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• Connoisseur	By : facelessfrog Category: InuYasha > General Views: 841 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
  Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha, nor make money from this story.

• Chapter List
  • 1-Connoisseur
• • 1

• Naraku considers himself something of a connoisseur. A purveyor of fine goods, though those goods happened to be girls. Human, demon, sometimes half, he cultivates them, ages them until they are perfection in itself.

  
  

  He prefers the young ones, the ones in late adolescence, just entering into adulthood. The older ones are too strong, too over powering in their taste. Too young and they are bitter, tart and tongue curling. The demons are spice, the humans sweet. The halves are his favorites, though it’s rare for him to find one of his favorite age, so uncommon are the creatures.

  
  

  First Naraku watches them, studies them. Tones of their skin, the way their hair moves. He likes the ones with dark hair. He studies how light reflects on their surface, going beyond the skin and hair, tan and black. He says words like cream, fawn, bronze; charcoal, midnight, sable. He studies how the wind darkens their cheeks to a ruddy complexion, how a blush will stain them a light rose color.

  
  

  He imagines as well, thinking how they will look when he brings them to a peak, uses their bodies against them until they’re right at that point, about to fall over into ecstasy, sobbing and screaming his name, for him to stop. How the sweat will make them look in the light, how they’ll glisten, how the passion he creates will stain them dark, the rush of blood beneath that skin.

  
  

  When he’s had his fill of watching and imagining, he assumes the form of someone they trust, sneaks close and catches their scent. The scent of their sweat, the scent of what they’ve done that day, touched, who has been near them. The scent of them, sweet and savory, and almost ready for the plucking. Some are woodsy, some flowery, salty, sour, so many different things.

  
  

  Here he imagines again, thinking how they’ll smell when he finally takes them. Sour with fright, spicy with anger, musky with passion, and he can’t wait when he does this, because soon he’ll take them, soon he’ll have what he’s waited for.

  
  

  When he takes them, he inflames them with passion. He touches, caresses them, until their bodies can’t take it anymore, right about to fall over the edge from sexual tension, screaming and crying and sobbing and begging for him to stop, for him to just end it, for him to continue, for him to do something. And right when they’re at that edge, right when they’re about to fall, he takes them.

  
  

  Naraku doesn’t take them in the usual sense of the word, not in the sexual sense. He reserves his pleasure for elsewhere, for when he can finally taste them, taste their blood. He finds that they’re best right when they’re about to fall, not after, when the passion is spent, not before, when they’re just laying there crying. While fear is addicting, he finds that passion warms the blood so much better, so he waits, even if he finds himself straining against his pants.

  
  

  At that cusp, he takes them, sinks his teeth into their neck, drains them of their blood. When he first started this he would mess up sometimes, miss them when they went over the edge, and he would have to start all over again.

  
  

  Their taste was so appealing to him. Nutty and sweet, and smooth, it would slide down his throat like liquid fire, pulsing beneath him with spice and body and oh, he loved it. He got off on the pleasure of seeing all he had done to cultivate them come to fruition, and he got off on the pain and the pleasure he knew they felt as he sucked their life from their veins, but most of all he got off on their taste.

  
  

  He was a connoisseur, of only the finest goods.

• • 1
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