready. I
stroke it, feeling myself responding to Jerome's
lithe, taut body, his erect sex, the soft humming
noise from deep within his throat. An impulse of
cruelty stirs me; pressing one hand over his
gagged mouth, I pinch his nose shut with my thumb
and index finger, blocking the airway already
stifled by silk. A reminder, I tell myself...

Jerome lets out a sharp cry and bucks wildly,
though his efforts to resist are fruitless. His
hips surge against my exploring hand. His eyes are
wide, panicked. His fingers and toes curl and
uncurl in his frenzy and desperation.

I release his nose and mouth, and part my kimono;
I spread his legs a little more widely, feeling
his straining thighs quivering beneath my touch.
Grasping his backside and spreading it, I drive my
iron hardness inside him, shoving with brutal
strength, reveling in the cry of mingled shock and
pain that escapes my captive. I root and stab,
grasping his bound hands tightly, feeling his
backside tighten and thrust against me.

Jerome pumps frantically beneath me, mindlessly
intent upon release. When it comes, he arches back
with a muffled scream, every muscle in his body
contracting. I follow suit, slamming into him,
feeling the hot fluid spurting from my body in
three quick spasms.

I pull out, leaving a trickle of pink-tinged semen
over Jerome's backside and thighs, and collapse
beside him on the futon. I sleep for a while; when
I awaken, he is staring at me, his eyes
unreadable.

I take the small knife from the tatami mat and cut
him free. He groans as his limbs are released, and
he reaches up with shaking hands to pull the gag
from his mouth. White stripes crisscross his
wrists; red stripes mar his cheeks.

He looks at me, waiting for me to speak.

I stroke his hair. "You need another bath."

He smiles shakily, then laughs, embracing me.
"You're mad, Yachi-san -- mad!" He kisses me
extravagantly, his young body twining around mine.

I think of the next encounter. Silk scarves bound
about the throat; gags that stretch the jaw nearly
to breaking; weighted clothespins on the nipples;
hot candle wax; suspension; enemas; a speculum.
And then, simple indifference.

He has learned nothing.

End.

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Wow. That was fabulous.

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FIC: Miseshime

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