seinarujunketsu 精成る純潔's pretty icon appeared to be begging for a story to go with it.
青竜 Shouryuu - Blue Dragon
In the year when he achieved his full height, Kounoe was taken from the general herd of decorative children and sold to another tea house north of the city. It was old and darkly formal and meticulously kept. It was the only place he had ever been where there was no smell of ubiquitous pickle crocks under the floors. The old wood smelled of waxes and oils and perfumes. His common short garment felt too shabby for even the kitchen yard through which he entered.
For almost an entire day he sat quietly by himself in the small room where he'd been left. At last, the door opened and the oldest person he had ever seen came in, attended respectfully by an elderly man. This personage was as small as a child, her face round and soft with velvet wrinkles. Her sober dark kimono was the finest he could imagine. He prostrated himself immediately.
"Stand up up, boy." Kounoe did not recognize her softly sibilant accents.
She gestured to her silent companion and the elderly man moved forward to quickly divest the boy of his small store of clothing. He tried not to shiver or cover himself or shy away as the old man examined his body carefully, checking each finger and toe, looking down his throat, into his ears, under his hair. Each inch of his skin was examined. The boy stood very still and looked at the floor. He noticed the old man's fingertips were stained dark as his small, shy sex was lifted and examined carefully in its turn.
Finally, the old man handed the yukata back to him and retired. When he was dressed, Kounoe quickly knelt and dared a quick expectant glance at the personage. She gave him a faint, cool smile.
"You will stay with us. You will be called Hisoka. I am Rosai."
That day was the last time Hisoka was to feel sunlight on his skin. His life after that day was lived strictly in shaded rooms or on the grounds of lantern lit gardens. His skin became pale and luminous, aided greatly by nightingale creams applied without fail by finicking aged servants. His clothes were the softest silks and linens.
He drank only pure water and the youngest teas, ate no flesh and grew reed slender. Archery by firelight made him strong. His hair was dressed and oiled and kept long and flowing as any girl's. The days passed in study and practice. He learned to sit and move and speak gracefully and modestly. He learned dance and song and how to letter fans artfully with clever spontaneous poetry. He read the classics and chanted sutras.
He regarded his image thoughtfully in a moonlit garden pond on one night like any other. Huge dark eyes ruling a sharply handsome face; the long, pale column of his neck; delicate collar bones revealed by shadowing silk collars; perfectly cascading jet hair framing the whole pretty picture. Was that truly how he looked? He felt a growing undercurrent of anticipation in those who trained and crafted him into a deliberate embodiment of Beauty. He began to wonder when he would learn his purpose, for surely such lavish investment would be put to some particular use.
One day, Rosai appeared at his afternoon dance lesson and watched as Hisoka moved through an old court piece describing the full moon of spring and the loneliness of exile. When it was done, she smiled and dismissed his teachers.
"Rosaisama." He prostrated himself, his figured robes arranging themselves as if by magic into a an artful disarray while scattering their delightful scent everywhere.
"You have done well, Hisoka. The time has come to begin your most important training. I have had your things moved to the chrysanthemum room where you will live from now on. You will meet your new teacher tonight."
That evening as promised, yet another elderly teacher appeared at his door. She was brownly sun wrinkled and cheerfully plain as a farmer and wore her sleeves tied up as though preparing for great labour. Her own aged servant deposited a large closed hamper on the floor and then bowed himself out.
She gestured, indicating he should undress. As he removed his layers of silks, she moved around the room opening small, cleverly disguised panels near the floor to reveal four stout iron rings set into the timbers of the house itself.
She mimed moving his futon into the center of the room. Hisoka realized then that she could not or would not be speaking to him. As he arranged the futon, she opened her large hamper and began removing long, perfectly white, perfectly coiled ropes, small pottery crocks and other mysterious items.
In short order, Hisoka found himself blindfolded and then firmly tied hand and foot where he lay on his futon. White silk ropes ran from each iron ring to each wrist and ankle. The ropes did not hurt at all but he felt quite odd being thus naked and spread and tied. This was surely the most unusual training method. When his silent teacher was finished tying the last solid knots around his ankles, he heard her rummaging again in the hamper.
After a moment, the smell of sweet oil filled the air. He felt a small warning touch on his hip and then suddenly two strong hands covered in oil lifted his quiescent sex and began rubbing it with unmistakable purpose. He sucked in a shocked breath and felt himself growing hard quite against his will. He must have made some small supplicating noise because the massaging hands stopped briefly; he felt a reassuring pat on his hip as if to say, yes, yes, I know... don't worry, you're doing fine. Then the strong fingers resumed their systematic stimulation of his now fully erect member.
He felt his breath coming faster, blood pumping in his ears loudly, his entire groin tightening and distending. The blindfold reduced the world to the hotly swollen limits and sensations below his waist. He found himself tugging at the ropes uselessly as his hips began to thrust of their own accord. Things were happening! It was pleasure like fire, like sunshine. It built and built and a feeling like dread visited his gut; a pressure was forming; a need, a demand for some unknown something. A sudden warm, firm massaging of his tight sack pushed the dread into howling demand and he convulsed, crying out as the raging something leapt away from him. He felt hot pulses of wetness splash his hips and thighs.
The massaging hands withdrew. Towels cleaned and dried him as his breathing slowed and his head cleared. He felt drained and langorous. The ropes withdrew. A covering was drawn up under his chin. Lastly the blindfold was removed although his eyes were now closed. He slept.
Eventually, the odd training became commonplace through repetition. Each evening he was bound by teacher. Sometimes simply, sometimes in more complex configurations requiring some muscular involvement on his part. He was always blindfolded. He was always stimulated to orgasm as soon as the ropes were in place. He was always immediately untied afterward and put to bed.
One day, however, the rhythm of these sessions was changed by a difference in his own reaction. Hisoka felt himself growing hard as soon as the ropes touched his skin, before any direct stimulation. After the ropes were tied this time, teacher did not immediately massage him to orgasm. This time, she began a slow massage of his legs and arms, ignoring his throbbing erection until he almost wept with need. When the massaging hands finally did grasp him, he spilled immediately, sobbing his relief.
After that, he became hard from the moment the blindfold descended and more and more desperate as each binding was added. Release was always delayed by various means; distracting massages of his arms, his shoulders, his back; careful braiding of his long hair; warm scented cloths laving his face and neck. Small silk ties were bound around and around his erection adding ever more impediments to achieving completion.
The nature of the bindings themselves changed as well. He was fitted for beautifully crafted silver bracelets from which finely wrought chains could be depended and joined to the iron rings in his walls. The cool slide of the metal against his skin soon became another irresistible stimulus. Anklets joined the bracelets. He wore them constantly beneath his clothing and so came to be in a constant mild state of arousal.
One day, teacher was accompanied by the elderly man with stained fingers who had first examined him when he arrived at the tea house. While teacher had him disrobe as usual, the old man unrolled a mat containing an array of small tools and pots of inks and began to arrange them next to the futon. Hisoka understood then that he was to be tattooed.
This time, teacher made him lay stomach down on the futon. The usual blindfold covered his eyes and Hisoka felt his usual reaction pressing itself urgently into the soft futon covering. Teacher tied the silken ropes to his wrists and ankles, anchoring him firmly in place. Finally, the lightest silver chains were clipped to his bracelets and trailed through his fingers for him to clasp before they too were attached to the wall brackets. When the binding was complete, teacher tugged at his waist until he raised himself up. Rolled cloth was tucked between his stomach and the bedding, lifting his hips high and exposing him completely. He shivered with growing excitement.
The artist prepared his skin, dabbed on the inks and then the first light, sharp tapping of the needles and mallets began high on his back, just beneath the nape of Hisoka's neck. He sucked in a hissing breath against the instant stinging pain. The tapping continued, soft and definite. After a bit, he sought a balance between boredom and discomfort. He knew better than to wriggle or speak.
While the tapping of the needles continued, he felt teacher's hands on his buttocks and the comforting smell of sweet oil. Familiar and well-oiled hands massaged and soothed his tense flesh until he relaxed in spite of the pain of the needles. Then a single slick finger breached his exposed opening slowly but deliberately, pushing in shallowly. Hisoka froze in surprise. The finger moved inexorably in and out against his instinctive clenching and after a moment, he relaxed again. There was a kind of slow teasing pleasure in this new internal massaging. The finger moved deeper, still pushing slowly. He felt oil being drizzled onto his cleft, its cool passage feeling very good. He groaned softly into the futon. The tapping of the needles continued.
He felt himself grow fully hard again. The moving finger moved a little faster, pushed a little deeper. The sharp sting of the needles made an interesting counterpoint to the growing heat in his belly. He clutched the fine silver chains more tightly. Another finger was added to the first and he groaned aloud at the maddening but pleasurable feeling of distention it brought. He could not move to meet the fingers as he earnestly wished. The smell of the tattoo inks melded with the scent of the sweet oil to create something rich and new, making his head swim.
Teacher pressed something against his hip to make him aware of it. What was it? It felt hard but warm; long and smooth with a flared, bulbous end. Teacher moved it over his hip until it was pressing at his opening; the two fingers retreated and the warm implement took their place smoothly, no wider than the fingers had been after the fat tip pushed its way into him. More sweet oil drizzled into his cleft. The implement moved deeper, the bulbous end rubbing and rubbing and rubbing something far inside him into a frenzy of pleasure. He moaned into the futon in time with the rhythmic advance and retreat of the implement. He wanted so to move! The relentless needles stung and the tapping, tapping, tapping filled the spaces between his soft, melodic complaints.
How long he drifted in the warm sea of langorously pleasurable pain he could not have guessed. Finally, the needles pulled away and in the next moment, the implement set up a punishing pace, reaming and attacking where it had been soothing and teasing. A warm hand loosely surrounded his weeping erection and with a cry he surrendered, pulsing wetly into the hand and releasing the hours of keening tension. Afterward, wet cloths gently cleaned his back as he soaked the blindfold with his tears.
Over the course of a moon, each night he suffered pain and pleasure in equal measure as the tattoo bloomed across his shoulders, down his spine, curved across his hips and wrapped around the upper thigh of his right leg. Each day, his inflamed flesh was rubbed with punishing but effective emulsions and creams to cure the ever growing image and prevent damage. He lay most days naked on his stomach covered in the lightest silk, dozing from warm drugged concoctions brought to him by servants hour after hour. He was allowed slow, rending stretches but no greater exertions.
The ivory implement was replaced twice, each time by a slighter larger cousin.
He yearned to see the image. He knew it was a dragon; he could sometimes feel the very articulation of its armoured scales as they swept over his skin taking possession, claiming him. He knew it was blue from the binding slash of its muscular tail across the front of his thigh.
The pain and the itching and the drugs and the inactivity and the numbing dreamlike hours of pleasure attending the birth of his new master were changing him.
When he looked into the moonlit mirror of his garden pond, the handsome features no longer looked as sharp, as challenging. He seemed a softer, more pliant version of his earlier self. His eyelids seemed heavier, more apt to drift closed. He saw the sigil of his transformation burning day and night behind those drowsy lids. A growing uneasiness, a squirming dissatisfaction, a restlessness gained purchase in his soul. There must be something beyond the horizon of crafting the blue dragon. To what end? What strictures would this new master demand?
Finally, the ink work was complete. Weary days of painful recovery and long nights of increasingly intricate and demanding shibari had left him silent and withdrawn. He was laid out full length on a long sward of moss peering down lazily at sleeping goldfish the night Rosai at last appeared to summon him to his purpose.
As the servant announced her, Hisoka flowed from reclining to full obeisance with such unconscious grace and art Rosai all but laughed aloud with joy at the perfection of her creation. He was her greatest work, the culmination of much agony and worry on all their parts. She dropped down onto the moss shelf and raised him by the shoulders to sit knee to knee with her.
"Ittou has a bath ready for you. Go and let them prepare you. Tonight we reap the reward of hard work."
She did smile then into his sleepy eyed surprise. "Rosaisama! What am I to do then?"
"Simply be what you have been made to be, Shouryuu." He smiled a small satisfied smile at his new name and rose with her.
The stars were growing pale when Rosai's most honoured and patient guest was led through the fragrant and tastefully appointed rooms to the hall of cedar pillars. His delighted eyes flew to the lithe pale figure of a perfect boy affixed to the greatest pillar of the hall. Richly figured silk draperies pooled to the floor from their tenuous seat on his slender hips. As the sleepy-eyed beauty twisted slightly in his silver chains toward the guest, the golden claws of the sinuous blue dragon clutching him seemed to draw that much tighter. A cloud of satin hair obscured the honoured guest's further view of the angelic profile.
A low, breathy voice murmured "Heika!". The shoji were discreetly drawn.
Owari --- tM
Kounoe -- seventh in order, i.e. seventh boy
Rosai -- old woman
Hisoka -- secret, hidden away
shibari -- art of Japanese rope bondage
Shouryuu -- blue dragon
Heika -- Your Majesty