#2: Gilbert

Warning for slight... incestuous fantasy?

It's cool in the room, but he doesn't want to close the window, for fear he'll suffocate. It's always hard to breathe, once he starts, always as if there's not enough air anywhere and he'll just stop if he doesn't leave the window open. The flush on his skin is nearly as stifling as his own guilt, he thinks.

It might be less cool if he allowed himself to use his bed, but he won't. Dirty sheets mean washing up before bedtime, and it's already quite late. Besides, there's something horrific about the idea of doing this terrible deed in the place where he sleeps, polluting his resting place with perversity.

No, this animal instinct must be dealt with like an animal, close to the ground, lying spread out on his cool bedroom floor, pale skin completely bare. This instinct has to be dealt with in such a way as to be kept separate from his everyday life, from 'Gilbert'.

However.

The one thing he can't take off, won't take off, is still perched on his head, or rather, slipped forward over his eyes, so that it both hides his own view of the act and is a part of it.

It doesn't smell like the young woman who gave it to him. No. It smells like his hair, like oil, like cigarette smoke, like whatever food he has cooked most recently. It doesn't smell of the woman who gave it to him at all, but somehow, his face covered with it, his eyes staring up into the darkness under the stiff fabric, he feels closer to her.

That feeling stays with him, as he slides his fingers down over his chest, a ragged nail catching and scraping against the scar there. The movement isn't teasing or foreplay for himself; rather, it's hesitation, fear.

Perhaps this time, he'll stop before he gets there. Perhaps this time, he'll force himself to pull his hand away, set it flat against the floor, and lay still, torturing himself with the cool air until the urge goes away.

No. He won't. He'll scrape that same ragged nail all the way down over his belly, a petty punishment for his own insolence, a weak attempt at an apology that he doesn't deserve to voice.

There's no making up for something that you will continue doing, night after night, in the silence and secret sanctuary of your own home. There's no atonement for what you do not regret enough to tear yourself away from.

And there, the reason he keeps the window open for these little sessions, that flush against his skin. It arrives in full force when his fingers first reach hair, when the first tiny pricks against fingertips alert him to the nearness of that dirty part of himself. It flows near-crimson over his pale goose-pimpled skin as he lets just that same broken-edged nail impact the base of his shaft, scrape upward.

The pain is what he deserves, for the way his mind imagines her soft sweet hands wrapping in just that same place. That single line of pain - barely more than irritation really, not even any blood - is far less than the proper punishment for the way he imagines her innocent lips pressing themselves to the wet tip, lower lip rolling in just the right manner to press against that spot right below the edge of his foreskin.

His whole hand wraps around the rigid flesh, as sweat plasters his seaweeed hair to his forehead beneath the hat, the rough grip penance for the image in his mind of her green eyes wide as he presses forward, into hand/into mouth, pressing his disgusting unfit servant's manhood into her pure throat.

That heavy bosom would rub against his thigh, he thinks, pebbled nipples all the consent he needs, all the proof of her compliance in this awful act of desecration, as he spoils for himself this last unspoiled part of his childhood dream of perfect idyllic servitude.

He doesn't even dare dream about her nether regions. That's beyond his imagination, unseen/unknown depths that lie sacred and hallowed beneath the short schoolgirl's skirt. Here, beneath his hat, inside his head, there's nothing at all there, just darkness, just the terrifying esoteric womanhood.

But here, his own rough hand pulsing and pulling and dragging, he can imagine just fine the heat of her mouth, the surprise in her emerald eyes as his seed slithers across her tongue, slips down her throat, salty and bitter.

Here, as that same seed wetly squishes between his fingers, he can -

"Gilbert! What have I told you about this?"

The words cause him to stiffen, all at once, his entire body tightening painfully and his hand - that disobedient hand - jerking so hard that he cries out in pure pain as the foreskin actually rips a little, a faint line of blood appearing.

"M-master!"

He doesn't - can't - open his eyes and come out from under the hat, his ability to move completely frozen in this horrible guilty moment.

"Gilbert! How many times have I told you that if you're going to fantasize about my little sister..."

And there's that movement closer, those soft steps across the floor, fast but not heavy at all. And then... then there's a tongue against his flesh, lapping at the spilled seed, and the feeling of breath so close against his skin as Oz speaks again.

"If you're going to fantasize about my dear sweet innocent younger sister..." Lick, suck, soft shuddery breath across damp skin. "You have to do it where I can see you... and you have to tell me... every dirty little detail..."

"Ah-ah-"

"Do you understand, Gilbert?"

"Y-yes master!"

And when the hat is lifted away, it's an entirely other pair of emerald eyes twinkling down at him, and a mouth that is certainly not innocent smiling brightly down at the naughty servant.

"Good boy. Now, do tell me what you were doing to her this time..." says Oz, as he goes back to licking, his ears perked up to hear every stuttered, embarrassed, apologetic word.