Word count: ~1300
Warnings: Sounding (if you don't know what that is look it up before you read this), discipline/torture. Ciel's age is not given in this.
Notes: Written for kuroshi_contest's theme of Language.
Sebastian's glove tastes of iron filings and cloves.
The balled girth of that glove fills Ciel's mouth and leeches all moisture from his tongue in an efficiency of simple white cotton. Ciel tries to force it out with his tongue and cannot; how can the thing have expanded so? He chews down against the soaking, immense sphere of cloth, hoping to reduce it to a size he can expel; all he manages is to bring one of the glove's fingers dangerously close to slipping into his throat. His gorge convulses. Sebastian, he is sure, will not let him choke to death, but the prospect of inhaling his own vomit is not appealing.
Black-tipped nails on an ungloved hand dance down his torso, flickering against one nipple, then the other for good measure. Ciel pulls against the ropes; the bonds which restrain his wrists thread diagonally beneath the bed to hold the opposite ankle in place, so that Ciel pulls on his own legs in painful tension each time his arms try to flex, making the spreadeagle even more diabolical. Damn Sebastian to the hell he came from.
He'd done it so bloody quickly. His master, stripped and secured and served up like a dish. Ciel hadn't even had time to ask what had set Sebastian off this time.
Sebastian chuckles, raises an admonishing finger. The tetragrammaton winks blood-scarlet upon the back of his hand. "Young master, do not strain yourself. You are quite incapable of going anywhere." The hand descends, moving again to his chest, now to his belly. His skin trembles as the black nails linger there before moving to the tip of Ciel's penis, also trembling, trying not to react with automatic erection.
Ciel does not cry out against this. He does not dare.
The nails scratch, the nails catch. They stroke over the velvet of Ciel's organ with deceptive gentleness before flickering their tips edge-on against the vulnerable underside. Ciel is stiff and still, forgetting to breathe, remembering only as his vision begins to dim and he sucks up stingy threads of air through his nose.
Sebastian lifts his other hand to show Ciel what is in it: a medical thermometer, mercury-tipped. "I cannot think," he begins, "what has made you act so very unlike yourself today, young master." He twirls the thermometer in his fingers. "You were exceedingly rude to Lady Elizabeth at luncheon. I thought we had got beyond such an open lack of manners." His fist coils about the thermometer as though he has no more interest in it, as he leans low over Ciel's unclad body to fix Ciel's gaze with his. "You may be succinct, you may even be cold. Such prerogative is yours as a nobleman. What you may not be--" his eyes narrow-- "is anything other than a gentleman. You do not keep a lady waiting, you do not turn your back on her, and you most certainly--" Sebastian's mouth is a hard line-- "do not strike her."
She deserved it, thinks Ciel, unrepentant.
"Therefore--" Sebastian's fingers uncurl and lets the thermometer fall to his fingertips again-- "I can only assume you are not feeling well. So I must see if it is serious enough for us to phone for a doctor."
Ciel bites the cloth again and whimpers. Outrage will earn him nothing from Sebastian now. If he could plead aloud he would.
Sebastian shakes his head. "I fear you are not ready for me to unstop your mouth. In your state I'm sure you would only spit this back at me. I shall devise an alternative."
His fingers have not left Ciel's penis, and Ciel whimpers again, a whole string of ghastly puppy noises that move Sebastian not at all. Sebastian looks almost human, the light in his eyes sparking as he sets the mercury end of the thermometer to the eye of Ciel's penis and slides it in. That's all Ciel sees of it or of him; he howls about the ball of cloth, back arching as he wrenches at his restraints, eyes screwing shut against the hot knifeblade of pain lancing down the length of his organ.
"There, young master." Ciel hardly hears it. Breath rasps through his nose as the razor of agony slices deeper and deeper into him, the fire of it pressing against his perineum, He feels Sebastian's fingers gathering his scrotum into his hand, as if by moving it a little more ground can be gained. He's going to be sick, he knows it.
Sebastian twists the thermometer's end in his fingers with a little hum of satisfaction and Ciel's vision nearly goes again, choking off any cry he might make. "Several minutes, I think," Sebastian says, and Ciel can hear the savor in his voice, "are the recommended duration before attempting a reading."
Ciel's heart flutters in his throat like a terrified bird as he endures an eternity of minutes, an ocean of pain, buffeting him until the promise of tears spills over, dampening his temples. Sebastian, damn his black heart or whatever passes for it in a demon, won't ever call his evil games punishment. A demon can't punish the master he serves.
Nor can a butler.
"That should suffice." The last sibilants are still being hissed as Sebastian jerks the thermometer from Ciel's urethra in one movement, the pain so intense Ciel is certain, terrified, that the glass rod has shattered within him and is tearing its way out. But the thermometer in Sebastian's hand catches the light, intact down to its mercury tip, as Sebastian holds its length up to his gaze.
At last, as Ciel struggles again to breathe, to gain his voice, Sebastian lowers the offending rod. "No fever, it seems. Not enough concern to request a doctor, I would guess, then." He smiles benignly at Ciel. "A good night's rest should be sufficient to have you on your best behavior tomorrow, shouldn't it."
Sebastian's bare fingertips lift Ciel's chin in a fond caress; then the fingers of the other hand snake into Ciel's mouth, slipping between the wedge of the balled glove and Ciel's stretched cheeks. With a squeeze, the ball of cloth is made small enough to be drawn free.
Ciel coughs and coughs. The retch that has teased the back of his throat these long minutes turns away, eases as he swallows. The soreness of his jaw is almost ache enough to match the needle-like aftershocks burning in his groin.
He tests his jaw by opening and closing it a few times. Then he sets it.
In hindsight--be fair, even in foresight--it would have been wiser to wait until after Sebastian released the ropes to speak. But Ciel is raw and unprotected, too bruised to be wise. He pours out his outrage, a deluge of invective at the demon, the foulest curses he can manufacture. His threats are insults and his insults are threats and at last Ciel is reduced to babble that finishes with a full-hearted snarl of, "...if you'd ever had a mother!"
Sebastian listens to the entire tirade with parted-lip interest. When Ciel is finished, Ciel sees Sebastian smother a smile as he raises a finger again, tut-tuts at Ciel. "Language, my lord."
The balled-up glove is soaking, and slips back into Ciel's mouth with ease. Ciel howls about it, wanting to bite it to shreds, knowing there's no chance of that. Sebastian pats Ciel's cheek, runs a thumb over his lower lip. "That should do until I can fetch the soap." He stands. "The young master must have more motivation to remember his manners, it seems."
Never once will the bastard call it punishment. Ciel growls his promise of bloody vengeance behind the gag.