Kinbaku-bi by Lyra

Chapter One

~~ Kinbaku-bi ~~

I.

“And his unkindness may defeat my life,

but never taint my love.”

“Youkai will always do what is in their nature; anything else is always and only ever a mask.”

Words that she wished had heard long ago; long ago. Where did they come from? Are they inside her? Did she hear them long ago and not listen?

The present breaks open around her with the sound of them and with the words that come after.

“Why won't you love me? If you would only love me – it would be perfect, Kagome. But you don't have to; you'll just be mine now. You're a kitsune bride. You've been stolen; you're all mine now. Should I wear a familiar face for you, and untie your blindfold, and let you touch what you've missed for so very long?”

When did my Shippou become this cruel beast?

She shook her head emphatically. No. No. She would pay any price not to defile his memory!

“Then my own face is handsome enough for you...I'm so pleased, Kagome.”

Tears streamed from beneath the dark blindfold, and she felt a warm, gentle hand wipe away the streak of heat and salt on her cheek. The gentleness was worse than the cruelty; it tugged at her.

When did he...become a demon?

She felt the ropes then, around her wrists, around her ankles, around her thighs, her buttocks, her waist, her breasts. Slow, his movement with the rope. Slow. Methodical. Calming. She thought of nothing while he tied her, suspended her from the rough hemp ropes; while he tugged on her nipples and urged a single length of rope between the lips of her sex.

The rope prickled uncomfortably but not for long.

The suspension rocked her freely, back and forth

The sinuous, upraised curve of her spread thighs and calves tugged against the rope.

The weight of the rest of her body tugged back..

And forth. And back – again, and again, and agan.

Slow.

Methodical.

Anything but calming.

Wetness dews and dampens the rope.

She approaches a high and terrible peak, but the slow sawing movement, the rush of blood to her head, the silence – it is not...quite...enough.

Not quite enough. Shippou – Shippou?

A ghost of a touch against the turgid tips of her nipples. Claws? A breath? The moving air, knife-edged against blood flooded nerves?

“Ah – ah – Shippou -”

And she took a deep breath, as she had every day for the past fifty years.

“Shippou – let me come Shippou please - please, please, please – you – can – only you can - please -”

She heard his groan, his grunt of pleasure, though she could not see him through the blindfold. Milky fluid spattered across her face and breasts, and the scent of it alone was enough to bring her one step higher on that terrible stair.

She licked her lips and tasted only a single drop; she shuddered violently in her bindings.

She still did not come; not until he turned her right side up and squeezed her throbbing nipples and told her to.

Her voice cried out her pleasure, irresistible sensation.

Another voice wept inside her but it was quieter now than it had been. It grew quieter every day. It had only one question left; a question that dredged up endless ages of memory; time disconnected; the bitter dregs of the past.

When did I – when did I first say yes and let it turn into this?

~~~~

A/N: And so it begins... [Note: All Epigraph Quotes Are From Shakespeare's Othello!]

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