Epithumia

There were times when I wished he wasn't as perfect as he was, that his responses weren't so sickeningly mechanical, so devoid of feeling—it infuriated me so much that there were times when I relented to my rage, abusing and copulating with him in increasingly vicious ways, if only to elicit that long, passionate, pained moan he had given me the pleasure of hearing when first I took him in Kyoto.

But then again, if he were any different, he wouldn't be my Tsuzuki-san.

My fingers now weave themselves into his deliciously soft hair, before turning into a brutal grip that tilts his head back, leaving his throat exposed to me, where I press an ironically gentle kiss against it. I continue to scatter feather light kisses along that pale column of skin; sometimes if my mood sours, I bite into his neck outright, and even draw blood. He arches against me then, trembling with pleasure or fear—but I can never tell, for I am no telepath, really, as it were (a misconception among my enemies and allies alike, for what I do is nothing more than what a very skilled psychologist manages with his patients by way of analysis and observation).

I caress, lovingly, the body I've brutalised so many times over in the past six months since the Kyoto fire, up till the novelty of Tsuzuki-san's regenerative abilities wears on me, and I had find other things to do with him to amuse myself. I will say now, that if anything, Tsuzuki's body is remarkably sensitive to sensual stimuli, and it has been a great pleasure for me to invade him and use him as I have. Earlier, I mentioned that I tire of his doll-like behaviour, but he does become more animated in bed-play, I've observed, and it brings me no greater excitement than to play with him as callously and cruelly as if a toy, after another tedious day at work.

And when I've had my fill of him, he reverts to his listless, lifeless self. His limbs splay carelessly all over the bed, while his fetching eyes always observe a point just to the right of my head. There is plaintiveness in that gaze of his, as though he pleads to EnMa himself to grant him death at long last. And I laugh, 'There's no one who can save you, Tsuzuki-san,' I remind him, and as though in response to my words, he weeps, acknowledging the reality of his predicament. But I can't resist his tears, and I kiss them away. I dress him then, gently, as though he might break at the slightest touch—and indeed, he has already been broken, although it is all purely in his mind—and I leave him in our bedroom, still weeping and still as beautiful as ever.

'We are the only ones here, you know,' I tell him, often, as though trying to rub salt into his wounds. He whimpers when he hears it, and gives me Hell for it in bed afterwards, digging his nails into my back, as he struggles against me, as though it were the first time I've violated him so. It is quite pathetic, I admit, but wasn't I who made him this way? Or at least, I pushed him so far to the brink of his fragile sanity that he has—ah, yes. But this was what I wanted: Tsuzuki Asato, pliant and beautiful, responsive to my touch, free for me to debauch anytime I desired it; free for me to experiment with—

This was what I wanted, was it not?