Rhetorics

10. Origo (Madara)

I stepped into the vast skyscraper where Samsung had their main office in our city, looking around. The lobby was enormous, open eight floors up and entirely surrounded by glass and full of busy people. In the middle stood the largest Christmas tree I'd ever seen, with baubles of silver and cobalt blue. I had dressed down for the occasion; skinny black jeans, a dark grey oversized sweater, my hair in the mahogany chopstick, glasses on. I was far-sighted, meaning I needed glasses to read which was unusual for my age, but I liked the way I looked in them so I often kept them on when I didn't wear lenses. They were made so my long vision did not become blurry. 

I put my hands in the pockets of my black coat after having removed my gloves. I looked around me at the buzz of people, the Christmas tree, the vastness of this whole working place. 

"Hi."

I looked to the source of the voice, and...

Oh...

He was wearing an entirely black suit and trousers, a crisp, white shirt underneath, the top two buttons of which were unbuttoned, showing off strong collarbones and a golden chain. He had oiled his hair back in a low bun.

I liked it a lot.

Why do you have to be a racist?

"Hi", I said.

"Come with me."

At that point, I thought I would follow his every command, to be honest. 

The room was dark, on the seventh floor, with windows facing the vast lobby. He'd pulled the curtains down the first thing he did when we came in.

I swallowed. 

There was only one desk, at the far end of the room. The rest was open, covered in an expensive rug.

"Stay there", he said, pointed to the middle of the rug.

I went to stand where he pointed, my steps following the invisible line drawn between the tip of his index finger to the centre of the mat as if my steps were magnetic and the invisible line were metal.

He came to stand behind me, lifted his hands, took my coat off. He went and hung it on a hanger behind the door. Why hadn't he just told me to hang it there? I realised he had wanted to take my coat off, he had wanted to undress me. It was a power move and it worked; I felt incredibly bare in my jeans and sweatshirt as he wore a full suit for work. Do I hate it? No. No, I liked the dynamics it created.

"Now..." Hashirama began. "Have you had any training in rhetorics?"

"No", I said. "I'm self-taught. I act by feeling and watching others alone. How about you?"

"I ask the questions here." Oh, daaamn. He started walking slowly around me, as if he were a circle and I were the origo. It went on for a while. I stood dead still, looking straight ahead. "Yes", he said finally. "I've been educated in the art of rhetorics." I wasn't surprised. "You have a very distinct style." He came to a standstill behind me, leaned forwards so his chin hovered above my shoulder but didn't touch it. I didn't move. "I don't want to change it. I want to polish it", he whispered. I shivered.

He began walking in a circle again. "Now, stand as if you would speak. That's right, shoulders back, chest forwards, relaxed arms. Good boy." Fuuuck. He came to a standstill in front of me and we locked eyes. An electric bolt went through my thighs. He lifted his hand, brushed his fingers against my chin. I ceased to breathe. "I like how you have your chin slightly down. Don't change that." And he kept walking. I could breathe out. "Now, I want you to try to convince me that the yearly influenza vaccine does not contain microchips the government is planting in the people who get it. Pretend I'm an anti-vaxxer."

"I honestly thought you lot were anti-vaxxers."

He stopped behind me again, and suddenly, his hand was at my throat from behind. I leaned my head back and swallowed. Am I in danger? He pressed, but only lightly before he let his fingers slide off slowly. He had a golden ring on his right long finger. Suddenly, I wanted to put that finger in my mouth and take the ring off in between my lips.

"Some of us are reasonable", he said. "Now, do as I say."

I did. I went on fluently for three minutes before he interrupted me.

"That's enough", he said. He was till walking around me, the circle and its origo. I looked straight ahead. "Good. Very good. I like the way you use science and research. You do it just enough to intrigue your audience, yet make it simple enough so that they understand. But I think you would benefit from trying to be less mild. Dare be more daunting. More powerful."

Then, he stopped right behind me, this time pressing his chest against my back. I didn't dare to move a single muscle, trying to stop all electrical impulses from my brain to my limbs. He lifted his arm, grabbed my mahogany chopstick harshly and pulled it out so my hair tumbled down. He blew playfully at it.

"Scare me away", he whispered.

"Why would I?" I asked.

"Don't backtalk me. You're my student now." He took a step away from me, started walking in a circle again, looking down grabbing his chin with his index as if in deep thought. "Harshly. Exaggerate it. It's easier to tone it down at a later stage. Just like writing an essay longer than it needs to be and then chopping it down is easier than writing it too short and then having to elongate it."

I spoke again. Hashirama Senju was not only incredibly good at rhetorics; he was also exceptional at giving constructive criticism, something I'd learned many adults couldn't do. He began by praising me. Then, he polished my speech, using phenomenal metaphors to paint a picture of what he wanted me to do. He toned my speaking down, changed some details, gave advice, asked for my opinion, all the while encircling me. I was enjoying myself immensely and so was he. Finally, he stopped in front of me.

"Good. That's good for today."

I checked the time. An hour had passed. 

"Thank you for your time", I said.

"You don't have anything in return for me?" he asked and his face was like stone.

"Yes", I said.

And I took one step forwards and closed the space between us.

Face-to-face, I grabbed the buckle of his belt and undid it with one swift moment. I unbuttoned his trousers, pulled his zipper down. It didn't even take two seconds before his trousers were down to his knees.

He was rock-hard as I went down on my knees for him.

I opened my mouth and took him in.

I didn't dare look up at him. I began working, bobbing my head, letting his skin slide between my lips, his bulging veins creating pleasant contrast over the skin on my lips. I had no idea what he was thinking, if he was surprised or hot or even angry. He didn't moan, he didn't buck his hips.

But he didn't move away, either.

His erection was like a smooth rock in my mouth, tasting of salt and skin and sweat. It was hard to deep-throat him, but I worked hard, taking him down to the back of my throat slowly, agonisingly slowly, pulling my tongue along its entirety. My knees were hurting despite the soft carpet, my legs shaking in nervous anticipation, and I was terrified that he would throw himself back, ask me what the fuck I was doing.

He didn't.

I kept blowing, slowly, feeling small portions of salt bloom into my mouth. He still didn't move. He still didn't speak. I couldn't even hear him breathe.

From my mouth, however, heavy moans of strain escaped, I felt pain as my jaw locked itself in place, but I refused to give up. I just kept going, sucking his dick in his office, on my knees in front of him.

After fifteen minutes, I released him, letting his dick come out of my mouth to breathe. I looked down on it, leaking with semen and saliva, with him and me. My face was hot.

Suddenly, I felt his fingers underneath my chin, gentle as feathers. 

His face was set in stone.

"See you tomorrow same time. We'll keep practicing."