Ressurection of a Monk

© Salome Wilde, 2008

Resurrection of a Monk

Chapter 4

Miroku did as Sesshomaru bid, curling onto his side as near the demon lord as he felt he could risk. Miroku felt an inexplicable urge to press his lips to the cool white crispness of Sesshomaru’s robes. Proving himself somehow worthy, his wracked and lost mind told him, was the way to healing. Even if he never remembered the others who were supposed to be his friends, never avenged himself upon Naraku, it would not matter. At Sesshomaru’s side he felt peace; lying near his feet he felt purpose. Were he to find a way to inspire in his savior even the tiniest fragment of the fulfillment he experienced in his presence, surely he would not be banished when daylight came. But such hope was pointless. This demon was not the type to be moved by the needs of one such as him. A question suddenly formed in his mind, though, and he sat up to ask it: “Sesshomaru-sama, how well did we know one another before you renewed my life?”

Sesshomaru turned his large, tawny eyes upon the monk. Why could he not simply rest—and let the inuyokai calm his own disquieted mind. “Not well, monk.”

Miroku listened to the sound of the wind rustling the leaves for a moment, then spoke again. “Are you never lonely, Sesshomaru-sama?”

“You ask foolish questions, monk.”

“I am lonely, Sesshomaru-sama.” He rubbed a thumb over his cloth-covered palm absently. “I will die one day, from a curse that I alone must bear. Even among companions such as those with whom you tell me I belong, I will be alone. Even in the arms of women who say they will bear my children to avenge my death, I am alone.” He looked into his master’s impenetrable eyes. They looked directly into his soul, but he could read nothing in them. It was like looking at the moon: icy, beautiful, and remote; yet watching down over you, over the whole earth. “I think you, too, are cursed, yokai master. You are worshipped, but you are unable to accept adoration. Your suffering is that of a god not a mortal, so I cannot truly understand it. And you will no doubt scorn my words. But, please, magnificent immortal, know that I worship you, adore you, and would give my life to reach and heal you—as you have done for me.”

Sesshomaru’s response to the monk’s speech was immediate and physical. With fluid speed, he reached out and grabbed Miroku by the throat. His eyes scant inches from the monk’s, he bared his fangs and gave a menacing growl.

Miroku could not even gasp in horror. He felt the claws press into his vulnerable flesh, and fought against his natural instinct to bring his own hands up to pull Sesshomaru’s away. He did not want to close his eyes against Sesshomaru’s nearness, but he knew he must. He shut them and bowed his head as much as the demon’s grip would allow. If he could have spoken, he would have begged forgiveness for his outburst, but he could not—and he also knew that words were what had brought him to this desperate pass in the first place. A vision of himself, walking with others—perhaps that group in the valley below—and laughing freely, came unbidden to him. He forced it away as he felt Sesshomaru begin to draw blood. This was his life, not that world of casual amorousness and lightheartedness. He did not know that other self, and now he wanted only to sacrifice himself for the master he had failed so miserably.

As the monk’s body went slack, Sesshomaru felt his wrath subside. He sensed the depth of the human’s surrender, and it soothed his outraged mind. More: it aroused him. And he could see no reason why he should not take something back for all the troubles this Miroku had given him. He removed his hand and rose.

Miroku felt the relief of being able to breathe freely again, of the escape from the pain of the claws at his throat. He heard the shushing sound of Sesshomaru’s garments as he came to stand before him. Though the hand at his throat had been inhumanly cool, a heat radiated from the yokai god that filled Miroku’s body. What he sought now he could not say, but it took no thought to bring himself to his knees and press his grateful lips to the toe of Sesshomaru’s ornate slipper. His master had brought him back from death once, and he had just shown he could but would not take that life now. He could feel only deep gratitude and a desire to display it.

Sesshomaru looked down at the monk’s humble posture. How very right this was. He wondered if the slave were capable of more. Softly and slowly, he walked around the body, breathing in the sweet scent of submission. The monk remained still, pressing his forehead to his hands. Was he shivering? All the better. Once positioned behind him, Sesshomaru recognized with pleasure that he had grown rigid from the sight and smell of this willing prey. Let him offer yet more, then. “Bare yourself, monk,” he quietly commanded.

Miroku obeyed, gratefully. The touch of Lord Sesshomaru, in whatever way he sought to bestow it, would be bliss. He would know himself to be useful, worthy, and no longer alone. Quickly and without raising his eyes, he disrobed, and then returned to his humbled position. Sesshomaru’s firm hand came to the small of his back. He knew instinctively to raise his hips. Anything the god wanted, his body would offer. Sesshomaru gently kicked his legs apart, and bent over him. Miroku felt the long, silver mane cascade over his naked back as his cool, slender fingers reach between his legs for the small, dark aperture that would lay his soul bare. He faced the knowledge that those claws might in a flash rend him, force him open, bloodied and wide, for vicious holy entry. Yet they did not. With a tender care Miroku knew he could never adequately merit, he felt a finger press to the resistant, puckered flesh and hold. The warmth of wetness that could only have come from Lord Sesshomaru’s munificent mouth trickled around the opening, and the finger smoothed it and began to penetrate. Miroku hiked his hips higher and moaned softly into the earth beneath him.

Sesshomaru felt the warm, firm flesh of the monk’s so-mortal body. He resolutely probed the tight cavity that would soon welcome him fully. How long had it been since a supplicant had thus acknowledged the inuyokai’s power and offered himself up for its confirmation? And how much longer still since he had wished to make use of such an offering? His slickened finger now moved freely within the narrow passage, and he paused to indulge himself with the insertion of a second digit. The monk took it so willingly that he inspired generosity. Sesshomaru supplied additional saliva to ease the passage and soothed and aroused his quarry.

“Sesshomaru-sama,” the monk purred as he was stretched and worked. Though his recent memory was still lost to him, he did not think he had ever yielded himself in such a fashion. He could not imagine there was anyone else to whom he would surrender in this way. Further thought was lost in the rhythmic sensation of Sesshomaru’s perfect use of his more than willing body.

For Sesshomaru, there was pleasure in toying with his prey—especially, he had to confess to himself, this prey. The hand he rightly damned for taking up Tenseiga and bringing the monk back to life he now relished for its service in rendering him appetizingly pliant. However much he condemned himself for his poor judgment in the first act, he could not help but bask in the pleasure of the second. As the naïve monk had rightly noted, his purpose in life was illuminated by Tenseiga’s blow. Sesshomaru let his fingers slide slowly out, spit down upon his erection, then poised himself against the monk’s slender hips. He gripped the human’s hip tightly and, with determined control, began to work his way in.

Miroku felt the thick, blunt cockhead replace his master’s claw-tipped fingers and his own shaft jumped at the sensation and expectation of more. It was good to feel this manifestation of his own body’s desire, for it let him offer even more to his god: he would in no way attempt to satisfy himself. His body was Lord Sesshomaru’s, and his urges were only of value as he denied their gratification. But there was no further time for self-indulgent pleasure in self-imposed suffering as he experienced the searing pain of the first inches being forced inside and past the tightly clenched ring of muscle. He cried out, and Sesshomaru drove further inside him. There was no way to determine whether his master sought to cause additional pain thereby or to begin to relieve it by advancing.

Sesshomaru savored the tight pleasure of that first thrust. Impossibly taut, the muscle captured and threatened his cock. But the battle was his to win. The monk’s wail was the cry of an adversary’s surrender, and he pressed his advantage, sheathing himself further within the heart of his victim. A third thrust and he had hilted himself, and stood motionless to enjoy the beauty of the small victory. He owned this monk, body and soul, and it made his cock swell. He listened to Miroku’s whimpering repetition of his name and felt his muscles contract in welcome. Soon it was not enough to hold still, and Sesshomaru began to fuck the mortal in earnest, releasing saliva to coat himself further as he needed to ensure the slick ride he desired. Let this be easy for us both this first time, he thought, with atypical charity. And he remarked at the implications of his musing even more than at his generosity: the first time. Yes, there would be more. He would not release the monk from his service when daylight came. Not when it felt so good to own him this way.

Miroku felt himself overtaken by Sesshomaru’s powerful thrusts. He forced himself to relax into the increasingly hard use. Was it the sweetness of how slowly and carefully he had begun, the kindness of the lubrication he offered, or the way his pain so quickly turned to unutterable pleasure that now made tears stream from his tight-shut eyes? He fought the desire to press his hips back onto Sesshomaru’s cock, to match the rhythm that held him, mesmerized, in its grip. But no, this must not be about his needs. He arched harder, dug his fingers into the soft earth, and uttered a silent prayer: Let this never end. Let this night never turn to day. Let his master never want less of him than this.

Sesshomaru felt the desire for release building within him, and controlled it with the same self-assured mastery with which he mastered the monk’s passive body. He increased the pace and depth of his thrusts to see just how much more the human could take without begging him to stop. But though he sobbed and called out Sesshomaru’s name, there was no hint of resistance or desire for escape from the relentless use. Moreover, Sesshomaru found that he actually enjoyed the tears shed in his name. He reached his hand forward and thrust it into the monk’s hair, then pulled his head up and back hard. “Give me more, monk,” he grunted as he drove on. “Sing my praises with your tears.”

Miroku obeyed without thought, as the leverage Lord Sesshomaru found by gripping him by the hair forced his massive cock deeper with every stroke. He wept like a child as his shaft strained before him. There was nothing left of his will; he became the emptiness that his master alone could fill.

The monk’s several scents were what finally drove the inuyokai to release. His tears smelled of the ocean and his sweat of the earth’s fertile clay. Yet, the subservience, too, had an aroma; pale, faint, and far headier than those of the body. It roused and moved Sesshomaru. With a roar, he plunged, unleashing his pleasure and pouring forth his seed.

Miroku collapsed beneath the climactic thrust, as certain of the tearing open of his tender orifice as he was of his its unimportance. Lord Sesshomaru’s whole body now covered his, a master’s embrace, still pumping its liquid release deep inside him. He gloried in this use of his body, in the feel of the yokai’s weight upon his. Pinned to the soil, he felt his untouched cock roughly caressed by the dirt and grass and his own flesh as his master continued to grind into him. Against what little he found of conscious will, he fought the coarse stimulation. But he was no match for his own painful arousal and weakness. He peaked and discharged, and felt the demon lord react to the spasms of his muscles as he came. The reaction was instantaneous and unexpected: the monk’s climax urged the god on.

Sesshomaru could easily have punished the monk for his release by simply withdrawing, he knew. But the stimulation made his erection grow stiff and demanding again, and he had no intention of chastising the monk at the expense of his own pleasure. Wrapping his arm around human’s small waist, he propped him back onto his knees and drove him onto his shaft. After only a few thrusts, he was pleased to see that the willing monk understood that he was now to press back and ride his master’s cock. Sesshomaru looked down with satisfaction at the blood-tinged ejaculate that lubricated and dripped from the monk’s ensnared ass. Lifting his eyes to the sky as Miroku eagerly milked and fed his need, Sesshomaru took note of the night sky. With several hours to go until sunrise, there was ample time for as much release as he might wish.