FIC: Seihon
Dec. 8th, 2005 05:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Seihon
Author: Alex
Fandom: The Pillow Book
Pairing: Jerome/Publisher
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Bondage, breath control, cruelty, noncon.
Disclaimer: Peter Greenaway, Channel Four Films.
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: to kimberlite, for support, MAJOR inspiration, and beta.
Sequel to Miseshime.
**********
I have been accused of many wrongs during the span of my life. Many of the denunciations have been true. I have never been accused of not completing what I have begun, though, a matter of some pride to me. I am nothing if not thorough.
The urge, therefore, to continue Jerome's education is a very tempting and powerful one. It is perhaps not the wisest of decisions. It would be easier to abandon him, to leave him to that petulant, childish woman who has captivated his fancy. This in itself is no surprise; Jerome is petulant and childish as well. In many ways they are ideally suited.
There is an undertow in the stream of my pride. I am not ready to give him up altogether, and I am used to, indeed, enjoying, the dangerous game we three -- publisher, vengeful writer, and blank scroll -- play. Of us all, Jerome is the most vulnerable, the most expendable. He is only a body after all, despite his accomplishments; a beautiful, pliant body, to be sure, but even the most ornamental tablet is easily discarded in favor of newer, creamier paper.
He seduces, playing both ends against the middle, each of us against the other in wanton displays of painted skin. He is not so clever as he imagines.
I have given him a suggestion: let the woman inscribe him with words of possession, in as many languages as pleases her, and let him come from her to me so inscribed. He laughed when I proposed it; the notion appealed to his sense of vanity. It delighted him to allow her to think it was his idea. Translator that he is, he has so little imagination of his own.
It is an exciting image -- the brush, heavily soaked with ink, hovering above the sleekness of his pale skin. The flesh my text, the text his flesh. I shall inscribe my own lexicon of possession onto that fine paper. I have only been cruel to him once; he has forgotten the taste of claiming. I am determined that he will know it this night.
He stands before me in clothes I purchased for him -- a pale, exquisitely cut suit that sets off the glow of his skin. His hair falls to his collar, swinging against his smooth cheek. Its color is glorious -- russet streaked with gold, the hues of an autumn sunset.
He smiles at me with easy affection, with arrogance; he is far too sure of himself, of the power of his youth and beauty. I feel mingled regret and anticipation; he is the proverbial tabula rasa, ignoring the lessons I have endeavored to teach him. If there is frustration at the lack of growth or progression by such a creature, it is slightly compensated by the pleasure of imparting such lessons as if each were bestowed for the first time.
I instruct him to remove his clothes. He obeys without question, but moves with deliberate leisure, dawdling over each mother-of-pearl button with the alluring smile of an expensive prostitute. I sit impassively and wait; my patience is infinite, and it is pleasurable to watch him.
At last he is naked but for the calligraphy that covers his body. I stand and approach him to read what she has written. Instinct or happenstance has propelled him beneath one of the hanging lamps; he smiles and stretches languidly as I move him this way and that to better decipher the inscriptions.
The title of the text decorates his collarbone like a jeweled necklace: The Book of Possession.
Black, red, gold; she has inscribed words, phrases, odes of proprietorship upon him. Some of the discourse is of her own devising, as in the writing upon his chest:
Woe betide the fool
Who accepts a body gifted wholly to another.
For the willfully enslaved soul
Will almost certainly awaken to its plight
And flee, leaving the owner
Bereft.
Of whom, I wonder, does she speak? Herself? Or me? There will be time to ponder the meaning later. I continue my examination. In places -- scrawled across a shoulder, trailing from elbow to wrist, encircling one rosy nipple -- she has merely written single words in varying languages -- French, Welsh, Russian, Greek.
Dominion. Chattel. Prize. Enthrallment. Captive.
In others, she has written poetry. Inked in kanji across his back is a rebuke in the words of Akazome Emon:
It would have been better that I slept
the whole night through
without waiting for him,
than to have watched
until the setting of the moon.
I hide my smile. How well she knows her straying lover. Scrawled in a column down the back of Jerome's right thigh, in spidery English penmanship, is a verse by John Donne:
So must pure lovers soules descend
T'affections, and to faculties,
That sense may reach and apprehend,
Else a great Prince in prison lies.
Apt again; for Jerome there is no spiritual elevation save that which he gleans from physical pleasures. He is and ever will be a creature of the flesh.
I crouch before him to examine his scrotum, his sex, and am surprised; they have been left determinedly unpainted, and now I do smile at the woman's anger, her jealousy, her lack of subtlety. There is an amusing yet refreshing transparency in the young; they have not yet learned to dissemble with grace and skill.
Neither of us speaks of her. Instead, I urge him into the room nearest the garden, where tea has been prepared, and kneel on the tatami tea mat. Jerome sinks to his knees. The lighting in this room is soft, warm, diffused by cream-colored paper; it casts a glow upon his complexion, burnishing it to pale gold.
I am clothed; Jerome is naked. Like a sleek animal, he is scarcely aware of the difference between us, the gap that divides owner from object. Fleetingly, I wish the room were colder, so that he might experience some infinitesimal discomfort and remark upon the contrast.
Jerome has learned the rituals of tea ceremony. His manners are graceful and almost perfect, watching politely as I whisk the bitter green tea to a thin froth. He compliments me on the flower arrangement in the wall niche, on the beauty of the blue-glazed tea service. I hand him the finished bowl of tea, and he bows, his hair falling forward. "I will partake of your tea, Yachi-san."
I incline my head and watch him drink.
He takes a sip. "It is marvelous, Yachi-san." I have taken care to order his favorite, but this evening I have infused the tea with another ingredient, an herb that will render him pliant. It is not at all certain that he will be receptive to the ropes that will bind his body. I have not attempted to bind him since that first lesson; the memory of the restraint and humiliation may still be fresh, though the lesson was unlearned.
We talk of inconsequential things. As he continues to drink, his guard drops, though I am unsure whether that is due to the drug, or merely to his supreme confidence in his own charms. "Nagiko did not number this book -- did you notice that?"
I had indeed observed that. "I did," I reply.
"I suspect she realized it was not for transcribing."
"Perhaps." The woman is a fool. This book may prove more worthy of transcription than any other.
Jerome smiles. "You have made her jealous, Yachi-san. She was angry with me when I left."
"She has no reason to be jealous."
Jerome's smile dims slightly, becoming uncertain. He finishes his tea in silence and returns the bowl to me. His eyes are slightly unfocused. The drug is mild and short-lived; I have perhaps twenty minutes before he is restored to full awareness.
I rise to my feet and offer him a hand. He stands, looking a little shocked as his movements are slightly uncoordinated. "Yachi-san," he laughs, "I'm hungry, I think. Were you planning to starve me tonight?"
"Not at all. Come with me." I lead him to my bedroom and settle him upon the bed. I open a chest and remove a ebony box inlaid with ash. Taking the box to the bed, I sit, placing it between us. "Open it."
Jerome's eyes are alight with anticipatory pleasure. He opens the box and stares in astonishment at the object inside, a large phallus of carved jade. "Yachi-san, you never fail to surprise me."
I lift the phallus into my hand, admiring its weight and proportions. Its length and girth is considerably more than an average man's sex, twice as large as my own. "Take it in your mouth."
Jerome obeys at once. His lips and tongue caress the phallus lingeringly. He closes his mouth over its tip and suckles gently, leaving the jade wet and glistening. His movements become rhythmic; his neck is a slender stem, his bright hair like flower petals. The calligraphy on his body undulates sensuously as he applies himself more thoroughly to his task.
I gently remove the jade from his mouth and undo the simple belt to my kimono. I sprawl upon the bed, placing the phallus next to my own hard sex. Understanding, Jerome lavishes his attentions on both, licking and sucking with astounding skill. I permit this for several more moments, nearly losing myself in the wet depths of his mouth.
At last I rise and push him back upon the bed. He lies there, legs apart, his sex hard and flushed with arousal. His eyes are half-closed; the tip of his tongue slides out, wetting the inner rim of his lips. He curls a hand around his sex and strokes it. "What are you doing now, Yachi-san?"
"You shall see." From the chest I take a jar of sweet almond oil, two silk scarves, a candle of creamy yellow beeswax, a flint, and two lengths of beaten linen rope -- one short, one long. Swiftly, before he can react, I wrap the short length around his scrotum and sex, binding them tightly. To assuage any fears, I bend down and draw my tongue up the length of his shaft, prompting a soft moan. Gently, I apply some almond oil, rubbing it up and down his sex. I rub the oil into his nipples, tightening my fingers upon them until he gasps. I massage them lightly with my palms, reveling in their hard texture, their dark rose hue.
Jerome twists and writhes on the bed, utterly malleable in my hands. "Don't stop, Yachi-san. Please don't stop." He groans when my hands and mouth cease their ministrations and I rise to pull him to his feet. He is strong, nearly pulling me down beside him. "No -- don't make me get up."
I smile to assure him of my good intentions and exert more force. Obligingly, he rises, stifling a grunt of pain as his bound scrotum rubs against the sheets. The long length of rope coiled innocuously in my hand, I lead him to a large object draped in dark cloth and unveil it like a painting.
It is an ordinary wooden carpenter's sawhorse. Jerome stares at it, blinking, swaying slightly. I take advantage of his state and push him across it, lengthwise. He lets out an inane giggle. "Honestly, Yachi-san, there are far more comfortable --" His laughter turns into a sharp cry as I pull his arms behind his back and truss them together, high above the wristbone. "Yachi-san, no -- no!" He surges up, his mouth open in alarm.
I grasp his hair and force him down against the rough wood. "This time," I say quietly, "I do not ask your permission."
At full strength, he might have resisted with ease; drugged, he can only struggle weakly as I take the two long lengths of rope trailing from his wrists and bind his body to the frame, arranging the restraints in diamond shapes of varying sizes. Shoulders, arms, torso are rapidly secured to the horse; the linen rope is passed around his waist, lashing him inescapably to the unforgiving wood. I bind his legs to the legs of the horse in the same diamond pattern, finishing with severe knots around his ankles.
Bent over the horse, he cannot free himself. I watch him thrash against the ropes, whimpering when he realizes the extent of his helplessness. "Yachi-san, please. Please. I don't like this."
"If you struggle excessively, you will topple over," I tell him. "Don't risk injury to yourself."
The drug is beginning to wear off; I see the anger in his eyes as he whips his head around to stare at me. "Untie me now. Now! I hate this, Yachi-san!" His voice rises, becoming strident.
I collect the scarves I have taken from the chest and roll one into a ball, compressing it tightly.
Jerome attempts to look over his shoulder, but the movement disturbs his equilibrium and he rests his head on the horse, panting raggedly. "Yachi-san, I'm telling you --" He catches sight of the scarf. "Oh, no -- no. I'll be quiet. I couldn't breathe with that in my mouth before, Yachi-san. Please, don't gag me. I'll be --"
"Silence," I admonish him, pushing the ball of silk into his mouth. He mewls in panic and tries to spit it out, but I hold his head still with one hand clenched in his hair, keeping the silk in his mouth with two fingers until his struggles lessen. I tie the other scarf, pure white silk, over his mouth and nose, obscuring the lower half of his face. Crouching down to look into his lovely, transparent eyes, I brush back a waving lock of auburn hair. "If you breathe slowly, deliberately, the sense of suffocation will lessen." I pet and stroke him as I would a nervous horse, murmuring to him until his breathing calms and he closes his eyes in resignation.
I stand and walk around his bound body, admiring it from every angle. His body is presented to me like a feast, an offering; I examine it minutely, tracing my fingertips over the calligraphed letters and characters on his skin. I read the poetry aloud, pronounce the exotic words of possession, letting the foreign resonance linger upon my tongue.
Jerome offers no resistance; he rests his cheek upon the harsh wood of the sawhorse, his eyes closed. His hands drape limply over the small of his back; I see in this a measure of victory. A defiant captive would clench his hands. Perhaps he is learning something after all.
For no reason, this minute detail irritates me. I take the candle and light it directly before Jerome's face. His curiosity gets the better of him; he opens his eyes and regards the candle's tiny flame with hypnotized fascination before he realizes its purpose. His eyes widen, and he emits muffled pleas beneath the swaddling silk. He attempts to struggle again, surging to no avail against the punishingly tight ropes.
I stand still, holding the candle at a slight angle, letting it drip onto the crumpled cloth on the floor. When Jerome's efforts have exhausted him, I move along his body and tilt the candle, letting the hot wax splash onto the taut curve of his bottom.
Jerome lets out a wail and struggles again, panting in desperation. I tilt the candle again, spilling wax onto his inner thigh. His scream is stifled by silk; his body trembles and his hands curl into helpless fists. I am pleased again.
The wax is not hot enough to permanently disfigure his creamy flesh, but anticipation combined with not knowing where the liquid will sting him next magnifies the intensity of his fear and pain. I make elaborate patterns upon his body, in harmony with the words inscribed there. Each splash of hot wax elicits a cry. Every word of ownership bears a waxen seal of the most refined cruelty; poetry is blotted out by spilled liquid and his pain and fear.
After a time -- short, though it must seem endless to my captive -- I take the jade phallus and brush it over his bound mouth. "I will ungag you, but you must peform adequately." With my free hand I explore his sleek, decorated body, pinching his nipples, testing his still-hard, trapped sex. He moans and squirms; a sob escapes him. He is more pliant now than when he was drugged.
Gently, I untie the gag and pull the wet ball of silk from his mouth, listening to his sobbing breaths. I place the material upon his back; it will be needed again shortly. His submission, his fear is exquisite, but it does not last long. With freedom of speech, I feel him regaining his confidence, his presumption. "Yachi-san --" he begins.
Before he can say another word, I thrust the phallus deeply into his mouth. He makes a choking noise; his eyes flare in panic. I withdraw the phallus slightly, then begin a slow, languorous motion, in and out of his mouth. Presently I remove the phallus and stand in front of him, pushing my sex into his mouth. Jerome complies eagerly, making small whimpering noises in his determination to please.
At last, I am ready. I extricate myself and settle the phallus in one of his bound hands. Jerome looks at me, puzzled, his expression wounded. Without speaking to him, I take up the wet wad of silk and catch hold of his hair.
"No! No! Please --" His protests are smothered as I shove the wad deep inside his mouth and once more bind the white silk over it. I take the phallus and coat it with the sweet almond oil, then move around to where Jerome is spread apart, his bottom elevated, the vulnerable opening exposed to me.
I take my sex in one hand, and with the other, drive the phallus brutally inside Jerome's bound body. He freezes, then arches in pain, wailing behind the gag. I thrust over and over, the muscles of both arms tensing with the strain. I feel his resistance, his anger and hurt, and as I force the jade deeply inside one last time, I see his body shiver and stiffen as the stone pushes against his prostate. He tosses his head, moaning, and I allow myself to climax, the white liquid bursting out of me, wetting the backs of his calligraphed thighs.
After a few moments have elapsed, I collect myself and carefully remove the solid phallus from his shivering body. I get a blade, slicing the ropes and freeing him. I guide him to the bed, helping him onto it, and remove the gag from his mouth. With a warm, wet cloth, I clean him, back and front. I take his chin in my hand and kiss him, tasting the salt of his tears.
"Yachi-san," he whispers, "what have I done? Why would you --"
I silence him with another kiss and cradle him close.
"I love you, Yachi-san. Don't you understand that? I'm yours, I always have been."
Perhaps I was wrong about him; perhaps he has learned the lesson after all.
End.
Author: Alex
Fandom: The Pillow Book
Pairing: Jerome/Publisher
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Bondage, breath control, cruelty, noncon.
Disclaimer: Peter Greenaway, Channel Four Films.
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: to kimberlite, for support, MAJOR inspiration, and beta.
Sequel to Miseshime.
**********
I have been accused of many wrongs during the span of my life. Many of the denunciations have been true. I have never been accused of not completing what I have begun, though, a matter of some pride to me. I am nothing if not thorough.
The urge, therefore, to continue Jerome's education is a very tempting and powerful one. It is perhaps not the wisest of decisions. It would be easier to abandon him, to leave him to that petulant, childish woman who has captivated his fancy. This in itself is no surprise; Jerome is petulant and childish as well. In many ways they are ideally suited.
There is an undertow in the stream of my pride. I am not ready to give him up altogether, and I am used to, indeed, enjoying, the dangerous game we three -- publisher, vengeful writer, and blank scroll -- play. Of us all, Jerome is the most vulnerable, the most expendable. He is only a body after all, despite his accomplishments; a beautiful, pliant body, to be sure, but even the most ornamental tablet is easily discarded in favor of newer, creamier paper.
He seduces, playing both ends against the middle, each of us against the other in wanton displays of painted skin. He is not so clever as he imagines.
I have given him a suggestion: let the woman inscribe him with words of possession, in as many languages as pleases her, and let him come from her to me so inscribed. He laughed when I proposed it; the notion appealed to his sense of vanity. It delighted him to allow her to think it was his idea. Translator that he is, he has so little imagination of his own.
It is an exciting image -- the brush, heavily soaked with ink, hovering above the sleekness of his pale skin. The flesh my text, the text his flesh. I shall inscribe my own lexicon of possession onto that fine paper. I have only been cruel to him once; he has forgotten the taste of claiming. I am determined that he will know it this night.
He stands before me in clothes I purchased for him -- a pale, exquisitely cut suit that sets off the glow of his skin. His hair falls to his collar, swinging against his smooth cheek. Its color is glorious -- russet streaked with gold, the hues of an autumn sunset.
He smiles at me with easy affection, with arrogance; he is far too sure of himself, of the power of his youth and beauty. I feel mingled regret and anticipation; he is the proverbial tabula rasa, ignoring the lessons I have endeavored to teach him. If there is frustration at the lack of growth or progression by such a creature, it is slightly compensated by the pleasure of imparting such lessons as if each were bestowed for the first time.
I instruct him to remove his clothes. He obeys without question, but moves with deliberate leisure, dawdling over each mother-of-pearl button with the alluring smile of an expensive prostitute. I sit impassively and wait; my patience is infinite, and it is pleasurable to watch him.
At last he is naked but for the calligraphy that covers his body. I stand and approach him to read what she has written. Instinct or happenstance has propelled him beneath one of the hanging lamps; he smiles and stretches languidly as I move him this way and that to better decipher the inscriptions.
The title of the text decorates his collarbone like a jeweled necklace: The Book of Possession.
Black, red, gold; she has inscribed words, phrases, odes of proprietorship upon him. Some of the discourse is of her own devising, as in the writing upon his chest:
Woe betide the fool
Who accepts a body gifted wholly to another.
For the willfully enslaved soul
Will almost certainly awaken to its plight
And flee, leaving the owner
Bereft.
Of whom, I wonder, does she speak? Herself? Or me? There will be time to ponder the meaning later. I continue my examination. In places -- scrawled across a shoulder, trailing from elbow to wrist, encircling one rosy nipple -- she has merely written single words in varying languages -- French, Welsh, Russian, Greek.
Dominion. Chattel. Prize. Enthrallment. Captive.
In others, she has written poetry. Inked in kanji across his back is a rebuke in the words of Akazome Emon:
It would have been better that I slept
the whole night through
without waiting for him,
than to have watched
until the setting of the moon.
I hide my smile. How well she knows her straying lover. Scrawled in a column down the back of Jerome's right thigh, in spidery English penmanship, is a verse by John Donne:
So must pure lovers soules descend
T'affections, and to faculties,
That sense may reach and apprehend,
Else a great Prince in prison lies.
Apt again; for Jerome there is no spiritual elevation save that which he gleans from physical pleasures. He is and ever will be a creature of the flesh.
I crouch before him to examine his scrotum, his sex, and am surprised; they have been left determinedly unpainted, and now I do smile at the woman's anger, her jealousy, her lack of subtlety. There is an amusing yet refreshing transparency in the young; they have not yet learned to dissemble with grace and skill.
Neither of us speaks of her. Instead, I urge him into the room nearest the garden, where tea has been prepared, and kneel on the tatami tea mat. Jerome sinks to his knees. The lighting in this room is soft, warm, diffused by cream-colored paper; it casts a glow upon his complexion, burnishing it to pale gold.
I am clothed; Jerome is naked. Like a sleek animal, he is scarcely aware of the difference between us, the gap that divides owner from object. Fleetingly, I wish the room were colder, so that he might experience some infinitesimal discomfort and remark upon the contrast.
Jerome has learned the rituals of tea ceremony. His manners are graceful and almost perfect, watching politely as I whisk the bitter green tea to a thin froth. He compliments me on the flower arrangement in the wall niche, on the beauty of the blue-glazed tea service. I hand him the finished bowl of tea, and he bows, his hair falling forward. "I will partake of your tea, Yachi-san."
I incline my head and watch him drink.
He takes a sip. "It is marvelous, Yachi-san." I have taken care to order his favorite, but this evening I have infused the tea with another ingredient, an herb that will render him pliant. It is not at all certain that he will be receptive to the ropes that will bind his body. I have not attempted to bind him since that first lesson; the memory of the restraint and humiliation may still be fresh, though the lesson was unlearned.
We talk of inconsequential things. As he continues to drink, his guard drops, though I am unsure whether that is due to the drug, or merely to his supreme confidence in his own charms. "Nagiko did not number this book -- did you notice that?"
I had indeed observed that. "I did," I reply.
"I suspect she realized it was not for transcribing."
"Perhaps." The woman is a fool. This book may prove more worthy of transcription than any other.
Jerome smiles. "You have made her jealous, Yachi-san. She was angry with me when I left."
"She has no reason to be jealous."
Jerome's smile dims slightly, becoming uncertain. He finishes his tea in silence and returns the bowl to me. His eyes are slightly unfocused. The drug is mild and short-lived; I have perhaps twenty minutes before he is restored to full awareness.
I rise to my feet and offer him a hand. He stands, looking a little shocked as his movements are slightly uncoordinated. "Yachi-san," he laughs, "I'm hungry, I think. Were you planning to starve me tonight?"
"Not at all. Come with me." I lead him to my bedroom and settle him upon the bed. I open a chest and remove a ebony box inlaid with ash. Taking the box to the bed, I sit, placing it between us. "Open it."
Jerome's eyes are alight with anticipatory pleasure. He opens the box and stares in astonishment at the object inside, a large phallus of carved jade. "Yachi-san, you never fail to surprise me."
I lift the phallus into my hand, admiring its weight and proportions. Its length and girth is considerably more than an average man's sex, twice as large as my own. "Take it in your mouth."
Jerome obeys at once. His lips and tongue caress the phallus lingeringly. He closes his mouth over its tip and suckles gently, leaving the jade wet and glistening. His movements become rhythmic; his neck is a slender stem, his bright hair like flower petals. The calligraphy on his body undulates sensuously as he applies himself more thoroughly to his task.
I gently remove the jade from his mouth and undo the simple belt to my kimono. I sprawl upon the bed, placing the phallus next to my own hard sex. Understanding, Jerome lavishes his attentions on both, licking and sucking with astounding skill. I permit this for several more moments, nearly losing myself in the wet depths of his mouth.
At last I rise and push him back upon the bed. He lies there, legs apart, his sex hard and flushed with arousal. His eyes are half-closed; the tip of his tongue slides out, wetting the inner rim of his lips. He curls a hand around his sex and strokes it. "What are you doing now, Yachi-san?"
"You shall see." From the chest I take a jar of sweet almond oil, two silk scarves, a candle of creamy yellow beeswax, a flint, and two lengths of beaten linen rope -- one short, one long. Swiftly, before he can react, I wrap the short length around his scrotum and sex, binding them tightly. To assuage any fears, I bend down and draw my tongue up the length of his shaft, prompting a soft moan. Gently, I apply some almond oil, rubbing it up and down his sex. I rub the oil into his nipples, tightening my fingers upon them until he gasps. I massage them lightly with my palms, reveling in their hard texture, their dark rose hue.
Jerome twists and writhes on the bed, utterly malleable in my hands. "Don't stop, Yachi-san. Please don't stop." He groans when my hands and mouth cease their ministrations and I rise to pull him to his feet. He is strong, nearly pulling me down beside him. "No -- don't make me get up."
I smile to assure him of my good intentions and exert more force. Obligingly, he rises, stifling a grunt of pain as his bound scrotum rubs against the sheets. The long length of rope coiled innocuously in my hand, I lead him to a large object draped in dark cloth and unveil it like a painting.
It is an ordinary wooden carpenter's sawhorse. Jerome stares at it, blinking, swaying slightly. I take advantage of his state and push him across it, lengthwise. He lets out an inane giggle. "Honestly, Yachi-san, there are far more comfortable --" His laughter turns into a sharp cry as I pull his arms behind his back and truss them together, high above the wristbone. "Yachi-san, no -- no!" He surges up, his mouth open in alarm.
I grasp his hair and force him down against the rough wood. "This time," I say quietly, "I do not ask your permission."
At full strength, he might have resisted with ease; drugged, he can only struggle weakly as I take the two long lengths of rope trailing from his wrists and bind his body to the frame, arranging the restraints in diamond shapes of varying sizes. Shoulders, arms, torso are rapidly secured to the horse; the linen rope is passed around his waist, lashing him inescapably to the unforgiving wood. I bind his legs to the legs of the horse in the same diamond pattern, finishing with severe knots around his ankles.
Bent over the horse, he cannot free himself. I watch him thrash against the ropes, whimpering when he realizes the extent of his helplessness. "Yachi-san, please. Please. I don't like this."
"If you struggle excessively, you will topple over," I tell him. "Don't risk injury to yourself."
The drug is beginning to wear off; I see the anger in his eyes as he whips his head around to stare at me. "Untie me now. Now! I hate this, Yachi-san!" His voice rises, becoming strident.
I collect the scarves I have taken from the chest and roll one into a ball, compressing it tightly.
Jerome attempts to look over his shoulder, but the movement disturbs his equilibrium and he rests his head on the horse, panting raggedly. "Yachi-san, I'm telling you --" He catches sight of the scarf. "Oh, no -- no. I'll be quiet. I couldn't breathe with that in my mouth before, Yachi-san. Please, don't gag me. I'll be --"
"Silence," I admonish him, pushing the ball of silk into his mouth. He mewls in panic and tries to spit it out, but I hold his head still with one hand clenched in his hair, keeping the silk in his mouth with two fingers until his struggles lessen. I tie the other scarf, pure white silk, over his mouth and nose, obscuring the lower half of his face. Crouching down to look into his lovely, transparent eyes, I brush back a waving lock of auburn hair. "If you breathe slowly, deliberately, the sense of suffocation will lessen." I pet and stroke him as I would a nervous horse, murmuring to him until his breathing calms and he closes his eyes in resignation.
I stand and walk around his bound body, admiring it from every angle. His body is presented to me like a feast, an offering; I examine it minutely, tracing my fingertips over the calligraphed letters and characters on his skin. I read the poetry aloud, pronounce the exotic words of possession, letting the foreign resonance linger upon my tongue.
Jerome offers no resistance; he rests his cheek upon the harsh wood of the sawhorse, his eyes closed. His hands drape limply over the small of his back; I see in this a measure of victory. A defiant captive would clench his hands. Perhaps he is learning something after all.
For no reason, this minute detail irritates me. I take the candle and light it directly before Jerome's face. His curiosity gets the better of him; he opens his eyes and regards the candle's tiny flame with hypnotized fascination before he realizes its purpose. His eyes widen, and he emits muffled pleas beneath the swaddling silk. He attempts to struggle again, surging to no avail against the punishingly tight ropes.
I stand still, holding the candle at a slight angle, letting it drip onto the crumpled cloth on the floor. When Jerome's efforts have exhausted him, I move along his body and tilt the candle, letting the hot wax splash onto the taut curve of his bottom.
Jerome lets out a wail and struggles again, panting in desperation. I tilt the candle again, spilling wax onto his inner thigh. His scream is stifled by silk; his body trembles and his hands curl into helpless fists. I am pleased again.
The wax is not hot enough to permanently disfigure his creamy flesh, but anticipation combined with not knowing where the liquid will sting him next magnifies the intensity of his fear and pain. I make elaborate patterns upon his body, in harmony with the words inscribed there. Each splash of hot wax elicits a cry. Every word of ownership bears a waxen seal of the most refined cruelty; poetry is blotted out by spilled liquid and his pain and fear.
After a time -- short, though it must seem endless to my captive -- I take the jade phallus and brush it over his bound mouth. "I will ungag you, but you must peform adequately." With my free hand I explore his sleek, decorated body, pinching his nipples, testing his still-hard, trapped sex. He moans and squirms; a sob escapes him. He is more pliant now than when he was drugged.
Gently, I untie the gag and pull the wet ball of silk from his mouth, listening to his sobbing breaths. I place the material upon his back; it will be needed again shortly. His submission, his fear is exquisite, but it does not last long. With freedom of speech, I feel him regaining his confidence, his presumption. "Yachi-san --" he begins.
Before he can say another word, I thrust the phallus deeply into his mouth. He makes a choking noise; his eyes flare in panic. I withdraw the phallus slightly, then begin a slow, languorous motion, in and out of his mouth. Presently I remove the phallus and stand in front of him, pushing my sex into his mouth. Jerome complies eagerly, making small whimpering noises in his determination to please.
At last, I am ready. I extricate myself and settle the phallus in one of his bound hands. Jerome looks at me, puzzled, his expression wounded. Without speaking to him, I take up the wet wad of silk and catch hold of his hair.
"No! No! Please --" His protests are smothered as I shove the wad deep inside his mouth and once more bind the white silk over it. I take the phallus and coat it with the sweet almond oil, then move around to where Jerome is spread apart, his bottom elevated, the vulnerable opening exposed to me.
I take my sex in one hand, and with the other, drive the phallus brutally inside Jerome's bound body. He freezes, then arches in pain, wailing behind the gag. I thrust over and over, the muscles of both arms tensing with the strain. I feel his resistance, his anger and hurt, and as I force the jade deeply inside one last time, I see his body shiver and stiffen as the stone pushes against his prostate. He tosses his head, moaning, and I allow myself to climax, the white liquid bursting out of me, wetting the backs of his calligraphed thighs.
After a few moments have elapsed, I collect myself and carefully remove the solid phallus from his shivering body. I get a blade, slicing the ropes and freeing him. I guide him to the bed, helping him onto it, and remove the gag from his mouth. With a warm, wet cloth, I clean him, back and front. I take his chin in my hand and kiss him, tasting the salt of his tears.
"Yachi-san," he whispers, "what have I done? Why would you --"
I silence him with another kiss and cradle him close.
"I love you, Yachi-san. Don't you understand that? I'm yours, I always have been."
Perhaps I was wrong about him; perhaps he has learned the lesson after all.
End.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-12-09 02:04 am (UTC)I loved the unique viewpoint of the publisher. He is a bit of a cypher in the movie.
I don't think I read the first one, Miseshime. Is there a link for the lazy among us?
no subject
Date: 2008-12-09 02:46 am (UTC)I'm glad you liked the publisher. He was a difficult character for me to write, so it pleases me that my version worked [because I agree that he was a bit of a mystery].
Here's the first one:
http://splix.livejournal.com/826791.html#cutid1
no subject
Date: 2008-12-09 03:03 am (UTC)Oh, you evil creature! :)
This was lovely, but bittersweet, because we know how it all has to eventually end.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-09 03:16 am (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed it - thanks so much. And yes, it is a bittersweet thought - poor Jerome....
sweet mother of god!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Date: 2008-12-09 04:58 pm (UTC)Re: sweet mother of god!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Date: 2008-12-09 05:00 pm (UTC)Re: sweet mother of god!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Date: 2008-12-10 01:56 am (UTC)Re: sweet mother of god!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Date: 2008-12-10 02:05 am (UTC)Re: sweet mother of god!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Date: 2008-12-10 04:34 am (UTC)you know me, always rushing!!!
i knew exactly what Miseshime was... and thought OMG, more noncon!!!
then I saw Seihon and thought oh wow, more Jerome fic... I blitzed thru my reactions and off to showering I went...
why the sudden resurrection then?? is it you want to keep your entire fic on LJ, now that you dismantled your website?? you know, you should put it all in your own community, accessible easy enough through your regular LJ and you can augment it as you wish and keep the feedback all in one place! you could call it something original like "splixfix" !! *beams*
Re: sweet mother of god!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Date: 2008-12-10 04:49 am (UTC)*slaps self*
Doc's recommendations included this non prescription item: rest!
I'm interpretiing that as reading time... :)
Re: sweet mother of god!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Date: 2008-12-10 11:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 06:53 am (UTC)So yes, you have lit a new fire beneath my bottom for me to see the bloody movie. ;-) Damn, that was nice!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 03:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 06:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-29 02:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-29 05:54 am (UTC)