なんでも許せる人向け。100%妄想のゾルバの過去

My earliest memory is of being dragged along by my mother’s hand as we fled from place to place.
The small, poor farming village far from any big city was a closed, insular community. By the time I was old enough to understand, my father was already gone. Raising a mixed-blood child alone as a woman was simply too harsh an environment.
Born into this world already marked as a sin, pointed at and whispered about—especially as the child of a despised Mustari and a Clemar—I was treated as an abomination no matter where I went. Because of me, even my mother, who was not mixed, was shunned by her own people. A woman with a half-breed child could never find decent work in such a small village, so we fled to the nearest city, living hand-to-mouth. The memory of her pulling me by the hand is one of the first things I remember.
It was many years after I lost her that I finally understood: the only thing my mother, who had neither status nor education, could sell to feed us was her own body.
In the snowy back alleys of the holy capital, I would warm my frostbitten hands with my breath while waiting for her “work” to finish. When she emerged, her frail body staggering, she would trade the few copper coins she earned for bread and give it to me, who had simply been waiting. Even now the memory is hazy, but I still remember the terribly dry, hard bread and the way my mother smiled happily as she watched me eat it with a wrinkled nose. She would pull my cold body tightly against hers, say something, and laugh. Perhaps my mother was happy precisely because she was ignorant—she had nothing to compare her life to. Otherwise, that smile of hers would make no sense. Even now, whenever I reach for some uncertain happiness, I remember her face. What was it that filled you so completely? I can no longer ask. And at the same time, I cannot help remembering how she died. There is no sadness left anymore—only the image burned into my mind. In a hidden corner of the alley, a “workplace” nothing more than a shabby straw mat. Her neck bent at an unnatural angle. Copper coins scattered carelessly, glinting dully. And the snow of the holy capital falling so thick and white that it seemed it would erase even the fact that she had ever existed.
Even after losing my mother, even though everyone despised me, I was too cowardly to choose death. To secure a roof over my head and enough scraps of food to quiet my hunger, I volunteered for the army. My long bangs hid the third eye that marked me as Mustari, so I managed to reach the interview without being harassed. The interviewer was a large Clemar soldier. I was still young and foolish enough to take my mother’s words—“lying is wrong”—completely literally.
“You… are you Clemar?”
When the soldier asked, I answered with stupid honesty:
“I’m mixed-blood. Clemar and Mustari…”
The soldier recoiled, gently brushing aside my long bangs. When he saw my closed third eye, he let out a sigh and tossed the enlistment papers onto the desk.
“So you’ve got nowhere else to go, huh? Well, do your best and serve the country.”
That was how my enlistment was decided. The memories that follow are even worse.
Before being assigned to my barracks, we received equipment and blankets. The other recruits called me “kid” at first, but the moment they learned I was mixed-blood their expressions hardened and they quickly moved away. Of course no decent supplies were left for a child who had no one to help him. I ended up with an oversized set of gear and a thin, moldy-smelling blanket before making my way to the barracks. The room already had people in it. Everyone had spread out their belongings to claim their space. In the end, the only spot left was a bed with clear signs of water leakage—the one no one else wanted. Looking back, there were probably worse options, but compared to sleeping outside it was warm. No wind or snow could freeze me here. A room packed with people was surprisingly warm. Before falling asleep, I whispered to myself, Mother, I think I can live on my own now.
The mornings in the barracks began early with roll call. I had never been a deep sleeper, and the rustling of blankets and snoring around me kept me awake, but I still woke more refreshed than I ever had while living on the streets. Suppressing a yawn, I followed the crowd to morning assembly. Being noticeably smaller than everyone else, I had to run to keep up. Most of the adults were still half-asleep and barely dressed. I, on the other hand, was already neatly changed and standing in line. The officer pointed at me and said, “The rest of you should learn from him!” and ordered push-ups for those who hadn’t finished dressing. At the time I felt proud to be praised. Only later did I realize the officer had deliberately made me the target of everyone’s resentment.
The hot-blooded Rusanto and Paripus recruits were furious that they had been humiliated while a mixed-blood brat was praised. I was as ignorant and foolish as my mother had been. I would soon learn, through my own body, that this world is built by stepping on fools like me.
After roll call, cleaning the barracks began. Those who had been late were ordered to wipe the freezing stone floors with rags, even though the Altaberry barracks were bitterly cold. Meanwhile, the officer’s new favorite—me—was handed a broom. I worked hard, happy to be praised, not realizing that the harder a failure tries, the more it irritates those around him.
“Hey! Can you sweep over here too? Yeah, you! The mixed-blood! You’re so impressive, getting up so early!”
Smiling soldiers surrounded me. I had no reason to doubt them, so I innocently believed that if I worked hard, people would understand me.
The moment I reached the dead angle the officer couldn’t see, a blow struck my stomach. Before I could understand what had happened, I collapsed. A dull pain, rising stomach acid, and the taste of blood burned my throat.
“What the hell do you mean ‘excellent’? Don’t get cocky, you half-breed trash.”
One of them grabbed my long bangs and shoved a dirty rag into my mouth. My head was slammed to the floor. Then they took turns kicking and stomping on me as I curled up. The stench of the rag, the bitter taste spreading in my mouth, the sharp sting of something I shouldn’t have eaten—all of it dragged me from the brief happiness I had felt and plunged me into pure malice. I didn’t understand what was happening. The only thing I knew from experience was how to protect my vital points, so I guarded them as best I could.
“Hey! What are you doing over there!!”
The officer’s voice rang out. The attackers scattered like spiders.
“You okay? That’s a nasty injury.”
The officer gently took my hand and helped me up. He carried the small-statured me to another room for treatment. I was completely taken in by his kindness. For the first time, someone had shown me warmth. It was only natural that my ignorant self would cling to it. The officer was busy and couldn’t always be there. The violence from my fellow recruits never stopped; the wounds kept piling up. Still, the thought that the kind officer would come for me gave me the strength to endure.
When I had grown somewhat used to the daily violence and hatred, the officer summoned me. He said he wanted to have dinner together. It was rumored among the soldiers that the officer only invited those he particularly favored. I hurried to his room, barely able to contain my excitement at being chosen.
The meal was luxurious—dishes I had never tasted before. The officer was from the upper class, a true elite with a guaranteed path to promotion.
As I ate happily, he said,
“If you’d like, you can sleep here tonight. The barracks must be cold. I’ll get permission.”
My judgment was dulled by the alcohol in the sweets, so I accepted. The next morning I woke up feeling clearer than I ever had in my life. I thanked the officer politely and returned to the barracks before roll call.
Of course, rumors of my morning return spread instantly.
“So the captain likes mixed-blood, huh?”
“Upper-class people have their quirks.”
“Wasn’t that kid a boy?”
“Guess his ass is useful.”
“I heard his mother used to sell herself in the alleys.”
“Ha! Mother and son both making money with their bodies.”
Rumors and speculation spread without limit. I didn’t care what they said about me, but I couldn’t stand hearing the officer who had been kind to me slandered. I desperately defended him. Each time, I was forced to drink filthy water, beaten and kicked. Still, I kept protecting the officer who had shown me kindness.
In the midst of those days, the officer received a transfer to the royal capital, Grand Trad. On his last day in Altaberry, he invited me to dinner once more.
Soft music played in the room. Candlelight illuminated the meal. I still remember the gentle smile on his face as he watched me eat.
“If you wish, you can come with me to Grand Trad as my direct subordinate. I like your straightforward nature. I’ve grown quite fond of you.”
He took my hand. Knowing the Mustari custom of the handshake, I was startled for a moment, but I understood it as a simple gesture of trust and smiled back. The officer took that as consent. He said tomorrow we would leave, so tonight would be our last feast, and he raised his wine glass.
“You should drink a little too. Don’t worry—if you oversleep, I’ll make sure to take you with me.”
I obediently sipped the large glass of red wine he poured. Unaccustomed to alcohol, I became drunk in no time. My body felt light, as though my mind and flesh had separated. A strange, floating sensation. I thought it was simply anticipation for the future that awaited me.
When I could no longer stand, the officer lifted me in his arms. His warm body and large frame gave me a sense of security.
He began removing my clothes. I thought he was just making me comfortable for sleep, so I let him. When his fingers touched my broken ribs, it hurt, but I believed he was concerned for me. When he reached for my underwear, I felt embarrassed—maybe they were dirty? When he applied warm liquid to my body, I wondered if he was moisturizing me even though I hadn’t bathed. I never doubted that the officer would do anything bad to me.
Just as I was about to surrender to sleep and intoxication, a searing pain tore through me. It was so intense I forgot I was drunk. It took me a moment to realize a finger had been forced into a place that was only meant for excretion. I let out a scream like silk being torn, but no one came to help. My alcohol-weakened limbs couldn’t resist. The fingers increased. When I looked at the officer, his gentle smile was the same as always. The pain felt like a nightmare.
“I’ve wanted to do this with you for so long.”
He licked my third eye roughly and pushed in another finger. Burning pain and nausea overwhelmed me. At the same time, the heated look in his eyes made me feel, for the first time, that I had value. When the fingers were finally withdrawn, something hot pressed against me. Under his rough breathing, I was pierced. I immediately understood that this was the same act my mother had performed in the snow to earn money. To gain something, you had to offer something in return.
My small, broken body creaked. Blood flowed from the joints, but the officer thrust selfishly, ignoring it all. He had told me he needed me. He had told me he had wanted this. I repeated to myself that this must be love. If someone like me could be loved—even in such a twisted form—then perhaps this pain was exactly what I deserved. All I could do was repeat that self-suggestion while my body was torn apart.
I woke to a dull ache. My voice was hoarse; no sound came out. The light through the curtains told me it was still early morning. The officer was still asleep beside me. When I tried to sit up, every part of my body screamed. My broken ribs were badly swollen and bruised. I crouched at the edge of the bed, letting the cold morning air wash over me.
Waking up with someone beside me. Yes, this must be happiness. My mother had been abandoned, but I had someone next to me. That alone was enough. Last night’s act was love—I told myself that. The red-black stains on the white sheets stood out horribly. The soldiers’ cruel words spun round and round in my head.
“He must have been liked for his body.”
“The captain has peculiar tastes.”
“No one cares what happens to him anyway.”
“Perfect for this.”
Dizzy from the lingering alcohol, I wiped my body in the officer’s familiar room. I noticed large bruises shaped like hands on my neck and ankles, but I looked away. The coldness of my fingertips reminded me of my dead mother. The officer had said, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” So I wouldn’t be abandoned like her. I wouldn’t be left to disappear under the snow, unnoticed by anyone. For someone as worthless as me, simply being given a place was already more happiness than I deserved. If I just accepted that, this happiness would continue—I had no choice but to believe it.
The day of departure arrived. I returned to the barracks once to gather my few belongings. I folded the moldy rag-like blanket and returned it. I felt the other soldiers sneering as I passed. I kept my head down and hurried. Suddenly I collided hard with a large body. It was the Rusanto and his Paripus lackeys—the ones who had first shoved a rag in my mouth and kicked me.
“So you’re going to Grand Trad? Must be nice.”
“You’re the captain’s whore, right?”
“Yeah! Let me give you a parting gift.”
I was shoved against the wall. Even after a few years of growth, I was still no match for the noble-born Rusanto or the physically strong Paripus.
“Everything we did to you? We didn’t decide that ourselves.”
“We made pretty good money.”
“We were told to rough you up.”
“Guess who asked us?”
A horrible premonition rose. Why had they known about the blind spot? Whose blind spot was it? And the person who came to “save” me afterward… The clues connected one after another. Cold sweat broke out. Nausea hit me. Just as I was about to collapse, the Rusanto and Paripus straightened up. I had once thought that voice was my salvation. Now I knew the truth.
“You were late, so I came to get you. Shall we go?”
The same gentle smile as always. It was the officer.
“Have a wonderful honeymoon, Captain.”
The Rusanto smirked. The officer put his arm around my shoulder and led me away.

The royal capital, Grand Trad. As the name suggested, it was the seat of the king and the capital of the united kingdom. Compared to Altaberry, the holy capital of Sanctism, the population and diversity were on a completely different scale. Where many people gather, life takes many forms. The main avenue where nobles lived, the grand plaza with its cathedral, the bustling market spreading before it, and the slums further down the hill. A city that contained both sacred places of prayer and public executions performed daily on the streets.
The royal capital I set foot in for the first time was overflowing with noise.
The transfer procedures from Altaberry had already been completed by the officer. I would begin living in the Grand Trad barracks the very next day.
I still remember how excited I was to ride in the officer’s private armored carriage for the first time. During the free moments I spent on deck, feeling the wind and seeing the vastness of the world. But every other moment I spent serving the officer’s desires, day and night. He would press my broken ribs or choke my neck, yet he kept whispering, “You’re so cute,” and “I’ll protect you.” By the time I had grown used to being used and could accept him with only light preparation, we finally reached our destination. The days of debauchery passed in what felt like the blink of an eye. I gathered my small belongings and headed to the barracks in the royal capital.
The officer, being originally from Grand Trad, would live at his family home. The barracks here were not as freezing as those in Altaberry, but with so many people, six or seven of us were crammed into a room with only two beds. Thanks to the officer’s influence, my equipment fit properly and the blanket had no holes or mold. People talk, and word spread quickly: a mixed-blood who was being kept by a Clemar captain. Some stared and whispered, but no one spoke to me directly.
My days consisted of completing the tasks I was given alone, then going to serve the officer whenever he called. It was a relief not to live in constant fear of violence like I had in Altaberry. My body was slowly growing. Perhaps because I had become a little more dependable, the number of times the officer said “I’ll protect you” while holding me seemed to decrease.
Several years later, I was summoned by the officer as usual for dinner. We sat at opposite ends of a long table. The meal proceeded in cold silence.
“Zorba, I’ve received a marriage proposal. She’s the daughter of a noble family, and my family is encouraging it. So I won’t be able to see you like this anymore. But you’ve grown up a lot since we met. Of course I’ll continue to support you! You can live on your own now, right?”
It was sudden, yet at the same time I had somehow expected it. I realized, somewhere deep down, that this man had never wanted me—he had only wanted a helpless child he could control without consequences.
“…Everything I’ve survived until now is thanks to you, Captain. You are my savior. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and I am truly grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”
“You really are so understanding. Wonderful. By the way, I’d like to throw a farewell party. I’m sure there will be people there who will take a liking to you. Please let me host it for you.”
I felt an unpleasant premonition, but I had no choice. I had lived this long by being kept. If it meant not ending up on the streets again, I would use whatever I could. I accepted the offer. The date was set quickly, and I was told to cleanse myself before attending.
The nights in the royal capital were quiet. The daytime bustle felt like a lie. A carriage sent from the barracks picked me up and took me to the district where many nobles lived. The moment I stepped inside the mansion, the scene changed completely. The interior was opulent. The party was already in full swing; waiters carried wine, and guests laughed and drank. Guided by the officer’s attendant, I was led deeper into the building. As we went further, the polite social chatter gradually mixed with something more obscene. Moans could be heard from somewhere, discarded jackets lay on the floor. I was taken to a secluded room where attendants adjusted my appearance. I realized I was being dressed up like a high-class prostitute. I had known, even before entering the mansion, that I was about to be sold to a new owner. Still, having the truth thrust in front of me was a shock.
With a knock, the officer entered. His eyes widened for a moment, then he embraced me and kissed me. I think he said something complimentary, but the words didn’t register. He took my hand and led me to a large room filled with luxurious decorations, a canopy bed, and many spectators. Both the spectators and the officer wore masks. No doubt these were people who could not afford to have it known they had bid on a mixed-blood slave.
“A trained mixed-blood slave, age twelve. The demonstration will now begin. Those interested, please inform the nearest attendant of your desired bid amount. ‘Sampling’ is also available tonight.”
The officer threw me onto the bed. Once he confirmed I wouldn’t run, the restraints attached to the bed were removed. Even a mixed-blood child dressed like a whore wouldn’t tempt many hands. Deciding that wouldn’t be enough to sell me, the officer sent over a burly Paripus. He had clearly been ordered to do this. His way of touching me was exactly the same as the officer’s. He kissed me lightly, buried his face in my neck, and scattered kisses across my chest. When I was younger I had believed this was love—that someone wanted me.
My thin clothes were removed as my chest and sides were licked. My body, long trained for this, recognized the sensation as pleasure and began preparing for what was to come. My breathing quickened, my skin grew hot. I could feel the spectators’ eyes on me. The Paripus’s carefully trimmed claws stroked my most private place. He spread warm oil over my body like a caress and spread my legs. I understood that this was the price I had to pay for the comfortable years I had been allowed to live.
His fingers sank inside me. The place that had been used so often accepted them easily, against my will. He must have been given information in advance; when his fingers found the spot I reacted violently, and he smiled with satisfaction. Unlike the officer, there was no emotion or technique in his movements—only a slightly disappointing mechanical torment.
A phallic toy modeled after male anatomy was pressed against my loosened entrance. I thought I heard the spectators swallow. The next instant it was thrust deep inside me.
After that came an endless “sampling.” Old men who could no longer use their own bodies ravaged me with toys. Those who still could used me freely. I told myself this was simply settling a debt. My mind drifted far away while my body was filled and violated. There were two of me: one moaning from forced pleasure, and one calmly observing the situation. By the time the party ended, the bed was so stained with various fluids that it was impossible to tell whose they were.
Given how successful the auction had been, someone must have bought me, but the transfer would happen later. Perhaps aroused by watching me being taken by others, the officer kissed me as if to overwrite them and thrust all the way inside in one motion. The alcohol-scented kiss and violent movements made my body creak. After years together, he knew exactly where to torment me. I was made to scream until my voice gave out. By the time I was released, my legs could no longer support me.
I was delivered back to the barracks by carriage. Dragging my heavy, aching body, I returned to my room. I thought I wasn’t hurt, but I must have been, because that night I cried from an unbearable sadness and emptiness. Tomorrow I would go back to being a soldier as usual. That was how I felt. But reality was not so kind.
The next morning, a transfer notice was posted. Because ownership had changed, my affiliation had also changed. My previous officer had only been interested in young children, whom he could protect. That was why I had been allowed to work quietly in the rear. This new assignment, however, was to the front lines.
The new post was near the border. The united kingdoms, once annexed through war, were fragile; the military had to remain constantly on edge. The stress reached its peak exactly at the border. The noble who had bought me apparently intended to send me there as entertainment for his relatives, but in ordinary circumstances no one would feel excitement toward a mixed-blood like me. Only disgust. As a result, I was given the hardest jobs, used as an outlet for frustration, falsely accused, and given the humiliating nickname “Crybaby Zorba.” It became an everyday occurrence.
The only magic I could use was moving objects. I was useless with offensive magic. Since no one would mourn me if I died at the front, I was given endless tasks—digging trenches, building field fortifications—without rest. Both I, who wished a stray bullet would end me, and the soldiers around me, who wished for an “accident,” were constantly disappointed. Somehow I always came back alive.
Perhaps the days of being kept had been better. I thought this as I looked down at my belongings, which had been deliberately stuffed with monster corpses as harassment. At least back then, even if it was wrong, I had been wanted. When I tried to clean it up, someone deliberately bumped into me, spilling the corpses across the floor. Of course no apology came. They looked at me with contempt and mockery, then kicked me as a way to relieve stress. By then my heart no longer even felt pain.
But the endlessly repeating gray days suddenly came to an end one night.
I had been ordered to finish an impossible amount of work alone by morning. While I was struggling, a voice suddenly spoke behind me.
“You’re quite skilled.”
Startled, I dropped the materials. Fearing I would be scolded for damaging valuable supplies, I reached down to pick them up. The person who had spoken picked them up and handed them to me.
“Sorry for surprising you.”
His hair was a dazzling gold, as if it had gathered the morning light. His skin was white and translucent like porcelain. His face was so perfectly beautiful it was almost terrifying. I couldn’t look away. When I realized this was Louis Guiabern—the man recently called the God of War—I nearly collapsed on the spot. Why would someone so noble, someone who could easily be kept in the center, be here in this dusty, muddy front line? And why would a Clemar like Louis speak to someone like me? I knew I should answer, but all that escaped my frightened throat was a weak, breathless sound.
“You’re being made to work this late…”
He looked up at the pile of materials, then held out his hand. I never imagined he was offering to help me up. He grabbed the arm I had instinctively raised to protect my vital points and pulled me to my feet.
“Impressive control. You’ve stacked them beautifully.”
No one had ever praised me for something as simple as moving objects, but this elite officer complimented even that. It felt strange.
“Let me help. Two people will finish faster.”
“W-why…? There’s no benefit for you…”
“Well… your magic intrigued me.”
He narrowed his eyes and smiled.
Working together, we finished long before dawn thanks to his skill. In the remaining time, at his request, I gave him a tour of the facility. He had just been assigned here. I couldn’t understand why someone of his status and ability would come to such a remote border outpost, but he only laughed and evaded the question. At first I thought he possessed everything I lacked. Yet he never looked down on me or despised me. If friendship existed, this must be what it felt like. He was kind, gentle, and easy to talk to.
Although we were roughly the same age, he already held a high rank. His arrival completely changed the power dynamics at the border base. The officers followed him, and he commanded the battlefield brilliantly. I understood why he was called the God of War. He seemed like someone from another world. Yet for some reason he made time to visit me often. We talked about trivial things and sometimes about strategy. For a mere private like me it was an honor beyond measure, but I couldn’t understand why he sought me out. Then one day he asked if I would share a room with him.
“…Me?”
“Yes. Would that be unpleasant?”
“No, it’s far too great an honor… but…”
He must have found my surprise amusing, because he burst out laughing.
“There’s no deep meaning. We often talk late into the night, don’t we? This way you won’t have to worry about the time. Besides, I have a single room and you’re sleeping in the corner of a storage room. If we share, everyone in the fort can have two per room.”
He gave me a perfectly reasonable explanation to put me at ease. I couldn’t read his true intentions, but I had nothing left to lose. And if he wished it, I had no right to refuse. He offered his hand. This was surely a handshake of trust, meaning “let’s get along from now on.” There was no deeper meaning. I took the offered hand. I decided to enjoy this peaceful time until he grew tired of me.
After we began sharing a room, I learned that his perfection had no flaws. He trained constantly and always looked ahead; it was beautiful to watch. The occasional smile that suited his age was precious. I realized I was falling for him. A completely hopeless, mismatched love. I was mixed-blood, the same sex, and already defiled. I was unworthy of him. I even thought it would be better if he hated me than if he was disappointed. Yet he saw what I could do and acknowledged it.
Before he proved himself, there had been rumors that he was a pervert or that I was causing trouble, but once he began to distinguish himself those baseless stories vanished. Before long he was called the God of War and praised for treating everyone equally regardless of birth. I found him dazzling, and at the same time I felt blessed by the miracle that someone like him would stay by my side.
One month after we began sharing a room, something unusual happened. Normally he woke first, but that day he remained under the covers.
“Lord Louis… are you feeling unwell…?”
“Ah… no, I’m fine. I’ll get up soon.”
He had a meeting first thing in the morning. For someone who never overslept, staying in bed without being ill meant something was preventing him from getting up. If it was a physiological issue he couldn’t control, perhaps I could help.
“Um… if you’re having trouble… I can assist…”
“…What?”
“…If it’s a man’s physiological reaction that won’t settle… I can help.”
I realized how ridiculous I sounded. He was clearly shocked. But his ears turned red, he looked away for a second, then beckoned me with a small gesture from under the blanket.
Trying not to startle him, I slipped under the covers from the foot of the bed, careful not to catch my horns. When I reached the place I was looking for, I saw it was even more impressive than it had been that morning. I pressed my nose against it through his pants, then slowly teased it. When I heard his breathing change, I confirmed it wasn’t a bad reaction and hooked my fingers under the waistband.
“Please tell me if it becomes too much.”
I pulled down his underwear along with his pants. It was clearly larger than it had been that morning. Thick and proudly erect, it was without doubt the largest I had ever dealt with. I had been taught that if someone wanted to watch, making it visually obscene would please them. I tucked my hair behind my ear, licked my lips to wet them, and kissed the tip to reassure him. I gave it light, teasing licks with the tip of my tongue while my hands gently stroked his thighs and groin. At the same time he let out a long breath. The young golden-haired officer, who usually commanded grown men on the front lines, reacted with a freshness that suited his age. It was adorable.
I deliberately let plenty of saliva coat it and served him with wet, obscene sounds. He seemed embarrassed by the noise; even though he had asked to watch, he occasionally looked away, his cheeks flushed. When I took his balls into my mouth and licked them with the flat of my tongue, I heard a sharp intake of breath through his nose. Although his sensitivity wasn’t fully developed yet, the places that felt good were the same as any man’s. I ran my lips along the underside and took the head into my mouth without letting my teeth touch. I opened wide, using the drooling saliva for lubrication, and slowly stroked the shaft with my left hand while my right hand rolled his balls. Glancing up, I saw him covering his mouth with one hand, leaning back on the other, his long lashes wet with tears. His blue eyes, glistening beneath those wet lashes, were fixed on me so as not to miss a single moment. Our eyes met. I gently took the hand covering his mouth and guided it to the back of my head. Once I felt his fingers rest there, I intensified my efforts. Using every technique I had been taught, I served him. The hand that had been hesitant now gripped my hair firmly. When I took him deep into my throat, he pressed my head down and released. I swallowed without choking, the movement of my throat squeezing him. Since he was still sensitive right after climax, I heard a suppressed moan that made me happy. I carefully licked him clean so as not to leave any mess, then released him with a soft pop.
“If it pleased you… please call on me anytime. It’s… really the only thing I’m good at…”
Normally after oral service my body would be used, but today the flow was different, so I felt strangely embarrassed. I didn’t even know whether I should move the hand still resting limply on my head. All I could do was wait for his vacant, unfocused eyes to return to me.
As I knelt there with his still slightly heated length in front of me, my body ached with the desire to be held. I felt ashamed of my own shallowness.