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The More Things Change	By : Sushi4Brains Category: Naruto > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 8513 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto or any of its characters, nor is any profit made from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
A/N: I felt so bad for the predicament we’ve left Yamato/Tenzou in; he's given up as there is no escape from his 'captors,' he’s given himself over, realizing this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to indulge a long held sexual fantasy. He’s set to endure the pain to extrapolate this experience of Kakashi and Hound together, doing as they please with his body and spin it into an embellished memory to enjoy as often as he pleases.
Come; let us explore Yamato’s reflections and cognitive processes while the poor dear can still think straight.
In the span of a sneeze, a time-honored ritual was turned on its ear.
In times past whenever I found myself in this position, I vowed never to let it happen again; a prime example of youthful rebellion against the inescapable. It took me a while to figure it out, but the only way I knew how to keep that promise was by enforced separation from Kakashi/Hound; separation only made it easier to idealize the man/monster. I came to dread those times when my mind wasn’t engaged with something productive, even my dreams weren’t safe from his intrusion.
Twelve years pass and we’re thrown together on a whim of the Hokage.
Four days and one stupid mistake later and here I am again . . . a grown man, stripped naked, splayed across the lap of my commanding officer as I prepare myself to receive punishment better suited to a disobedient child.
Guess Hound was partially right. The more things change; the more they stay the same.
Well . . . not exactly.
In times past, Kakashi would have succinctly stated his disapproval, enumerated the reasons why this form of correction was the only one appropriate, and the rump blistering would have commenced straight away.
No games, no penalty phases and no spectators to my humiliation most certainly.
And now the infamous Hound, two-legged demon dog from the lowest parts of hell manifests in the flesh to witness this private moment, to voice his approval of my chastisement . . . to laugh me to scorn as Kakashi doles out his brand of reckoning for my error.
Remarkable … in the field, I knew to expect the unexpected from Hound; that’s what made him a fearsome opponent, an unorthodox leader, able to out think and outmaneuver our enemies. Kakashi’s the same way of course, but in him there’s a fount of human kindness, unknown by Hound.
In the field, Kakashi favored quick, silent and merciful kills whereas Hound enjoyed taunting his foes with imaginative and often, perverse methods of psychological and physical torture; the hair-raising screams of his enemies -- a symphony to his ears.
I can only imagine how thrilled he’ll be if Kakashi’s actions can drag the same type of ‘music’ from me.
Here in this place, on familiar ground . . . trapped between them, I know it’s unwise to trust either of them. Between Kakashi’s attempts to dulcify me, kneading my flesh that he might cuittle my nerves and muscles into relaxation and Hound silently threatening, dragooning me into submission with his fixed gaze and utility pouch filled with nefarious instruments . . .
I fear it equally unwise to trust myself.
Hound is an extremely volatile entity, a being whose fuse grows shorter as the years roll on. He had and still has, little patience for acts of kindness and a lesser degree of tolerance for those who can’t mentally keep pace with him, or physically stomach his gruesome ways. It’s no wonder then our comrades and even the Sandaime Hokage were amazed when Hound insisted I remain a permanent part of his squad all those years.
Of course, why wouldn’t he keep me by his side?
I was the ‘sacrificial lamb’ thrown out into an open field to appease the rapacious wolf.
Those higher up the chain in ANBU command feared Hound, like a ferocious animal, would someday break free of Kakashi’s ability to hold him in check. They’d investigated numerous means to put him down should that day ever come. Given my familiarity with him, that job was secretly foisted onto me.
But they misjudged my willingness to carry out a direct order; they also underestimated the strength of Kakashi’s mental faculties, as well as my respect for Kakashi and my fear of Hound.
Back then, I was eager to learn, too obedient for my own good and completely star struck by the legend and the man.
I was but a lump of clay and he, Kakashi/Hound the potters.
Hound spun me about, molded me into his own image of what a shinobi should be; he plucked out perceived impurities with the pointed forceps of his words and left the physical discipline of my body in the hands of his alternate persona.
Kakashi smoothed away my inherent imperfections with the palm of his hand or the flat planes of a wide paddle. Anything that would make me shatter in the heated kiln of battle had to be purged; igniting a fire at the root, or rather the seat of the reluctance was the only way Kakashi believed I could learn.
And when it came to ‘smoothing out my imperfections,’ Kakashi always adhered to a pattern of behavior, both predictable and comforting.
The implements of correction, were selected in advance and neatly arranged in the order in which Kakashi would use them. The arrangement of the implements and the materials from which they were constructed, signified the severity of the discipline or punishment he’d administer and the position I was required to assume.
Short leather implements alone, meant I’d be over Kakashi’s knee for the duration; longer leather implements like the razor strop or the tawse meant I was to bend forward at the waist with my palms on the seat of the chair; this position let Kakashi to move about me freely, providing a wider arc for each powerful strike.
I preferred those times when the short leather implements were on display—it meant Kakashi wasn’t truly angry with me; more importantly it meant I’d be in constant contact with his body. These were disciplinary or as he called it, ‘attitude adjustment’ sessions he used to address areas of laziness, such as my timidity when sparring with him or as a reminder to mind my tone of voice when addressing a superior officer.
In between vigorous swats, there would be conversation . . . of a sort; he’d lightly scold me and I’d give choked out explanations for my actions or lack thereof.
Once the discipline session was over, I was expected to kneel before him, to apologize and then thank him for the correction provided. Afterwards, I literally sprinted home, stripped off my clothes as soon as my front door locked behind me and straight to the bathroom I ran, leaving bits and pieces of uniform where ever they happened to fall.
I can still remember how good it felt; easing my burning backside against the cool, slick tiles of the bathroom with my cock in my hand. As I stood there with my eyes closed, I’d slowly stroke myself back to hardness, replaying Kakashi’s words in my mind. Orgasm, quick and powerful overtook me sooner than I wanted and subsequently, I’d stumble into the shower to wash away the shame . . . the proof of my desire for him.
Crawling into bed those nights, exhausted and yet strangely unfulfilled, I’d toss and turn for hours before drifting off to sleep.
By the gods, I was so pathetic back then.
Yet, if I’m honest, the times when Kakashi opted for more strident correction, were the most satisfying.
Wooden implements of various lengths and thicknesses lying beside the chair or directly in front of it meant I’d violated one of his cardinal rules and all hopes for leniency should be promptly abandoned.
No words passed between us before, during or after; this was punishment on a myriad of levels. Only the repetitious sharp snap of the hairbrush or paddles and the frequent hisses of pain as my sweaty palms slid across the seat of the old wooden chair -- these were the only sounds permitted within the boundaries of Kakashi’s living room.
Time came to a standstill on this merry go round of exquisite agony, but once the paddle or hairbrush fell for the last time, Kakashi would walk away from me, expecting that I’d dress quickly and remove myself from his residence.
Knowing I’d pushed Kakashi to take such drastic measures, hurt more than the combined strikes my body absorbed.
An emotional wreck, that’s what I was when I left a punishment session; regret inundated my mind and weighed heavy on my heart.
I always took my time walking home those nights – that I might agnize my error . . . that I might savor the pain inflicted; my thighs crisscrossed with stripes from the ruler or the switch, my ass, swollen and tender from the heavy-handed strikes of dense, unyielding wood. And as I slowly made my way home, I feared my engorged cock would burst through my pants.
Every excruciating step toward home reinforced the determination to get my act together, that Kakashi might not have to revisit this form of chastisement in the future.
Every excruciating step toward my home made my body quiver as I imagined what it might feel like . . . Kakashi’s nails digging into my hips as he pounded me from behind, his hips slamming against the tender skin of my ass; his balls colliding with mine as he fucked out every bit of the frustrations I’d heaped upon him until my eyes crossed in pleasurable pain.
When my front door closed, and locked behind me after a session of punishment, I too followed a predictable pattern of behavior which mortified, frightened and exhilarated me.
I always headed straight for the bedroom where I retrieved a small tube of lubricant from the nightstand before I undressed. Flopping down on the hard surface of the bed, I’d grind my hips into the knotty fabric of the comforter; my mind randomly supplying the loud, swishing sounds of long, thin paddles or the cane slicing through the air as I relived every stroke Kakashi had precisely laid across my ass and the backs of my thighs.
At some point, I couldn’t take the memories any longer; the desires of my body screamed out that I take an active part in gratifying its needs.
Fumbling for the lubricant beside me, I’d squeeze out a healthy dollop of the viscous substance into the palm of my left hand, dipping the fingers of my other hand into the cool creamy goo, warming it to body temperature.
A deep tremulous breath and then a slow, steady breach of my puckered entrance; the momentary sting as one and then both fingers slipped inside would ease as I imagined the smooth, beet red head of my captain’s cock nudging me open. Warm, tight heat constricted around my fingers as they inched forward, searching for that tiny cluster of nerves; with the searing, constant ache of a well paddled bottom against the coarse, decorative material of the bedspread, my straining cock ached to be stroked.
I never understood why orgasm took so long to arrive after that; perhaps the numerous sensations I experienced were too much for my overheated brain to process . . . perhaps I was too caught up in the imagery of Kakashi’s pale, naked body angrily rutting against my olive skin as I gave myself to him. Fervent stroking quickened and when my fingers finally bumped against that hidden area of pleasure, my release was explosive.
My body wildly convulsed, jerking me inches off the mattress as ribbons of hot, salty cum splattered against my chest and chin; my tongue greedily lapping up traces of my own essence as I imagined it was Kakashi’s. My fingers, constrained by spasmodic contractions were pushed from their tight prison and fell with a thump against the bedspread, right before I drifted off into a deep dreamless sleep.
Tonight, however, Kakashi strayed far from our ritual; things were much too quiet in the tiny living room.
Hound sat before me, demanding an answer to a simple question too complex for my feverish mind to understand . . . too damning for my lips to utter.
“What’s it gonna be, boy?” I heard him say when he jerked my chin upward.
“Answer me. . . what the hell was so fascinating that it took your mind off the mission?”

Notes:
Cuittle: cajole, coax.
Dragoon: to force by oppressive measures, coerce.
Agnize: recognize, acknowledge, own up to.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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The More Things Change