Kaiba Meets a Milestone
Kaiba skipped school the next day. He had to assimilate all he had learned the night before. He had learned so much. He had even learned about the rainbow parties, and he had decided that Mokuba should not date, even in a group, perhaps especially not in a group.
He educated himself in a very branching, but linear fashion. He started out with just entering the word "sex" into a database. He learned about the mechanics of sex, how people performed this action, and he learned the different names for it: the generic scientific—sexual intercourse; the Latin—coitus; the violent—fucking; the sanitized and silly—screwing and humping; and the romantic—making love. And those were only the major names for it; there was so much slang it boggled the mind. Kaiba's favorite was Le Petite Morte—French for "the Little Death." It was perfect for his subconscious Scorpio sensibilities.
From there, he learned about the types of sex—missionary, doggie style, oral, anal (which, he hated to admit, intrigued as well as disgusted him), standing up, the dry hump, fisting. He followed this train of thought to cunnilingus, fellatio, analingus (which, on the whole, he did not want to try right off the bat). He read about masturbation. Male masturbation was interesting. Kaiba felt a little smug that he had guessed how it was done, even though he hadn't done it, and his guess turned out be correct. At the same time, it was a blow to his status as a prodigy: the articles had said the average age for males to start masturbating was thirteen. It didn't matter; the explanation of how females pleasured themselves was so absorbing he read it three times. This led to an article on female anatomy, complete with visual aids, where Kaiba learned about the uterus, the ovaries, the cervix, the vagina, the hymen, the vulva, the mons, the labias majora and minora, the g-spot, and the clitoris, He mouthed these words over and over, a magic incantation, until he memorized them.
He studied the mysteries of menstruation. How many women did he talk to on a daily basis that were bleeding without him knowing it, without it even changing their routine?
He also studied his own body, and all the parts he didn't know he had, with names that were appropriately masculine: the vas deferens, the testicles, the scrotum, and the glans. He learned all the different words for the fluid that he sometimes found pooled around the creases of his groin and matting his pubic hair in the morning. Out of the three names that stuck out in his mind—semen, sperm, jizzum—he liked sperm the best, with the sibilant S, the plosive P, and how the liquid R and nasal M oozed past his lips in a chesty growl. It sounded powerful and dangerous, like a viper, or a scorpion. He even found a song called "Spit Sperm," by a band called KMFDM, and he listened to it six times in a row. It was playing in his head as he leaned his sleep-sweaty forehead against the tiles of his shower and closed his burning eyes.
He hadn't fallen asleep until six a.m. Mokuba had to go to school alone today, and was picked up by only Roland and Richards, the chauffer. Kaiba didn't wake up until three in the afternoon, and was still drowsy. His dreams had wrenched him from one extreme to the other, pleasure followed pain followed pleasure as quickly as cars on a bullet train speeding by a station; shame and joy braided together like the mint and jasmine fragrances of last night's tea.
He opened his eyes. The sandwich he had requested should be outside his room, as per his instructions. He continued to stare for a few moments, trying to remember the dreams.
He remembered his mother combing his hair. He was a child. He had had this dream before. His mother wore ballet slippers, her feet elegantly pointed. Her belly, swollen with Mokuba, kept him from sitting completely on her lap, but she had him securely between her legs, and he felt safe.
Then she was gone.
He was outside in the glaring sunlight, being sprayed with icy water. He could feel the eyes of millions upon him. Shit smeared the ground around him. Piles a foot high oozed a horrible brownish liquid that sped toward his feet. Everyone blamed him for the shit. He wanted to scream that it wasn't his, but he couldn't get his mouth to move. And Mokuba was under a heavy net, and they were making him watch Kaiba's humiliation. He was strapped to Mokuba, and Mokuba and his heavy net were pulling him down into the shit. His knees were buckling. His mouth was getting closer and closer to the foulness on the ground.
Then they were coming at him with matches. They were going to burn him. They were lashing him with straps—each strap was a striking snake.
He turned into a beast—his hair thickened, his muscles hardened, his teeth lengthened, and with a surge of euphoria he ripped them to shreds, saw their blood spray the walls, and heard their screams. He opened his eyes, and they radiated blue light, light so cold it burned. Between his teeth was Gozaburo's neck. He blinked, and the light faded away.
Then he was naked on a stone floor, in front of an altar, and floating in front of the altar was the angel with the white hair. She reached out and stroked his face, and then took him into her arms. He remembered her long white cotton gown, and her silky hair. She lifted him up into a pure, white horrible light, and he realized he was being knighted. Then he looked up at her, and she was no longer a girl, but a dragon—a silvery white, steely dragon with blue eyes. He mounted her, and she took him flying over a desert, over a city, over churning waters capped with semen foam.
He might have ejaculated in his sleep then. He wasn't sure. He felt like he had come so many times that his blood had thinned, and his muscles were starved for oxygen. He might have come when Gozaburo's throat was between his teeth, or while he was dreaming what happened next. Probably all three times; after all, what may have happened in the span of only a few minutes in dreamtime may have taken hours in the real world. His sheets were soaked down to the mattress pad with a puddle of sperm. He had scrubbed at it until he had tennis elbow.
He turned off the water and listened to the drips pattering on the tile.
Her eyes had been so large, and bright, and blue. Her navel was tiny—a dimple, really. Her legs were golden. Her ribs stood out sharply whenever she breathed in; she was so slender. But her breasts were plump and curved upward. He could see that even though her arms were crossed over them. She wore only her strawberry panties. The eyes that had stared at him in his shit-covered shame stared at him as he strode toward Tea Gardner and pulled her to the ground. They saw him penetrate her on an obelisk of stone, and they knew that he was the master and the champion.
Now, what was under those strawberry panties was no longer a mystery. He knew its many names, and it was his choice what to call it. Would it be the dirty, hard cunt, or the soft, inviting pussy?
He grabbed his cock and slowly, timidly stroked it. They rose before his eyes again, with their matches and their belts, but this time, he wasn't going to give in to them. He wasn't going to listen when they screamed at him, called him names, and gave lurid descriptions of his soul. He had already destroyed them.
"Fuck you," he hissed between his teeth. He was trembling. Tears were running down his burning cheeks, but the shame was now diluted with defiance. "Fuck you both." His hand sped up. He jerked hard on his penis, so hard it burned. He remembered the wrecking ball swinging in its terrible, nonchalant arc into the leprous brick of the orphanage, the inflamed red and yellow falling in and exploding out. He remembered plunging them into poverty with just a phone call and a smirk, all the while imagining the looks on their faces and wishing he could be there to see them fall apart. Maybe that's why they stuck around and tormented him after all these years—he simply didn't have the closure of seeing their pain firsthand.
But he could watch Tea fall apart. Tea would beg, and cry, and plead too, but not with her mouth. He would silence that. Her eyes, those big, liquid, and eerily familiar blue eyes, would do all the talking. Her eyes and her warm, wet tightness would speak after he took her words away.
With a gasp, he fell in and exploded out. Sperm sprayed the marble walls of the shower and seeped over his fist.
It was the first time he had ever consciously masturbated.
Kaiba slumped against the wall. He lifted his hand and gazed at the mucus-like smears that contained his DNA. He knew what he would do tomorrow. After all, anything holding him back happened a long time ago. Nobody could punish him now. Who was Tea Gardner, anyway? She was only a silly little girl, a cheerleader for Yugi, a thing of absolutely no use to him on a financial or intellectual level. She was no challenge. She didn't even duel. Did he feel shame for using a tissue to blow his nose?
The thought occurred to him that Yugi and the mutt and the other guy with the horrifying hair had fucked Tea Gardner already, and the thought enraged him. It enraged him that they had gotten pleasure from a woman, pleasure that he, Kaiba, had never had. The fact that they were now men in a way that he wasn't angered him. He was superior in every way. How could they have something that he didn't? How could a woman choose them, and not him?
He would have to rectify this situation.
He could—WOULD—do whatever he wanted to her, with no shame. She was nothing, nothing at all.
