Leatherbound Lechery (a sebaciel fanfic)

Leatherbound Lechery

Ciel had been distracted. Days, weeks, months, years had passed since the initiation of the contract, he spent all of his time alone, or with Sebastian. With little to no outside influence, aside from that of his loyal house servants and the occasional interruption from his fiancé, he grew bored of his paperwork and began to doodle. Since his artistry skills were only slightly greater than his dancing skills, he gave up quickly and pulled a journal from his desk.

He ran his hand gently over the soft, brown, leather cover and untied the cord from around it. A slender ribbon marked his place, and he flipped the book open, pushing paperwork aside and scooting a little closer to the desk. Leaning on his elbow, he dipped his pen and stared at the blank page, waiting for his mind to take him to the place where his eloquence lay waiting for inspiration.

***

Elizabeth has been hounding me regarding the wedding for weeks. Seems like every day there is a new message; some color or flower that requires my approval, as though any of it matters. I do my best to put on airs and let her imagine that my excitement matches her own, but I'm sure she can see though that. She may be a silly girl, but she is by no means stupid. Sometimes I think it would be easier if she were. Perhaps then I could make her believe I love her, but she's no fool, and I know she never will. It would please her, and if I could do that for her, I would. But I do not love her. I cannot love her. She's not him. She will never be him, and I will never have him, so that is all there is.

Lizzy tries, God knows she tries. I think sometimes she believes if she can fondle me enough that I'll return her affection. I can feel the intent in her embrace, and it sickens me. Her hands on me feel foreign and obscene; I don't like the way she touches me. Almost expectant, as though I were supposed to feel some sort of irresistible urge to reciprocate. Part of me knows that's exactly what she wants, and by all rights is what I should feel. But her hands are small, and her nails are sharp; she scratches at my skin and I feel myself pulling away from her before I've had a chance to stop myself. I hate it when she touches me, pawing at me like a puppy begging for attention. I've grown better at tolerating it, but the means by which I do so can't be advantageous. Not when I spend my time imaging that her hands are his, and then for an instant the touch is welcome. But she does not touch me the way he does. His hands, ever gloved, handle me as though I were precious, and even now I feel goosebumps on my flesh. His hands produce a longing I can only push aside, the indecency of the thing is too much to ponder on.

And yet here I am, once again, pondering it; the way his hands slide over me every morning and evening. To feel his bare hands against my flesh would be too much. I imagine them soft, being constantly hidden away in his gloves, so much as a peek at the skin of his palm and I must look away. It brings images of not only his bare hands, but more. He sees me, naked and wet when he bathes me, and I can only be silent, pushing away lascivious fantasies and lecherous intent. So many times, I have had to send him away, unable to keep my body from reacting to his touch, gloves or not. I wonder if he's noticed how much more frequently he's being sent away. Part of me hopes so.

He is ever the gentlemen, a man's man, by all means. But he stands so close, his touch so gentle, and his words, ever sweet in my ear. He whispers to me, and beneath his words is a tone that suggests his desire for me. His meal. And, oh, I would let him devour me! I would give him my body the same as I have given him my soul, and I wonder if he knows. Surely, it is no real secret; we have none. I have none. Perhaps, he has his own mess of vile demon's secrets, the depths of which I shall never know. But my pitiful secret? That I should lust for the demon butler to whom I sold my soul? Blasphemy.

Is it, though? Is anything still blasphemy if I've bargained myself away for power and revenge? And if not, then what would be the difference if I were to bring him into my bed? Would he deny me? If I ordered it, he would be obliged to do so, but then begs the question of desire versus duty. Would he simply be following orders? I have been ordered to do many things I had no desire to do, and yet they were my orders, and I followed them. That question of whether or not his feelings mimic my own would plague me. True, I could order him to hold me, to touch me and fulfil my desires for him; but can anyone order someone to love them?