The Art of War Ch. 01

She is swaying her hips to the ethereal song of a flute, played deep in the shades of the columned hall. Somewhere a fountain is burbling and the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle hangs heavy in the air.

Diaphanous, flowing sleeves of lavender silk encase her slim, muscled limbs, the leggings being held up by garters connecting to gold-inlaid, snake-leather belt around her slim waist. Full breasts sit high on her chest, supported by two thin, white silk straps, crisscrossing her chest and providing just enough material for her pale pink nipples to press against, while leaving her muscular midriff bare.

A curtain of fine gold chains hangs from the belt, her sinuous hip swings doing more to emphasize the prominent, ivory-smooth swell of her sex than to hide it. A single scrap of silk, transparent with her juices, clings to the swollen lips of her sex. Her body rolls in tune with the flute, her oiled muscles gleaming a pale ivory gold in the lamp light.

If she rolls her hips just right, the barbell capping of the gold piercing in her mons is brushing against the sensitive flesh of her erect clitoris, sending sparks up her spine.

If she stretches just right the gold chain fastened to the top of her mons piercing tugs deliciously on the rings in her nipples.

Time slips as she loses herself to the rhythm of the melody, the feathery caress of his eyes on her body, the slow gyrations of her body.

The flute becomes faster, more demanding. Bracelets clinking, she falls on her knees then backwards, her legs widely spread, arms stretched overhead, taut as a bow, body parallel to the ground, thrusting obscenely with her pelvis.

A thins sheen of sweat mingles with the scented oil on her body, she can feel his gaze on her exposed center, making her face and chest flush a pale pink and making the pulsing heat originating between her legs and crawl up her spine.

She has no shame and precious little self-respect, where her boy is concerned.

She wants to slip her fingers beneath her sodden loin cloth, grind her stiff, pink pearl against the inside of her wrist, release the ache in her creamy pussy, hart and fast. She won't, though. She will not let herself come until her boy is utterly spend and she will not let him come until she is satisfied she owns him.

The flute falls silent and she takes a few heartbeats to catch her breath and refasten some of her inky locks, that escaped the pearl diadem, holding them in place.

Not trusting her wobbly legs to support her she crawls to where her boy is waiting for her. He is lying on a down feather mattress, attached to the floor with padded leather straps, his head supported by pillows.

Wiry muscles, messy hair and moss green eyes, she lets her eyes wander over sun kissed limbs, held immobile by leather straps over his wrists, ankles, elbows and knees. His member is straining against the loose green silk pants, the only piece of clothing she permitted him. Her mouth waters, eyeing the dark stain, where the tip presses against the silk. He is beautiful and helpless and utterly at her mercy. Her sex spasms at the thought.

She wants keep him safe and warm and shield him from everything that would hurt him.

She wants to make him beg and scream and whimper her name in agonizing pleasure.

She drinks him in, a desert traveler and a clear forest spring.

She kneels over his chest, close enough to feel his hot breath on her sensitive skin, but not close enough to let him touch and slips the loincloth from her belt, baring herself to his view.

The scrap of silk is sodden enough to be transparent and peels away from her hairless sex, drawing strings of her juices.

He moans low in his throat and pulls on his bonds, when she presses the silk against his mouth and nose.

Her pink lips are brushing his ear, when she whispers: "I'll break you tonight. I'll make you beg and scream and cry. I'll hold you over the abyss a thousand times and pull you back, until you think you can't take it anymore. Then I'll do it some more.

I won't let you come until I'm convinced I have dragged every dirty fantasy out of you, until I own the last scraps of your heart, until there is nothing you wouldn't do to, to get release, until your balls are so full of un-spilled semen that they ache."

She feels his heart skip a bit, sees his eyes darken from emerald to jade with arousal and fear.

She gently nibbles his earlobe. "Are you ready, beautiful?"

She has no intention to untie him, so she rips his trousers of his body. Her nails lightly skim his nipples and follow the trail of sparse hair over his chest and abdominal muscles to his pubis, where it ends. His privates are perfectly smooth, she shaves him daily in the shower to make certain of that.

His member is rock-hard and straining, a drop of fluid shimmering on the tip, making her heart beat faster. She can't resist temptation any longer and with a relieved moan wraps her full lips around the head. Her eyes flutter shut as she uses her lips to roll back his foreskin, tongue swirling around his glans. She takes him as deep as she can, nose brushing against his belly, before she lets him go.

Tying his balls off in a figure eight-shape with a silk cord before looping it repeatedly around the base of his erect manhood, makes him groan.

Gently she scratches her fingernails over the taut skin of his balls before sucking them into her mouth. His body is her instrument, the tensing of his muscles and his quite moans her music.

Her mouth wanders lower, tongue swirling around his hole, before she thrusts it into the tight ring of muscles.

Raising her head she meets his half-lidded gaze, the need and lust and beautiful surrender. The world for all its random cruelty has handed her this precious gift, the opportunity to own her boy, to protect him and take care of him and never let him go.

She doesn't think she loves him. The term does not really do justice to the enormity of her feelings, that she can hardly contain and even less begin to comprehend or put into words.

She makes a sound of barely coherent want, before diving back to claim her prize. Whimpering in relief she latches on to his anus, suckling on the sensitive skin for all that she is worth.

Her sex is drenched; coating her fingers in her lubricant is a matter of seconds.

Carefully, oh so carefully, she works first one then two finger into his heat, watching him fearfully for any signs of discomfort. Finally she finds her prize and pressed gently upwards. She is rewarded with a groan as Eren pulls on his bonds. Got you. Her fingers begin working his prostate, while her left hand carefully massages the baby soft skin of his sack.

His body is an open book to her, so whenever she feels the signs of impeding release she withdraws and presses down on his perineum to stave him off.

Like a treasure hunter on the beach she collects all the little noises he makes, all his facial expressions of raw want and need and stores them in a safe place within. Later, much later, she will return to this trove, pull them out reverently and warm her heart with them until her memories are warm and creased and care-worn like ancient photographs.

"Mikasa ... please ..."

She lets her bangs fall into her face to hide her smile and drags a line of open-mouthed kisses along the underside of his penis, greedily cleans up the copious pre-cum, which is trickling down his member.

"Please what, Eren?"

"Miki ... oh god ..."

"Please what?"

She has thoroughly coated the inside of his rectum with her juices and she can't wait, doesn't want to keep a tight rein on her wildly beating heart and needy sex anymore. She brings him to the edge again using her mouth and throat before leaning over to fish the carved ivory strap on from the ebony casket at the bed side.

When sliding the ivory phallus into her sobbing-wet sex, she is very careful not to accidentally trigger an orgasm. Even so when she twists the toy in herself to make sure it's thoroughly lubricated, heat like a fire flower blossoms upward from her sex and she has to fight to relax her muscles, to let the wave of pleasure wash over without letting it crest, biting her lower lip hard.

When she has stopped panting and reopens her eyes to put on the harness, she finds him watching her, eyes dark and fathomless. Flushing she hides behind the curtain of her hair.

She folds him in half, refastening the leather straps holding his ankles down, above his head. Fighting down her own impatience, she worms the smooth shaft into his tightness until the toy bottoms out.

"Do you feel powerless, Eren?" She wants to tell him, that he knows nothing. He has never been desperately in love with a boy, who can leave scars on his heart with a thoughtless throw away remark.

She rolls her hips, experiments until she finds the angle, that pushes against his prostate, that makes him whimper and shiver weakly in his restraints. Then she presses her breasts against his chest, her nipples hard like diamond behind the silk, rests her forehead against his brow, grabs his bound hands and interlaces their fingers. She fucks him slow and deep, holding his gaze with her eyes.

Outside of the here and now, there are a thousand obligations and duties. There is his crusade for a better world, his ambitions and plans, their duty to their people. Right now and here, though, nothing is more important to him than her and the pleasure she can give him.

He throws his head backs and moans like a dying animal. Face flushed, lips kiss swollen, eyes glassy with need, tears of desperation in his long lashes; her boy has never been more beautiful to her.

She balances him on the knife's edge but never lets him fall. When he needs rest to cool down, after a particular close shave with an orgasm, she kisses the tears from his eyes, languorously sucks on his lips and swirls her tongue around his mouth.

Sometimes she whispers filth in his ear, describes every dirty fantasy she touched herself to in a lonely bed.

"Mikasa, pleeeeeease."

"Shhh, baby. Not yet." She grinds the toy against his prostate, kissing him passionately.

"Do you sometimes dream of a world, where you never meet the Jäger? You and Armin would have run the mechanic shop in the old factory and I would have taken over the field behind the main hall and turned it into a herb and vegetable garden. The three of us would have taught the neighborhood children letters and sums und proper stealing and knives."

"You and I would have made love every day. Would you like that, Eren? A properly submissive housewife?"

"No, I don't think you would have much use for a housewife. You would still need an enforcer to bust the heads of any gang, stupid enough to encroach on our territory, but I think you would like the submissive part."

Her voice is getting breathy and excited as she whispers heatedly in his ear.

"I would wear those black leather pants, with the laces on the side, that looked like painted on. Together with the grey leather boots with the ridiculous heels, that you liked so much, when we were kids. Remember? Your mouth was always catching flies, when that blond hooker from haven on Silk Street was strutting around in hers."

The pants would ride low enough on my hips to show the dimples on my back and the beginning of the hairless swell of my mons. The whole world would be able to see that you don't permit your woman any body hair.

You would bind my hands and my elbows behind my back with ropes you would keep in your desk and I would sink to my knees between your legs and open the laces of your trousers with my teeth. I would take you beautiful penis deep into my throat, while you are having lunch."

He is close, again. She withdraws he ivory toy from his bottom , sheds the harness and curls up next to him, one leg curled over him, lips sucking on the shell of his hear as her fingers whisper over his rock-hard shaft.

"I would make love to it with my mouth and tongue, begging for your delicious seed with my eyes. You would direct my head with gentle hands and I would give the control entirely up to you. When to please you with my mouth and lips. When I got to breath.

Would you like that, baby? My lips sealed tight around the head of your beautiful cock, my tongue swirling around it. You could come on my tongue and I would open my mouth to show you for before I swallowed.

Would you send me away after that, my pussy wet and needy, just to keep me wanting?"

He is close, again. She withdraws from his cock, presses down on his perineum and watches as it pulses, discharging a steady trickle of pre-cum. He has stopped begging a while ago, but his face is still wet with his tears, his eyes glassy and sightless.

"Or would you lift me on you lap, my back to you, so you could watch me in the mirror on the wall?

Would you spread my legs widely and hook them over the armrests of your chair, so that the lips of my sex would be visible under the black leather of my pants?

Would you brush your fingers along the ridges of my abs to the tiny black turtleneck barley covering the lower swells of my breasts, slipping your hands beneath it and pinching my nipples?

Would you find me beautiful? The bound, helpless creature on your lap, the ivory white skin of my long muscular torso contrasting with the black cotton and leather of my form-fitting clothes

Yours to use and abuse like a beast of burden."

"Mikasa" His voice is hoarse from all the screaming.

She gently brushes sweaty hair from his forehead and softly kisses him on the mouth.

"Yes, beautiful?"

"I can't anymore, please. I need a break. My balls ..."

"Does it hurt, baby? Are they full and swollen and achy?"

"Yes. Yes, goddamn it. Come on, I can't ..."

Her smile is radiant and merciless.

"I'll be the judge of that. And I don't think you are quite there yet."

Her hand carefully closes around his swollen testicles.

"Would you pull on the front laces of my leather pants until they parted, baring the wet, pink flesh of my sex to your view?

Would you sink you hard, straining member into me, while I was lying bound in your arms, trembling weakly and moaning my need? My head would lol back onto your shoulder, my half-lidded gaze meeting yours in the mirror. The muscles of my sex milking your cock, while the fingers of your left gently but insistently massaging my clit and you right on my throat, putting pressure on my carotid arteries until I'm dizzy and light headed.

Would you like that, Eren? Having me as your servant, as your sex slave? Would you like to bind me spread-eagle to the bed, my breasts pulled flat and high, my stomach concave, my limbs straining against the chains and slide your fat cock in my creamy pussy, until I was whimpering and begging?

Please don't make me cum Eren, please. The boy I love said he wouldn't have sex with me anymore, if I did, so please don't make me cum. Please, anything but that. Mercy. Please mercy.

Would you allow me to be punished in another way? Whip my pussy with a leather strap until droplets of my juices would be flying from it, until I would be screaming in pleasure and pain? Would you make me watch you, fucking another woman? My hands bound behind my back and fixed to an iron ring in the wall, with my foamy pussy juice still slick on my nether lips and thighs and tears in my eyes?"

Her hands are massaging oil in his rock-hard shaft, but his eyes have rolled back into his head. Only animal noises are coming from him.

"Would you make me kneel before her, after, my hands tied on my back, my nose buried in the small golden triangle on her mons while I suck your seed from her sex? My tongue deep in her, cleaning out the last of your mixed juices? My mouth on the smooth, hairless lips of her sex?

Or maybe you would pull out at the last second, shut your creamy load across the floor and make me clean it up with my tongue?

Maybe you would worm your beautiful sturdy cock into her pink anus, until she groans with pain and want. Use her that way until it's time to glide you penis down my throat and give me my creamy prize.

Would you let me sleep next to you, my hand still bound, so that I could bury my face in your neck and hump my drooling pussy against your leg to find some release, while you slept? Or would you let me suffer? Cold and bound and unsatisfied next to your bed, my only comfort your hand on my head when you lover takes you into her mouth?"

She glides down his bound body, slippery with oil and pre-cum, releases the silk cord around his balls, as her mouth closes around his head, tongue swirling and her right index finger slips into his anus to press down insistently on his prostate.

He comes with a soundless scream, pulsing thick, white come into her mouth, until it's pungent smell filling her head and sinuses, while she swallows greedily.

"Would you make me yours?

Please, Eren would you?"