From: duster_15@hotmail.com (D.G. Ross)
Subject: STORY: Lord Kinzuburo's Gift (M/b Bond Con)
Date: Sat, 07 Feb 1998 06:35:27 GMT
Approved: moderated.stories@bigfoot.com
Keywords: Xmb Xbond Xcon

This tale is a fiction, intended solely for the enjoyment of responsible
adult readers. It is copyrighted by its author and may not altered in
any way. It may, however, be archived in its present form and with
proper credit to the author.

Lord Kinzuburo's Gift

by  D.G. Ross

Buto-san the Poet finished his dish of rice and fish and set it on the
mat beneath his stool, his eyes on the boy who squatted before him and
finished his own bowl of food. Not since his poem on the old emperor's
birthday had he received such a gift, and he felt warm gratitude to Lord
Kinzuburo for the delicious food as well as this more costly and
precious gift. Once more he scanned the Lord's gift-scroll, confirming
his good fortune yet again. Jikki was the lad's name, and the scroll
mentioned "special skills." He remembered the jovial face of Lord
Kinzuburo after the recitation of the long poem of praise and the wry
smile of the Lord as he handed Buto-san the scroll and gestured to the
boy kneeling to the left and slightly behind the rotund Lord. And now he
was alone with his gift in a small but neatly furnished guesthouse just
outside of the gates of Lord Kinzuburo's castle.

The boy noticed that Buto-san had finished his meal and put down his own
bowl. He turned so that, still squatting, he faced his new master. He
bowed so that he seemed almost to be speaking to the floor mats. "Would
my master desire me to dance for his entertainment?" Yes, Buto-san
thought, nodding assent to the boy, that might be amusing. 

The boy stood and dropped his robe into a puddle of rich cloth at his
feet. He wore only the skimpiest silken loin-cloth. His body was small
and slender, but strong, with well-defined if youthful muscles, a
broadening chest, and a narrow, muscular waist. The boy knelt and opened
the gold and silver brocaded sling-bag he had brought with him from the
castle. He took from it several onyx jars, their carved lids held in
place with embroidered leather straps. Opening one, he took some of the
contents and began to smear it onto his body. He rubbed the scented oil
into his chest, shoulders, arms, belly, and legs until he glistened and
shone in the dim light of the guesthouse. And then he began to dance for
Buto-san, the scent of jasmine filling the warm room.

Not since Madam Yonawa's house of delight on the river bank at Tanada
had he enjoyed the performance of an oiled dancer, and that one had been
an athletic girl from the northern provinces. Later, in his room, the
girl had furthered his esthetic appreciation of her athletic abilities.
Perhaps it was the plum wine, but Buto-san was surprised at how pleasant
he thought the boy's body seemed to him as the lad turned and flexed
before him. Yes, it must be the wine, he thought, as he felt familiar
warm stirrings in his loins. The glassy-smooth body of the boy moved
before him in the light of the oil lamps, glinting and shimmering with
the sweet-smelling oil that covered him, his fine hard muscles lovely in
their strenuous play beneath his smooth honey-brown skin. Yes, Buto-san
thought with warm satisfaction, what a fine gift the lord had favored
him with. The man's warmth was more than mere satisfaction at his good
fortune, and a drop of sweat began to make its way down his cheek.

At exactly that moment the boy loosed the silk around his waist and,
standing on tiptoe and with arms extended over his head, allowed the
cloth to fall to the floor.  Buto-san saw at once that the boy's member
stood stiffly erect, pointing at the beams of the ceiling. How rude and
improper, Buto-san thought, but then found the sight strangely
interesting. The boy's member was a thumb-and-a-half of taut flesh, with
a generous cap like the full, ripe plums of Fu-ki. His small eggs were
tucked beneath his shaft. The boy knelt before his new master and threw
himself back so that his shoulders were on the floor-mat. He spread his
knees and then rubbed his glistening hard-ridged belly with one hand and
passed the slippery hand over the pulsing shaft that pointed toward the
wall behind him. Buto-san could not help the sudden thrill of pleasure
that ran through him when the boy slowly, slowly drew his clenched and
oiled fist up along the shaft of his small pleasure-wand. It was most
unseemly that a boy would do this obscene thing before a grown man, not
to mention a man of his stature, but Buto-san did not rebuke or attempt
to stop him. He was entranced by what he was watching. Without bidding,
a poem came up to the surface of his mind, like a fish in a moonlit
pond. 

                        The bedboy glistens
                        under the moon.
                        Is it oil, or sweat?

And now the boy stood before him, then knelt once more, and his hands
were gently undoing Buto-san's dining robe. He did not resist, and
suddenly the man felt the warm evening air on his private parts and he
knew that the boy had seen his arousal. He felt both shamed and
exhiliarated, but all thoughts of any kind vanished instantly when he
felt the small, warm, oiled hand of the lad on his shaft. A slow,
gentle, deferential pull from the base to just below the tightening plum
brought a sigh of pleasure and lust from the man, and a smile to the
face of the boy who knelt before him.

And then the lad was up and scurrying about the room. From a corner he
dragged a curious apparatus. A long upright board of polished and carved
teak supported a low bench-like appendage, on either side of which
extended moveable shelf-like supports. It looked more like a musical
instrument of some sort than a chair, but the lad extended his hands to
Buto-san and gestured that he was to sit in the thing. In a burst of
joviality, and impelled by wine and lustful curiosity, he allowed the
boy to pull him to the device and sit him upon its narrow shelf. He let
the boy pull his robe away completely until Buto-san was as naked as he
would have been for the bath.

Soft leather straps of red and green, decorated with silk embroidery,
hung from the strange chair. From behind him Buto-san felt the boy's
small hands on his wrists, pulling them behind him. At first he reacted
with resistance, but the boy's gentle, placating tugs seemed so playful
that he felt churlish not to play along with this new game. Soon his
wrists were crossed and tied securely, high up on his back and behind
the teak upright. The leather strap was then affixed to an ornate knob
on the back of the chair. Then the boy lifted his ankles and tied them
to the back of the shelf-like supports. They were also tied high, his
shins now parralel to the floor. Once he was securely affixed to the
chair device the boy again kneeled before him. He reached out and pushed
at the shelves and they seperated, dragging Buto-san's knees apart until
he was widley displayed for the boy's inspection. He could look down and
see that his testicles and now half-hard member had no support
whatsoever and hung completely accesible between his widely spread
thighs. He pulled against the straps and quickly realized that he was
completely helpless: the lad's knot-skill was surely at the very highest
level.

"A good joke, lad! Now release me!" he ordered. But the boy did not move
and did not respond. "Did you hear me! Do you need a taste of the whip,
you rascal?" But still no answer from his captor. Yes, he suddenly
thought, I am this child's prisoner! How ridiculous and unseemly!

And then he saw the boy's hand dip into the second onyx jar and felt the
hot-cold slickness of his small hand on his member again. It responded
instantly to the pleasant touch and hardened quickly in only a few
skilful strokes.  He could smell cinnamon and vanilla . Another trip to
the brocaded bag produced another soft leather strap, this one
reinforced with bamboo strips from which dangled a do-nori-ka knot. In a
few more seconds the strap was tightly fastened around the base of his
manly gear and when the boy pulled the do-nori-ka knot the tightness of
the strap caused his member to surge up even harder than before. He
gasped involuntarily at the sudden rinse of pleasure that washed over
him like an unexpected wave. Now the boy's slow strokes along his
tightened shaft were like fingers rubbing a drum-head.  The boy skipped
behind him and tuned the ornate knob, drawing his wrists up even
further. Then a turn or two on similar knobs drew his ankles up higher
as well. The tension was, strangely, not unpleasant, and seemed to match
the intense feeling in his groin.

He felt the boy behind him, reaching around the teak upright and
stroking his shoulders and chest. "What are you doing?" he stammered.
"What is happening! Tell me! What will do with me?" He felt the boy's
fingers in his hair, pulling his head back until their cheeks touched.
And then the boy's lips found his and kissed him deeply and wetly and he
felt the lad's small tongue probe into him. Kissing was extremely
daring, almost painfully personal, even violative, but Buto-san could
not resist the stabbing of quick hot pleasure that the illicit contact
gave him, even against his will. His member surged once again against
its imprisonment. Now the boy's lips were on their way to his ear, his
hands still moving on his chest. The boy's slippery chest was against
his bound hands and his hard thigh pressed against his ribs. Then he
felt the boy's lips against his ear and heard him whisper but a single
word.

"Torture!"

 There was a long pause before he continued, his sweet breath carressing
the bound man's cheek. "My master...my old master...has ordered that I
torture you. In ways that I am expert in. Exquisite torment! You will
see!" 

Buto-san felt both fear and something else, something strange and new.
Something he could not define. Another fragment slipped unbidden into
his mind.

                        The slave captures his master.
                        O, strange night!
                        Night of agony and smiles!


LORD KINZUBURO'S GIFT : Part 2

By D. G. Ross

The whispered word sent a thrill of fear through Buto-san. Torture! The
word itself was a blunt weapon against his confused senses. Would he?
This boy? This child? Would he do such a thing? He pulled at the soft
leather that held his wrists taut behind his back, and at the straps
that bound his ankles to the chair-rack to which he had been affixed.
They were as unyielding and obdurate as the smiling, handsome face of
the boy who watched him for his reaction to what was happening to him.

"But why?" he asked. "Why would you... torture... me?"

"The Lord wishes it," was the boy's shrugged answer. And then he added,
with his warmest and sweetest smile, "And I wish it, too!" Buto-san's
heart sank. He was helpless. Whatever this imp choose to do to him, he
could. There was nothing he could do to stop it. As if reading his mind,
the lad spoke again.

"If you promise to do what I say, you can avoid the torture."

Buto-san leapt through the suddenly opened door, "What would you have me
do?"

"You must swear that if I free you, without torture, you will write a
poem about Lord Kinzuburo."

"But... I have done that already. A fine poem. You heard... tonight..."
Buto-san stammered.

"No. This one will be different. In this one the Lord will not be a
hero, but a stunted and ugly toad. Will you write this poem for me?" the
boy cocked his pretty head, waiting for the poet's answer. Alas, the
door had not opened into the light, but upon a foul chamber, a place of
death and even worse.

"No. I cannot. I will not. No!" Buto-san answered. The boy came close to
him, ran his small finger down along Buto-san's chest, now steadily
slickening with sweat.

"Then... Then, I shall torture you until you agree to do what I say!"
and the boy returned to his brocaded bag and brought back a handful of
objects and spread them out as if for Buto-san's inspection. Before the
poet could ask about the objects the boy squatted once again between the
man's legs and began to run a single finger up and down the shaft of the
man's confined member. The unexpected touch sent hot splinters of
pleasure through the man's bound body and his shaft swelled in its
prison of bamboo and leather.  The boy shifted himself so thathe could
cradle the man's hanging stones with one hand while he took the shaft in
the other and stroked and squeezed it with careful, oiled fingers. With
the fingers of his other hand he lightly and delicately carressed the
man's testicles. Despite himself, Buto-san let out a hiss and sigh of
pleasure and looked down in time to see the boy's grin of satisfaction.
He resolved to try not to react to the boy's ministrations, not to give
him that satisfaction of control over him which he seemed to enjoy so
much. But it was a terrible struggle: the boy's hands were skilful and
cruelly patient and Buto-san had never felt such unrelentingly intense
pleasure before. Jikki shifted his strokes from the shaft to his
prisoner's swollen acorn, taking it in his small hand like a ripe fruit
and squeezing and turning it as if meaning to wring from it its juice.
In spite of the confinement of the device strapped to his member,
Buto-san felt the rising of his seed and knew that in a matter of
seconds, strap or no, his steaming essence would spurt forth onto his
captor's chest and he would have the relief he craved as nothing he had
ever craved before. 

Without taking his proobing eyes from his captive's pleasure-contorted
face, the boy stopped tickling his stones and placed a single finger
behind them, feeling for the little bulge and the tremor it sent forth
just before the release of a man's creamy pearls. Feeling the delicate
tremble, the boy quickly took his hands away from the sufferer and
squatted on the floor with his hands on his shining thighs, watching the
man's reaction to the sudden withdrawal of delight.

The sudden absence of stimulation was maddening to Buto-san and he
pulled violently at the straps that put him at the mercy of such
fiendish cruelty. He wanted to beg the boy to give him the release that
he needed so badly, that his imprisoned body cried out for. But he knew
that to do so would dishonor him. And he also knew that the boy would do
nothing for him until he relented, until he had broken under the boy's
tormenting hands. He would not break. He could not. No matter how badly
he wanted what the boy could give him, he would not dishonor himself by
agreeing to the conditions the lad had set. And then his thoughts were
broken by the boy's voice.

"Swear to write the poem and I will give you what you want, and more--
so much more," he said the sweetness of his smile a taunting mockery to
the helpless man.

"No!" Buto-san said. "Never! I will never betray my patron!" Buto-san
answered, hoping that his desperate lust for what the boy promised was
not too evident. But he could not help thinking how easy it would be to
say that he agreed to the boy's terms and thereby receive the final
bursting pleasure he wanted so badly and then to repudiate the oath and
have the boy, his torturer, at his mercy for a just and lengthy
revenge.  He could even imagine the boy's thin wrists in his hands as he
bound them with the very thongs that he used on him. Oh, sweet and
delicious! But no, he could not. His honor would not allow him to use
such a churlish and repugnant subterfuge. He must endure, no matter
what. 

"Then," the boy said "it must be the torture!" He opened a small roll of
silk and took from it a short, bright candle about the size of his own
member. The boy lit the candle from a small oil lamp on the floor next
to the chair-rack to which Buto-san was strapped. He held the guttering
candle out towards the helpless man. "Speak!" he commanded. "Swear to
write the poem!"

"Never!" said Buto-san, trying to put more conviction into his voice
than he really felt. The first drop of wax fell onto his inner thigh and
the sudden stab of pain was sharp but not unendurable. The second fell
on the other thigh. The boy moved the candle slowly so that it hovered
over the man's throbbing member, held throbbingly upright by the tightly
knotted harness. The boy looked into Buto-san's eyes, that taunting
smile playing along his lips.

"Talk!" he commanded. "Say you will do it!" Buto-san said nothing, but
shook his head from side to side and closed his eyes against what he
knew what was going to happen. The first drops of wax took him low on
the taut shaft and the pain was quick and deep but soon over as the
fallen wax cooled. Slowly the boy worked the tiny waterfall of rosey
droplets up along the oily shaft until a drip took him just below the
acorn. There was a long pause during which the man sucked in his breath
and waited breathlessly and then a cascade of three or four molten
globules fell onto his glans. The pain was once again quick and much
sharper and he tensed and pulled with all his strength against the
embroidered straps that held him prisoner. Now the boy had taken his
member in his hand and stretched open the little mouth at its tip,
bringing the candle closer and closer as he watched his captive's
sweating face.

"WIll you talk?" he asked again. Again Buto-san shook his head, more
slowly this time, and waited for the boiling agony he knew would come.
But it did not. He opened his tightly clenched eyes to see the boy blow
out the candle and set it aside. And then the boy was kneeling before
him and loosening the leather and bamboo harness. He could feel the
special knot releasing him, the tightness of his straining member
lessening slightly. He let out an audible sigh of relief. It was over!
He had withstood the boy's torments! He felt elation. 

"And now you will release me?" he asked the boy, in as commanding an
interrogatory tone as he could master. But his hopes were dashed as
swiftly as they had flooded over him.

"Oh, no!" said the imp. "You rest a bit, then we will have more fun!"
The boy left the room and Buto-san found himself alone with his confused
thoughts. His member was slowly and reluctantly subsiding and his stones
ached from having had no release. Some of his fear at the sound of the
word torture had receded. He was now reasonably certain that there would
be no red-hot irons or tearing pincers or roughly extracted toenails.
But the items spread out on the floor gave token of new and unknown
torments from this skilled lad. Into his mind came the memory of the
dread lord of the old eastern province. Poems had been written about his
legendary cruelty, and about his torturers: twin boys of about eleven
summers whose cruelty and the pleasure they took in it brought terror to
the lord's subjects. Public punishments were thus doubly effective, as
the poor prisoner not only had to endure a lengthy succession of
steadily more daunting tortures, but had to recieve them from mere
children in the sight of anyone who cared to witness the spectacle. It
was even rumored that when the boys had grown beyond being amusing to
their cruel lord, he had them confined in his deepest dungeons and gave
them for pleasure and practice to their successors, three young girls
whose perverse talents he sought to groom and nurture. But Buto-san did
not know if any of this were true. What he did know was how often the
minds of young ones could be turned by the strange pleasures of having
someone helpless and in their power. He remembered the games of his
youth, loud and boisterous war-games in which captured boy-soldiers
could expect special and prolonged attentions from their jeering
captors.

Still, as a poet and a collector of experience and sensation, he had to
admit that this ordeal, though unbidden and unwelcome, would give him
food for thought in times to come.  Also, and he found this hard to
admit and even harder to put into words that made sense to him, he felt
a curious pleasure in what was happening. So far he had not dishonored
himself, not placed himself in danger of Lord Kinzuburo's formidable
anger, and what the boy had done to him up to now had not been beyond
his ability to withstand. The position into which he been bound was
tautly uncomfortable and demeaning, but there was something about it
that made it... interesting. He could not think of a better word for it.
But his poet's sensibility told him that he must find a better word:
"interesting" was so insufficient and even evasive. This was something
that required thought. Certainly what the boy had done to his member
with his hands was "interesting"! The combination of being helplessly
bound, having his weapon strapped up as it had been, the warm, scented
oil, and the incredible skill of the boy's careful hands had given him
more pleasure--even if unfulfilled--than he could ever remember feeling
before. Not even the massage-girls of Tagano had given him such
feelings. 

Did he hear soft voices outside the room, the rustle of sandals on the
mats of the porch that surrounded the little house? Before he could be
sure of what he had heard the sliding door opened and the boy, still
naked and glistening, returned to the room. He moved swiftly across the
room and stood before his prisoner, hands on his hips in a caricature of
an adult pose of authority. 

"You have had time to reconsider. Will you write the poem, or will you
make me give you more torture?" 

For some reason that he did not completely understand, Buto-san answered
his captor not with a shake of the head or a curt denial. The words
tumbled out of his lips almost before he knew he was going to say them.
"More torture," he said, and immediately felt ridiculous before the
sudden smile of the boy whose helpless prisoner he was. 

The boy produced a cluster of objects from the selection fanned out
before the chair-rack. Two or three slender bamboo rods the size of
eating-sticks, bound at their ends with withes of pale green reed. A
handful of small circlet-clips whose jaws were made of fire-hardened
willow wood with tiny internal springs of boiled bamboo. Placing his
selections on the floor between Buto-san's widely spread thighs, the boy
inched forward until he knelt between the man's legs. He reached forward
and took the man's penis between the finger and thumb of one hand,
pinching and twisting slightly. The man felt the tingle of
pleasure-beginnings, but closed his eyes and tried to think of something
else, anything that would distract him and prevent the boy from having
his way with his member once again. The Go-mi-ra epic poem: difficult
and long--that was it. He began to recite it under his breath. The boy's
fingers continued with their work and then Buto-san felt something warm
and wet on his chest. He opened his eyes and looked down to see that the
boy was softly licking his right nipple! The strange tingle that this
caused seemed to fall swiftly into his groin, joining the boy's working
fingers there and threatened to expunge the Go-mi-ra from his struggling
mind. And then the boy's small white teeth were taking the stiffening
nipple between them and biting down, so softly, so gently. Nibbling,
pulling, and sucking, the boy soon had the flesh-bud rigid and taut and
with a quick movement he scooped up one of the doubled bamboo rods,
spread it apart in the middle and let it clamp down onto the seduced
nipple. The pain was sudden and sharp and also fell at once down toward
his loins in a cascade of sensation. The boy turned to the other nipple,
abandoning his finger work on the man's shaft. In a few moments another
of the bamboo pairs was affixed to the left nipple, that had similarily
betrayed him under the boy's wet and clever mouth. 

The lad squatted and watched the man's face as he struggled with the
sensations emanating from his chest and loins. The poem began to fade
from the captive's mind. The boy next took up a few of the little
circlet-clips and began to apply them, one by one, to the loose skin
along the front of the man's not-quite-so flaccid shaft. He held the
member up with one delicate hand while with the other he clipped one of
the little pincers at a time in a line up along the shaft. Buto-san felt
the sharp bite of each little jaw as the boy placed them carefully and
gently on him. The bite subsided quickly as each clip went on, but as
the boy reached the top of the shaft the feelings produced by the
bottom-most clip began to change into a dull, sharp ache that slowly
grew and intensified, spreading like hot dye in still water. And so on
with each higher clip up the shaft. The man felt a quick rush of
something akin to panic when he realized that the pain from his chest
and his shaft was not causing his member to shrink away as might be
expected, but that his unruly post was betraying him once again! 

The boy leaned back and watched the struggle with enjoyment. Slowly his
prisoner's penis swelled and rose to horizontal, pointing directly at
his chest. As it trembled and seemed to lose its upward impetus the boy
rose quickly and moved forward, his oil-slippery chest against the man's
causing a sudden twinge from the stick-clamps on his nipples. He took
the man's head in his hands and leaned forward, kissing him wetly on his
surprised lips and thrusting his small tongue deeply into the man's
gasping mouth. There was nothing he could do, the helpless poet felt the
epic slip away from him into nothingness and his member surge up into
throbbing fullness, tightening and tensing like a ripe-to-burst fruit.
Quickly and triumphantly the boy broke away from the kiss and refastened
the bamboo and leather device and once again Buto-san's traitorous spear
was captured and pinioned for more of the boy's torture-work. The man
sighed in resignation and sagged back against the upright of the chair
of torment.

After a few more minutes, during which the aching of the prisoner's
member became an unremitting affliction, the boy carefully passed a
silken thread through the center of each of the cliplets that pinched
his captive's shaft until they were all fastened together like the beads
of a necklace. He then took a tiny ladle and dipped it into one of his
jars of oil, under which he had placed a small oil lamp. He poured the
ladle of very warm oil over the man's shaft, dropping the oil onto his
helemt and letting it run down copiously until it flowed over his eggs
and dropped onto the floor. The sensation of the warm oil poured over
his penis caused the man to once again tighten himself against his
bonds. The boy put down the tiny basswood ladle and took the end of the
silken cord where it emerged from the bottom clip. He tugged at the cord
and the generously lubricated clip resisted for a second and then popped
away from the man's shaft. The sudden slight pain from the clip turned
into a burning spreading sensation as blood rushed to the spot. 

"Will you talk? Will you swear to write the poem?" the boy asked again,
the cord help up in ostentatious display. Buto-san shook his head again
and felt the string going taut in the boy's hand. He braced himself and
felt clip after clip pull away in a rhythm of rippling pain followed by
a swelling tide of subtle torment which caused his member to surge even
tighter against the constraints of the confining harness. The last clip
gone, the boy dropped the cord, reached down and pulled the knot on the
harness still tighter. Then he reached down and gave the suffering man
one, two, three, four deep and hard two-handed oil-strokes from base to
head and back again. Buto-san felt his seed preparing to leap but at the
last moment the boy removed his hands and watched the man's vainly
thrusting hips, his sweet child-like smile showing how much he enjoyed
his labors. He waited a minute or two, llistening to the man's
breathing,and then reached forward again and gave him three more
delicious strokes. Buto-san felt the boy's hands on him again and could
feel both the firmly grasping fists as well as the independently flexing
fingers do their ingenious work on him. The riptide of searing
pleasure-pain brought him once again to the threshold of gushing and
once again the boy stopped just in time. Another one or two minutes of
cooling respite and again a few strong strokes, different this time
because the boy reversed his hands. Again he stopped just before the
poet was able to spew out his captive pearls. This time the boy waited
long minutes for the prisoner's tortured lust to subside. 

He picked up a cylinder of carved ivory from the floor. It was about the
circumference of two man-fingers and about two thumbs in length. Into
its hollow center the boy dropped a string of five jade beads, each bead
slightly larger than the one before, and seperated from each other by a
distance of about three inches of silken string. The last and largest
bead rested on the lip of the tube and did not enter it. He held the
filled tube up so that the bound man could see it clearly.

"The Five Priests," he said. "Will you talk now? Swear?" Again Buto-san
signalled his defiance. The boy leaned forward, anointed the carven tube
with a generous dollop of oil and then Buto-san felt the tube and the
first fat bead on its lip begin to push against his most private place.
He expected pain, but there was very little. Skilfully the boy rolled
and twisted the tube into him and the feeling--not quite pleasure, but
something close--caused his shaft to throb and pulse in its harnessed
captivity. As he worked, the boy watched his prisoner's face for
reactions and was not disappointed as Buto-san fought the sensations of
piercing, twisting pressure. And then it was done: the ivory tube was in
place. After a second, the boy deftly rotated and pulled the tube,
extracting it from the man and leaving the Five Priests deep in his
bowels. Buto-san looked down as the lad did this and saw that his own
body was as slickly varnished with sweat as the boy's was lacquered with
oil. He raised his gaze and looked into his torturer's smiling face.


LORD KINZUBURO'S GIFT : Part 3

By D. G. Ross

Now Jikki brought forth a bright red box and took from it a tiny
thimble-shaped cone of ivory, a hollow tube like the one that had
carried the Five Priests but much smaller, tiner even than the tip of
the boy's own smallest finger. He brought the device close to Buto-san's
face as if to allow his prisoner to appreciate the delicate workmanship
of the little tube. Set into the hollow was a rosette of tiny
outward-pointing spines of finely carved bamboo, apparently connected to
a little axle of thin wood that barely protruded from the back of the
tube. The boy jiggled this axle with his finger showing the man how when
this was done the little crown of minuscule spikes leapt outward
together in an expanding thorny circle. 

"This is called the Scorpion," said the boy. Buto-san was puzzled. Why
was he being shown this toy with such relish? And then the boy took his
throbbing member in one hand and brought the little tube toward its tip
with the other. The dull fear of realization rose in the man as the boy
used his tongue to put a dollop of hot spit onto, and then into, the
slit in the tip of the man's rigid shaft. Swift bright pain leapt into
him as the boy slipped the tiny tube into Buto-san's sperm-slit. The
pain quickly subsided and left in its place a sense of bursting
tightness, an insistent pressure that was constant and demanding.

After a brief moment of rest, allowing the man to feel fully and
completely the fullness of his private places, the young torturer
resumed his work. A pair of metal weights were strapped to the man's
testicles and playfully swung back and forth. Then Jikki swiftly removed
the bamboo pinching-splints from the man's nipples and almost
immediately Buto-san felt the most intense and spreading sensation
across his chest. Dipping his head he took the tip of Buto-san's penis
into his mouth, clamping his teeth gently but firmly just below the
small warrior's helmet-ridge. With his tongue he moistened his captive's
glans and then fluttered just the very tip of his tongue back and forth
across the little axle. The crown vibrated in its expansion inside the
sufferer's imprisoned shaft and before he could stop himself Buto-san
let out a sudden gasping cry and felt the straps tighten around wrists
and ankles. The boy stopped his tongue, held Buto-san's glans tightly in
his teeth and paused for perhaps a full minute. Then Jikki's tongue
slipped back and forth across the prisoner's glans and then fluttered
the axle again and the man felt the tiny thorns of bamboo do their work
once more. The combination of small pain and great pleasure was driving
the man mad with sensation. Between applications of his tongue on the
Scorpion's activating shaft, the boy lightly and playfully pulled on the
silken cord attached to the Five Priests, never more than just enough
for the man to feel the pressure and be reminded of the intruders. Each
gentle tug of the cord caused his member to swell and at the height of
its tightness Jikki's tongue would execute another few seconds of rapid
fluttering.

                        Too ripe,
                        The pomegranate bursts!

Was he mad, like so many of his colleagues, to have verses pop into his
head at such a time? He thought that if he were not already so, the
devil-boy would drive him there with his infernal skills! How long this
went on he could not say, but after what seemed a very long time the boy
ceased his wicked labors and squatted back on his haunches and looked
into his prisoner's weary and sweat-streaked face. The man's body fairly
quivered and trembled from a surfeit of impossibly strong sensations. He
was sure he could bear no more of the boy's diabolical craft.

But once again he was allowed a respite from his torment. Deftly the boy
used a pair of tiny ivory tweezers to remove the Scorpion. He felt a
sudden sharp sting and a gentle pull and it was gone. The weights were
then removed from his sagging stones, and the acursed harness loosened
around his gear. He felt exhaustion flowing over him and sagged in his
bounds, the relaxation of his muscles causing his hands to be dragged
still higher behind him. He had long ago lost awareness of the cramps in
his shoulders and thighs. And again the boy left the room without a
word.

Despite the overwhelming overload on his senses, Buto-san felt his mind
to be as clear and sharp as a mountain pool. Why was this happening to
him? Did Lord Kinzuburo actually suspect that Buto-san might be capable
of treachery, the treachery of an ungrateful poet? No poet worthy of his
noble calling would use his tremendous powers of satire and ridicule
promiscuously. Certainly he had never done such a despicable thing,
though he knew of others who had exposed former patrons to literary
humiliation. He had no doubt that the boy who was tormenting him in
these fiendish ways had no real interest in a poem against his former
master. Former master? Was this all a trick; perhaps the gift was a
sham, a subterfuge. No, impossible. He knew the look of a genuine
gift-scroll and recognized the legal language very well. The boy was
his--at least he would be when the lad was through with him! And then
like a flash of summer lightning he suspected the answer. With a tinge
of craft-guilt he remembered a string of verses toward the end of his
tribute poem to Kinzuburo. He had thought them a bit excessive, at the
very edge of fawning, having the slightest flavor of incipient
insincerity. He had marked them for revision in his small-brush
shorthand scribbles but had had no time before the dinner at which he
had presented the new work. Could that be it? Could the Lord have been
subtle enough, despite the copious flow of strong plum wine, to have
sensed the poverty of those words? Could his pleasure-torture at the
hands of this perversely gifted child have resulted from a fear of
betrayal that he himself had planted with clumsy verses? He felt a sense
of rightness, a coming-together, about his insight. He sighed with
pained satisfaction: his ordeal was justified because he had brought it
on himself. So much for bad poetry! The risk to Lord Kinzuburo was
negligible: if Buto-san agreed to the boy's proposed betrayal he would
surely be remanded to the Lord's dungeons and the boy would return to
his original master. If he proved his loyalty and kept his honor, he
also got to keep the Lord's gift-boy. Simple and ingenious. He knew that
such a boy would bring a prince's ransom among the perverse but
discriminating ranks of the wealthiest nobility and samurai. But the
revenge he would have on the devil-child--if he was able to withstand
the boy's interrogation--would be worth far more to him than the gold he
would bring were he to be sold in the secret pleasure-markets of Edo.

Once more he thought he thought he heard muffled voices outside the
window on the moon side of the little house. He could not be sure, it
could have been cicadas or the rustle of a prowling fox. And then the
boy returned, moving silently across the matted floor toward him with
the lithe grace of a dancing girl or an athlete. He stood before his
prisoner and looked down at the sweating man.

"Once more I ask," he said. "Will you write the poem I demand? Or shall
I resume my work?"

Buto-san had no reserves left. The boy had played on his nerves like a
musician and he had no doubt whatsoever that his repertoire of artistry
was far from exhausted. He also had no doubt that a man could die from
an excess of the creative lad's attentions. So be it: if he was to die
of unremitting sensual torment at the hands of this lovely boy, then let
it be done. At least he would die without dishonoring himself or his
beloved craft. 

"No, boy, I will never write such a poem. Do whatever you will to me, I
will not agree! You may kill me with your tortures, but I will never do
what you order!" The long speech further exhausted him, and Buto-san
dropped his chin onto his besweated chest. The boy was silent and after
perhaps a minute of silence between them Buto-san raised his tired head
to see what the boy had in store for him next. But the boy merely stood
where he had been, his strong legs parted slightly and his left hand
slowly and delicately stroking his rising prickle. Back and forth he
worked his oily hand on his thumb-and-a-half of awakening member.
Buto-san could see the dark, slick bulb of his acorn peeking
lasciviously from the slowly pumping fist. The boy parted his lips in a
smile and sighed softly in his growing pleasure. The man's
well-developed sense of irony and incongruosness caused him to
appreciate the almost humorous ridiculousness of the situation: a grown
man, a respected poet who had been received thrice by two different
emperors was tied obscenely onto a chair-rack by a boy-child who could
not be more than twelve or thirteen summers at most. The child then
slowly tortures him with skills he hardly knew existed and then forces
his helpless prisoner to watch while he rudely masturbates himself in
front of him! Absurd! Absurd, too, was the slowly blooming feelings the
poet felt in his own loins as he watched the boy pleasure himself with
no hint of self consciousness before him. No! He would not again place
his arousal at the disposal of his torturer! He fought to regain control
over his unruly sex, but the feelings were relentless and then suddenly
and without warning the oil-polished boy stepped forward until his chest
was against the man's. Buto-san could feel the hard length of the boy's
upright shaft on his chest, moving and undulating in the pressure
between his own skin and the boy's hard and slippery abdomen. Up and
down and from side to side the boy moved, as gracefully as he had danced
for him. When? So long ago it seemed! The boy's hands were clasped
behind his captive's neck and he leaned forward without stopping his
sensuous thrusting and kissed the helpless man again, deeply, thrusting
with his tongue, sucking out the last of the man's resolve and feeling
with the satisfaction of a craftsman the tickle of the prisoner's member
against his knee as it rose once again in traitorous lust. Buto-san was
filled with a combination of desire brought on by the boy and disgust at
himself for the feelings that welled up in him unbidden. 

But the lust won out once again and he felt his tortured instrument rise
once again to its fullest readiness for whatever the boy chose to do to
it. As if sensing that readiness the lad stopped his movements against
the man and dropped to his knees between his prisoner's wide-spead
thighs. He grasped the man's rigid shaft tightly at its root between
thumb and forefinger and with a swift movement of his head took the
swollen  bulb of the shaft into his mouth. The sudden hotness took
Buto-san by surprise and before he could stop himself he had uttered a
single groan of pleasured agony. In response the boy moved his head
rapidly up and down and from side to side, at the same time laving and
caressing the man's acorn with his tongue. This forced another, louder
groan of agonized ecstasy from the captive. The pleasure brought him up
toward his climax, but at the same time this delight was so intense that
he felt its very power would prevent him from spurting. The boy's swift
hands lightly kneaded the poets's tightly-tucked stones and tickled his
belly and the sides of his thighs while his head moved up and down and
his tongue slipped and probed without mercy. And then it was over! The
boy pulled away and once again the imp from hell denied him that which
he wanted more than he had ever wanted anything. Curse him! He wanted to
reach out and compel the lad to resume his work, but of course could
not. Oh, this was indeed torture!

Now Jikki was behind him, kneeling again, reaching around his waist with
both hands and taking his suffering penis and testicles back into his
hands. SKilfully he masturbated his prisoner, varying the pressure and
the length of the strokes, turning his hands this way and that, pulling
the skin of the shaft taut with one hand while with the other he twisted
and kneaded the sensitive flesh. Buto-san felt him lean forward and take
one of the fingers of his bound hands into his mouth and began to suck
and nibble on it! One of the boy's hands found its way to the silken
cord again and tugged on it gently but insistently. In the name of the
gods, Buto-san thought, I will die. I am going to die! This boy is
indeed going to kill me! Oh, I hope that he does! The boy released the
finger from his mouth and spoke to his prisoner, momentarily slackening
his work on the straining member that pulsed and throbbed in his oiled
hands.

"You have defeated me, master!" the boy said. "You are
victorious--only... only but speak a few words and I will give you that
which you crave!" The pleasure-dazed man could hardly respond, his
senses so swollen with the incessant torture of unendurable lust.

"What...what words? What words?" he stammered.

"You must say to me...'Please, Jikki...No!, you must say Jikki-san!
Please release me from torture! Finish me, Jikki-san, please!' This you
must say!"

Beg? Plead with his torturer? Never! But against his prideful will he
heard himself croak the words. "Please!... Jikki..."

"Who?" the boy interrupted.

 "Jikki.. Jikki-san!...Please! Finish me! Please? Now? Finish the
torture!"

The boy seemed satisfied with his plea and Buto-san felt the small hands
resume their amazing ministrations. Nothing he had ever felt could
compare favorably with what the boy was doing to him. The intensity, the
variety, the seemingly infinite range of ever more heightened sensation
threatened to dissolve the man's fevered brain into a useless pudding.
And then, after some minutes of this burning ecstasy he felt his sperm
stirring and rising powerfully within him. The boy must have felt it,
too, because he changed his rhythm almost imperceptibly yet the change
was enough to cause the man to clench his fists and pull down hard
against the straps that held him to the chair while tensing and flexing
his thighs against their restraint as well. So hard did he pull that he
thought the chair-rack might burst into a hundred pieces, but it held.
The boy removed one pumping hand from his straining member and took up
the cord to the Five Priests. A slow steady pull and the first of the
oily beads popped out of the prisoner. Buto-san's heart stopped and then
the second bead, slightly larger than the first was withdrawn, and the
boy's devil-hand brought him up to the first surging spurt just as the
third and still larger priest left his body. With a loud cry the man
flung his first bolt of creamy pearls across the room--further than he
had ever shot them in his life! The fourth priest left his body under
the boy's steady pull and the second jet of boiling liquid was almost as
powerful as the first, and then the third and the fourth and fifth
spews, each shorter and less forceful than the one before. The lad's
clever pumping had provided exactly the right pressure and tempo to
magnify the pleasure of each gush and now the captive's sperm came in
small spurtles and drippled milkily over the boy's fist. The torturer
now changed his rhythm still again, grasping the man's shaft tightly
just under the plum between thumb and two fingers and setting up a
vibration of quick, slight movements that caused his pleasure-throe to
go on and on longer than Buto-san had known possible. It seemed that it
would never stop, but throbbed again and again deep inside his loins as
the boy slowly, slowly pulled the fifth and largest ivory bead out of
his captive's bowels, bringing on yet another sluice of unendurable
ecstasy. Buto-san felt his iron-tensed muscles relax slightly as the boy
slowed the vibrating, thrumming ring of fingers and he slowly settled
back onto the chair that his flexing thighs had lifted him from in the
passion of his orgasm. He shuddered and trembled uncontrollably for a
few moments and then it was over and he was spent as he had never been
spent before in his life.

He felt the boy untying his wrists and the sudden pain of lowering his
fixed arms. The ankles, too were released, and sent a spasm of pain
through his stiff body. Somehow the slender lad helped him to a soft mat
and stretched him at length upon it, on his stomach. Clever, gentle
fingers massaged his soreness and gave him relief and comfort, easing
him into a fog of sodden sleep and uncaring.

He came up slowly out of his deep sleep and was aware of the growing
dawn outside the little house. He turned his head to get his bearings
and saw the boy sleeping on a mat near his. He felt strangely energized,
fully awake.  His mind raced back over the events of the night. Had he
dreamed what had happened? The sharp soreness of the familiar morning
companion between his legs reminded him of the reality of last night's
ordeal. 

Stiffly he rose to his knees and dog-walked over to the boy's mat. He
pulled away the coverlet and looked down at the lovely naked form
beneath him. The boy lay on his back, his chest rising and falling with
the gentle breaths of sleep, his head turned to the side and his lips
slightly parted. The poet inspected him from head to toe, the vee of his
torso, the slight pads of his smooth chest with the delicate trough
between them, the lovely firm lines of his flat belly, and the strong
slimness of his thighs and calves. The boy's member, hairless and with
the small stones tucked up tightly against the bottom of the shaft was,
like Buto-san's, also erect in greeting to the morning and when the poet
raised his eyes from it he saw the boy looking back at him, the
slightest smile on the corners of his lips. 

Buto-san scooped up one of his sandals and stripped away its binding
thong. He took the boy's arm and turned him gently onto his stomach. The
boy did not resist and his smile did not fade. Buto-san straddled the
lad's buttocks and brought both wrists together behind his back, palm to
palm, and quickly tied them securely with the sandal thong. Neither
spoke. The man reached for the other sandal and with its thong he bound
the boy's elbows tightly together. The boy grunted slightly from the
pressure, but did not speak nor offer the slightest resistance, holding
his hands and arms together cooperatively while the man tied him. Once
the boy was tied, Buto-san allowed his hands to roam over the lad's
body. He admired the satin smoothness of his unblemished skin and the
springy youthful hardness of the muscles of his shoulders and back. The
boy lay quietly beneath him, apparently enjoying the feel of the man's
massaging hands. Buto-san felt his desire for revenge soften and become
blunted by the boy's acquiescent beauty and he found his thirst for
vengeance becoming a desire to drive his former captor to passionate
desperation with slow and fiendish pleasure, as he had done to him.

Unlike the boy's thin pad, Buto-san's sleeping cushion had a frame of
black lacquered wood and the man lifted the lad, an easy load, and
flopped him onto the cushion inside the frame. The boy lay in the middle
of the large sleeping cushion, lying on his bound arms, and looking up
at the man who had been his prisoner only a short time ago. Buto-san
found the embroidered straps with which he had been bound where they lay
around the chair-rack and brought them to the futon. He spread the boy's
slender legs widely apart and slowly and carefully tied them at the
ankle to the corners of the frame, drawing a low groan from the boy as
he pulled his legs out firmly to the frame and tied them off. He paused
in the process to stroke the strong thighs and calves of his young
prisoner who lay, still smiling, under him with his member bobbing above
his taut belly where it throbbed and bounced like a caught frog. The boy
spoke for the first time since the night of the ordeal. 

"What will you do to me, master?" he seemed to taunt the man with his
grin, the flash of his white teeth,  and a sudden swelling of his
tawny-hued chest.
                        
                        Such captive beauty!
                        Golden skin,
                        Bedewed with pleasure!

Buto-san felt a surge of gratitude for the generosity of Lord
Kinzuburo's gift and forgave his patron for his moments of distrust. But
what amazed him even more than that, he felt a sudden mysterious flutter
of genuine affection for this clever imp who was now, at last, at his
mercy. The poet straddled the boy's slim waist again, this time feeling
their warm shafts against each other beneath him as he leaned forward
and dropped his head to whisper in the grinning captive's ear, just as
the devil-boy had done to him the night before...

"Torture!" he whispered, and tenderly brushed the boy's ear with his
lips.

---

Thus endeth the ancient tale of Buto-san the Poet, and the Gift of Lord
Kinzuburo.

Thanks to the many kind readers who have sent remarks and encouragement.
Comments continue to be most gratefully recieved.