All characters belong to Kazuki Takahashi. This is a disturbing chapter. If you are easily offended, you might want to wait until the next update.

Spot of Blood

There was a spot of blood on Kaiba's fingers as he went to clean up, a spot of blood he didn't see until he turned on the faucet.

Seeing that blood made him think of the feel of a burning match.

He focused on the warmth of the water rushing over his hands, the softness of the washcloth, the movement of the small muscles in his fingers, the slippery firmness of the soap. He took his time. He did not look up. He didn't want to see his face in the mirror. He just looked at his hands—the hands that had hurt her, the hands that would soothe her, the hands that had felt the most exquisite softness between her legs.

In fact, her skin had been even softer, all over, since she was naked. There was more for him to touch. That was part of what made him come too soon. It took him everything not to ejaculate when he touched her breast. It felt creamy, almost foamy, under his fingers. Her nipple was hard.

He remembered from his self-tutelage that if a girl's nipple was hard, it meant that she was either cold or aroused. Because her skin was so warm, it couldn't have been from cold. The way he touched her must have made her feel good, must have made her want it, even though she had said she wouldn't do anything before. And if her nipple was hard, that meant she was wet.

He slid his hand down her ribcage to her waist, careful not to spook her. Her panties were slippery under his fingertips, and it took him a few tries to find a place to work his finger under. There was fine, fine hair there, and then folds of softness, and then he felt a little bit of moisture.

He had looked up at her face and saw her mouth relax and open, her lips swell. When he stroked her there, he heard her suck in her breath, and release it with a little moan. He had felt more wetness on his fingertip. So, he pushed his finger into her.

He didn't think it would hurt her. She had been slick with juice, so that hadn't been the problem. The problem was that she was too tight. When he had pushed his finger in, it was like ramming into a brick wall of flesh. Her walls strangled his fingertip.

Again, she had locked him out.

After he left her, he went back to his room, closed the door, and sat back down. He rested his elbows on his knees and held his face in his hands. He sat like that for a long time. He had wanted to please her, to be a good lover, just like he was a good businessman, a good flinger of insults, and a good big brother.

He didn't know why it mattered.

At least one good thing had come from this—he had physical proof that she was a virgin. Oh, he had believed her when she had told him in the girl's bathroom (he knew she didn't have it in her to lie), but feeling that barrier and that tightness made him feel relieved. It was irrefutable evidence that she hadn't lied, and that she wasn't giving herself away.

In hindsight, the feel of her skin was evidence enough. Had Yugi, the mutt, and Taylor been sleeping with her, they would know how sweet and smooth she was, and would be constantly touching her. They had less self-control than he did, especially that dog, Wheeler. The thought made him nauseated.

He thought about the streaks of his semen on her stomach, how it was the color of pearls, and it made her skin look pinker in comparison. He thought about her soaking up his shame, and his lust, making him a little lighter, a little freer.

It hadn't worked.

Mrs. Prosser was right. He was sick.

It was cold in the orphanage, sometimes. Seto would sneak showers to warm up. He knew he would get in trouble, but so far, he hadn't been caught yet.

One day, it was especially cold. The metal knob of the shower burned the palm of his hand. The warm water felt scalding on his bluish skin. It hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt.

Seto sighed and shuddered, a smile spreading across his face, and closed his eyes. The water was so friendly, and touched him so softly, that he made a decision right then and there—If I ever get rich, he thought, I'm going to have a fountain in every room, and three hot-tubs: one for outside, one for my bedroom, and one for my living room, and two swimming pools: one outside and one inside.

He spun around in the spray, his arms open. He wished he could hug that water. When it fell on the back of his neck and ran down his spine, it was like it was inside him, and embracing his heart.

There was a tingle between his legs, a tingle that was different than the rest of the little pinpricks on his skin. When he looked down, he saw that his "thing" was standing up. That 's what Mrs. Prosser called it, "your thing," and she would always say "thing" with a definite note of disgust.

It didn't seem disgusting to Seto. It was alarming, to see it all swollen, and he wondered if maybe he was sick, but a quick self-assessment told him that he didn't feel sick. It actually felt nice. It was a very warm feeling, and it made him smile even wider.

He touched the tip. It jumped, and the good feeling made him squirm. He tentatively grabbed it, and it pulsed in his hand.

He stroked it up and down, then grabbed it in his fist and pulled on it. He felt light-headed and giddy, in a good way, like he was flying. It felt better and better, and he was curious what would happen if he kept touching it.

The next second, he was wrenched into the air, his shoulder in a crushing, rending grip.

As he was pulled down the hall, all he could see was how dark it was, how the walls seemed to ooze darkness.

A door banged open with a sound like a shout and Seto was tossed to the ground. The rug under his fingers was blazing with the light from the fireplace, and Seto's shadow bled onto that light.

He didn't dare look up. His elbows could barely hold him up.

"Stand up," it was Mrs. Prosser. "I said stand up!"

Seto raised himself on shaky legs. His body wanted to fall to its knees, and a part of him wanted to beg. He would not let himself collapse. He would not beg. He would die standing.

No, he wouldn't die. He couldn't leave Mokuba alone here.

"You disgusting little worm," Mrs. Prosser rasped. "You sick, sick thing!"

The door banged open again. Mr. Prosser stepped in.

"What's wrong?" He demanded. "Why is that boy in here? And why is he naked?"

Mrs. Prosser turned to her son/husband, and pointed a stubby finger at Seto. "This dirty little brat was touching himself in our shower."

Mr. Prosser strode toward Seto. "Is that true, you filthy little bastard?"

Seto looked up into Mr. Prosser's beady little rat eyes and flushed face. This is what it feels like to die of fright, he thought, but underneath the fear was disgust. I will not let him kill me. I can't let myself be killed by something that ugly.

"Answer me!" Mr. Prosser yelled. His voice was shaking, like he wasn't used to yelling.

"There's no use asking him. If he debases his own body, you know he'll debase the truth, so just take my word for it." She walked into the shadows the fire couldn't penetrate, and pulled open a drawer in a heavy oak desk. "No matter. We'll teach him not to foul himself with impure thoughts." She stepped back into the firelight, her face dripping black shadow and washed orange with firelight. Her eyes were holes in her face. Seto couldn't look away to see what she had in her hand. Her face was too horrifying.

"Stand behind him and hold his arms." Mr. Prosser went around Seto and clasped his arms behind his back. Mrs. Prosser kneeled in front of Seto. She clasped his chin in her hand.

"We're going to burn those nasty thoughts and feelings out of you," she said. Her voice was soft and almost kind. "You'll thank us later."

She let go of Seto's face and lifted a book of matches in her left hand, holding his eyes with her own. With her right hand, she ripped a match free. In one smooth motion, she struck it, her arm snapping out to the side. She then quickly blew the match out and placed the red-hot head against the tip of Seto's penis.

Seto screamed.

"Imagine that a thousand, no, a million times worse, Seto, and you have a small idea of Hell!" Mrs. Prosser shouted above Seto's howling. She pulled out another match. "And that's where you'll go if you keep doing what I caught you doing, if you keep thinking nasty thoughts, if you give in to the call of the Split- Foot and the Serpent!"

"Please," Seto sobbed. "Please, I'm sorry." Oh, the sound of his own voice begging was horrible.

"Don't apologize to me," Mrs. Prosser had lit another match. She gazed at Seto over the flame. "Apologize to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" She blew the match out and pressed the tip to another spot on Seto's genitals.

Seto tried to pray. He tried to think of the words to a prayer, but he couldn't think of anything except the burning. He couldn't say anything, anyway. All he could do was scream and cry.

"Not to mention the diseases that come from such filthy thoughts," Mrs. Prosser continued. "Lust leads to promiscuity. You think this is bad, wait until your manhood falls off because you bedded with a filthy whore." Again, she lit another match, blew it out, and pressed it to Seto's penis.

Seto's knees gave out, and he slumped, dangling from Mr. Prosser's arms. He wasn't sure if even Mokuba could keep him alive, let alone standing.

"There now, Seto," Mrs. Prosser said. She sounded slightly out of breath. "It's all over now. There was only three—one for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I trust you'll never disgrace your body again?"

Seto gulped, coughed, and choked on his own tears. He was naked and sobbing in front of the pig and her piglet. The pain was excruciating.

A scratchy blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. "Take him back to his room, then get him an ice pack and some ointment. We can't let him get an infection."

Seto went limp in Mr. Prosser's arms as he was scooped up and carried back to his room. He was placed on his bed, and Mr. Prosser left. Why wasn't the pain subsiding?

Mr. Prosser came back. "Here, boy," he said. His voice was very quiet, and he wouldn't look at Seto. "You just put that ice where it hurts, and then put some of this ointment on it." He twisted off the tube's cap, and squeezed out some opaque gel on his own index finger. "This is all you need. Here's the first dose." He scraped the gel on his finger onto the cap, and then placed the tube and the cap onto the dresser. Then he left, and Seto blacked out.

When Mokuba came up from playing downstairs, Seto was in his pajamas and under the covers, the ice pack pressed to the gel covered sores on his penis. He couldn't bear touching himself, not after that, but he had to. He didn't want an infection, or the hell Mrs. Prosser had promised. His penis still hurt, but the gel and the ice helped.

"What's wrong, Seto?" Mokuba asked. His voice was worried. "Mr. Prosser told me you were sick, and not to bother you. What's the matter? Did you throw up?" "No, Mokuba," Seto tried not to cry. "I just got a really, really bad headache. And I think I have a fever."

"Don't worry, Seto," Mokuba said. "I'll get you a Popsicle. That'll make you feel better."

When Mokuba came back with the Popsicle, Seto was surprised. Mr. Prosser must have felt bad. Mokuba stared at him, wanting his big brother to smile, but Seto could only thank him weakly and take a few licks of his Popsicle before giving the rest to Mokuba. He knew that Mokuba wanted a smile more than any Popsicle, but he couldn't give it to him.

That was the second time Seto truly hated himself.

He realized now that the hate never really ever went away. It would sit quietly for a while, biding its time, but it always came back.

Soon after the time with the matches, Gozabura Kaiba adopted him and Mokuba. The welts on Kaiba's penis, clustered together, turned blood red, but didn't become infected. Sometimes, when he looked closely, he could see tiny white spots—scars that were barely visible, but to him as bright as neon.

The little scars, all together, were the same size as the drop of Tea's blood that had spotted his finger.