Loading...Before starting my tour of duty in Okinawa, I thought my primary talent was playing the piano. I was soon to learn otherwise, though, and my late coming to “the” life gripped me like a disease or an unshakable habit.
I had known since not long after puberty that I had an unusual attraction. I had formed friendships quickly from my days in high school—and not just with my school chums but with their parents as well. Everyone wanted to get to know me—to get close to me.
It was a great boon for the development of my keyboarding talent as well as my tennis skills. I fed off their expressions of approval and interest, and this spurred me on to excel at both.
It never took long for these friends to push our relationship, though, to seek and sometimes to insist on more intimacy. I pretty much assumed that everyone was this open and pressing with each other, but, for my part, it embarrassed me slightly and worried me greatly. I could never bring myself to go where they wanted to go. I was attracted to it, but it seemed so complicated, so much in opposition to my goals to reach the concert stage. That’s probably why my piano development outstripped everything else. When I thought of myself at the keyboard, on stage, or at least separated from everyone else, I was in my comfort zone. When someone pulled in close to me and whispered in my ear and touched me, I froze. It sent chills up my spine, but I froze.
Basic training for the Air Force in the rounding out that my grandfather insisted I get before he agreed to fund my further study at Julliard changed all of that. For eight weeks I was thrown into intimate relationship with a barracks full of other young men toning their bodies up before separating off into the specialties the government had chosen for them—in my case air traffic control. In the sixth week, I lost my virginity—not to any of the other guys in the barracks, but to the older, highly authoritative drill instructor. My life changed in the showers during the special workout session he had assigned me, under the running shower, belly up against the soapy, wet wall tiles, holding back sobs as the drill instructor forced his knees between my thighs and pushed my torso up the tiles with the strength of upward thrusts of his thick cock, surprised and apologetic in the end to find that he was plowing a virgin channel.
“Anyone your age who looks so good and overflows with such sexiness has just got to have been plowed long before now,” he had said afterward. “I thought when you said you hadn’t done it, it was just part of the come-on.”
I thought at the time that it had been my fault. That I had found him attractive and had signaled my interest to him in some way I was too naïve to understand. Three nights later he fucked me again in the back seat of his car on a fire trail leading up a mountain to nowhere.
We were supposed to be going to a meeting he’d said I was called to and had offered to drive me to. But he drove in the opposite direction, away from the lights of the base. And he’d pulled me into the back seat and held me down with the weight of him and with an strong arm around my neck. I had struggled a bit and whimpered more than a bit while he was fiddling with my belt and zipper and pulling my pants off me, and then, knees encasing my legs, he was hunched over me and pistoning my ass with his cock from the rear and sobbing that he just couldn’t help himself, that he had to have me again. After he’d done so, he covered me with kisses and declared that he was in love with me and planned to leave his wife and military service and follow me to wherever I was going.
In the eighth week, after using every excuse I could think of to keep him off of me until the end of the training, I told him I had orders for satellite photography training at Offutt Airbase in Omaha, but I shipped out for air traffic control school pretraining at Andrews Airbase outside Washington, D.C., instead.
While at Andrews I was invited to play tennis at the Army and Navy Club in the nearby Virginia suburbs by my commanding general’s wife, who claimed she needed a doubles partner for a Saturday afternoon. The afternoon moved into cocktails at Happy Hour following our match, which we won handily—no thanks to her—and the discovery that she had a pied-á-terre at the Clarion House with a piano, a maudlin streak for Hoagy Carmichael, and an insatiable thirst for a strong, young cock being driven by a young blond hunk between her spread legs. I had drunk more than I thought at Happy Hour, but I also was disturbed by the encounters with the drill instructor and trying to prove something to myself.
Unfortunately, although I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself, I got harder for the instructor’s drill than for the generals wife’s lips opening up over my shaft while I was playing “Ebb Tide” on her baby grand. I told myself it was the liquor, but I also swore off all future sex as too intimate and complicated.
And I held to that determination until I got through traffic control school and shipped out for Kadena Airbase on the Japanese island of Okinawa.
Once there, if it hadn’t been for my skill at the piano and on the tennis court, life would have been a dull disaster. There was little to do on the island for a young Air Force lieutenant. The work was hard and demanding; the bars of Koza City’s Gate Two Street were tacky, and the bar girls there were too forward and not sexy enough, at least in my eyes. I dared not look at the Okinawan men for fear of my own thoughts.
The one person who was sexy beyond denial, though, was Steve Benton, a jet pilot, who I met in a pickup foursome on the golf course adjoining the flight line near Kadena’s Gate One. We both proved to be dunces at golf, and our respective partners dumped us as soon as they were able. But we both—simultaneously—excused our lack of golf prowess by saying we actually were tennis players. I think Benton thought I was joking and, in a friendly way, he challenged me to a singles match.
I took him up on the challenge. We probably chose the hottest day of the summer to get out on the simmering asphalt of the course—the only brave ones at the KOOM officer’s club courts that day. By the second set we were both shirtless and our tennis shorts were plastered to our bodies with sweat. But we soldiered on, in a tight match that I eventually won, but not easily. I think I would have done better if I wasn’t distracted by his dark hunkiness and the graceful way he moved on the court—and because I could see every curve of his body through the plastering shorts.
I had never felt that way before. I had flashbacks to the taking by the drill instructor, and I was realizing that I had—guiltily, to be sure—enjoyed that taking. Both times I had hardened up and come before the drill instructor had, but I had marked that up to shock and nerves.
I was embarrassed now during the third set because my own interest was becoming clear and was impossible to hide. Later Steve was to claim that this distraction was why I had been able to beat him that day.
That day became the second time I was fucked in the shower. But this time I fully melted to my partner and gave him full measure of satisfaction in deciding to seduce me—a seduction that was effected by no more than a look. No matter how mad I subsequently was at Steve, all he had to do was look at me in that way, and I was opening my legs to him.
I gave myself fully to Steve Benton then, going with him straightaway whenever he held his hand out to me and letting him fuck me in positions I never would have known were possible—or even half-way decent—if I hadn’t had such an experienced and masterful teacher.
He knew of my abilities on the piano, of course; I had quickly become the “go to guy” for that at parties. And thus I wasn’t surprised when he asked me if I’d be willing to play up at the club at the Camp Butler Marine base, where the commanding general’s wife was paying a ceremonial visit—no Marine being permitted to have his family at post permanently while serving on Okinawa. Steve said there would be $100 in it for me, so I readily agreed.
Steve was unusually fussy with what I was wearing that night, down to the underwear, and I sensed, with a bit of a thrill, that he had something special planned for me that night after the party—perhaps in his car on a beach turnoff.
After the party, though, the general, a classic Marine product with ramrod straight back, thin waist, and barrel chest, and with just a bit of graying at the temples, said he wanted to continue the party at his quarters, a suggestion that brought a sparkle to the eyes of his much younger trophy blonde wife, and Steve, who was my ride, quickly concurred.
I started out on the piano, but, as the guests started fading away, a record player was ginned up in another room and I left off playing and went to look for Steve, figuring it was time for us to leave as well. I was beginning to feel heated at the anticipation of what we might do after we left the party. I found Steve, and he said he’d need to find a can before going off, because it was a bit of a drive and he’d had more than a bit to drink. I said that was probably a good idea for both of us. I started off toward the kitchen, figuring that was a powder room back there, but he took my arm and guided me up the stairs.
Steve headed straight for an open door at the rear of the upstairs landing. When we got there, he propelled me into the room and then shut the door behind me. I was too much in shock to notice what he’d done, because there, on the king-sized bed, on her back in just her pearls and high heels, peering at me between her spread legs, was the general’s wife.
Before I could react, she was off the bed and kneeling before me, unzipping my pants, unleashing a quickly hardening cock, squealing in delight, and taking full possession with her mouth.
Fifteen minutes later I was crouched between her legs as she lay back on the bed, pumping her deeply with my cock and sucking on her nipple when the door opened again and the general walked into the room. Stark naked.
Commanding me to continue doing what I was doing, he started pushing greased fingers into my asshole and in short order was fucking me while I was fucking his wife. The blonde wrapped her legs tightly across the small of my back and grabbed my hair, burying my face between her pendulous breasts and giving little yipping sounds, while the general, extra thick, if not very long, machine-gunned me from the rear. Near the end he had to hold me up by the hips when my knees went to rubber. At this point he was still increasing the pistoning of his cock, his bulging glans rubbing furiously across my prostate so that I creamed the blonde’s insides to her cries of ecstasy before he shot his heavy load and ballooned out an overworked condom.
Later when we’d all come, the general informed me that I was spending the night, and he’d sent Steve away, telling him to pick me up in the morning.
Throughout the night, the couple proved that they had done this frequently before. I was exhausted and not interested in talking about it when Steve picked me up the next morning.
The general’s wife, having made full use of her month-long conjugal visit, left the island the next day, but the general insisted that I return at least twice a week to be fucked hard and roughly in his king-sized bed. In the absence of his wife, the general showed that he wasn’t adverse to a little bondage and dildo play. At first I tried to diplomatically get out of the trysting—the general was possibly in too good shape and I often left his bed in need of a chiropractor—but he made clear that, with his rank, he could make my life on Okinawa either very comfortable or a living hell.
I never quite figured out how Steve fit into all of this until the day I came downstairs to be driven back to Kadena earlier than he and the general had thought I would, and I saw the general doling out cash to Steve. That’s when I learned that Steve was nothing more than a pimp, and I cut him out of my life cold turkey, which was painful for us both—but I think Steve felt his pain mostly in his lighter wallet.
* * * *
In trying to forget—and avoid—Steve Benton, I threw myself wholly during my off hours into discovering this island of Okinawa. And what I found, to my fascination, was that the island, like me, was neither here nor there—both refined and wild at the same time. I was equally in my element in tie and tails behind a concert grand on stage and entangled in sheets and Steve’s arms, exhausted but exuberant after a fierce struggle and whimpering as his throbbing cock rose inside my channel.
I had not realized it until now, but Okinawa had been trapped between strong forces—China and Japan—back into ancient times, neither one nor the other, while being both. Its landscape was characterized by rough rocks rising out of unruly sugar cane fields, which, in turn, rose from the white-capped turquoise sea and patches of white-sand beaches scattered among jagged rock formations. But at the same time, it was the land of hidden, demur smiles fluttering behind silken fans, kimono-clad women mincing along on wooden platform sandals, and the interminably long and ceremonial tea services as well as a myriad of other rituals.
As a child, my parents had taken me on a riverboat cruise on the Rhine, and I had come home dreaming of massive, stone-walled mountain castles, somehow identifying with both their “apartness” and their fairy tale beauty. And I was flabbergasted to find after having been on the island for months that Okinawa also had medieval castles. This small Pacific island had long been real estate that both China and Japan had contended for and, in turn, had forcibly occupied. Most fascinating to me, the castles of Okinawa, built as defense over volatile centuries of conquest, were eerily similar to those of medieval Western Europe even though those two cultures apparently never made contact. Before I left the island on my short tour there, I wanted to explore those castles, and I began a regime on my days off from juggling jets flying into and out of Kadena AFB to roam the coastline of the island in search of these medieval ruins.
It was while I was traipsing the rocky southeastern coast in the Yonobura area, stripped down to a T and shorts and hiking boots under the strong tropical island sun that I came across Clare.
At first Clare was just a building, a white concrete building with a flat roof, long and squat, running in parallel with the sea half way up the rocky slope and set on a wide, long rock terrace right where I had expected to find the ruins of a medieval castle. In fact it was quite evident that the much more recent building had been set on all that was left of the castle, its stone-floored foundation. Set on top of the roof at one end was a sign that simply said “Clare,” whether you approached up from the sea or down from the dirt road above.
I had heard of Clare—that it was an art gallery where the U.S. military wives with money to burn were snarfing up Japanese wood block prints at half the price of Tokyo galleries and a tenth of what they could sell them for when they got them back to the States.
I had been traversing the coast on a narrow path that ran parallel to the sea, but when that intersected a path cutting through the cane fields that led up from a small, white-sand beach cove to the building on the stone platform, I instinctively turned uphill, telling myself that I wanted to touch the stone foundation of the medieval castle at least since I had come this far in search of it.
A tall thin woman with flowing raven hair, possibly in her mid forties, and draped in a shiny black caftan, was standing on the terrace near the edge, holding a framed print in her hands and dipping it so that the sun reflected off its surface, as a couple—a man and a woman, both in their thirties and quite apparently American—ooed and ahhed over the colors in the print being highlighted in the sun’s rays.
All three sensed my approach and turned to look down at me, the raven-haired woman in slight annoyance, but the American couple with great interest. The man was tall and straight and well muscled, evidently military; the blonde woman looked tanned and sleek and obviously well pampered. With effort, the woman in black diverted the couple’s attention back to the print, and when I reached the terrace, I continued on into the open double French window, suddenly conscious that I was out of place in my abbreviated hiking gear and wanting to leave the impression that I was here on purpose—to see the gallery.
As I moved through the gallery, I was drawn into the wood block prints, finding the brush strokes bold and honest. There were only a few other patrons in the gallery, and all broke off their conversations and examination of the artwork as I passed and gazed at me instead with stunned looks, attention riveted to this tanned, blonde, half-dressed young man who had suddenly appeared among them. I was long accustomed to the effect I had on other people, so I hardly noticed that I had stopped all traffic in the room.
That was until I felt a light touch of fingers on my arm and turned to come face to face with the raven-haired woman in the black caftan.
“If you are going to be so riveting, darling,” she said, with only a half smile, “perhaps you could talk up the art. If I don’t pass off a couple of more of these prints this afternoon, there will be no dinner. Oh, my name is Clare, by the way. And you must be who—Apollo?”
I did then talk up the prints—indeed, I found them fascinating, and Clare lost that edge to her voice and became downright possessive as she took me by the arm and led me from patron to patron and we fell into a smooth, unrehearsed but highly effective sales double teaming.
I stayed for dinner that night in her small two-bedroom apartment at one end of the gallery building, during which she subtly introduced me to the fundamentals of the wood block print world—both the art and the sales end, in which she was heavily invested, having her main gallery in Tokyo’s Akasaka district and the smaller gallery here feeding off the largesse of the U.S. military personnel. Also in the soft glow of the candlelight, which was more than fair to her face and figure, and the tinkle of the wine glasses, Clare propositioned me—both suggesting that I might be interested in joining her on the sales floor, where it was obvious that I was an attention magnet, and join her as well right there on the carpeted floor of her living room, where she hinted that she could show me pleasures never before experienced.
I demurred on both, saying I already had a job—with the U.S. Air Force—and that I was in a determined phase of chosen celibacy, although yes, indeed, she did have a pair of very nice, firm tits. She made quite clear with her searching hand that she wanted my cock, but the most I would give her was my phone number and a brushed kiss at the door as I turned toward the path leading up to the road and the still-long hike back to my car from here.
A few days later she caught me in my BOQ room on the phone and insisted that I come out to the gallery that Sunday to be the first to view a new shipment of block prints she’d brought down from Tokyo. I was drawn to the prints, having thought about this new—to me—compelling art from. The day after I’d returned from the gallery I’d gone to the base library and started reading up on the history of Japanese block print making. I had found an art book on the postwar school of the art form, led by Kiyoshi Saito, and remembered that I had seen some of his work at Clare. I wanted to see more. And, at the back of my mind, I half way acknowledged that I wanted to see more of Clare.
And see more of Clare I did. The gallery was closed on Sunday, and after letting me see all of the Saitos she had in the gallery, Clare decided we were going for a swim in the cove below. I tried to beg off, saying I had no suit, but she said she had one I could wear. It was a Speedo and a size too small and was barely better than nothing, but it was the thought that counted. Clare wore a string bikini, and she was still firm but supple and rounded in all of the right places.
After fighting the current and deciding there just was too much of an undertow for me, I ran back up to the beach and flopped down on my back on the oversized towel, propped myself up on my elbows, and gazed out into the water, trying to see where Clare had swum to. As I watched, she slowly rose up from the surf, no evidence of the bikini now, and walked in deliberate, undulating strides up onto the beach. I was riveted to the spot, eyes centered on the dark patch of hair where her legs v’d and on the pinkish oval peeking out of the fur. Clare crouched down and parted my legs as she reached me, and knelt between them. Her fingers went to the tight waistband of the Speedo, and she rolled that down and freed my engorging cock and leaned over and gave me the most wondrous blow job of my life, bringing me to the brink again and again and then holding me off, until at last she settled that oval of pink on the throbbing head of my member and sank down onto my lap, carrying me away in waves of shudders in the undertow of her, bringing up ejaculation after ejaculation and ending months of celibacy.
I resigned my commission with the Air Force and moved into Clare—both the gallery and the woman. All too soon it became obvious what Clare’s real interest in me was. Some of her patrons were a harder sell than others, even with me floating around the gallery oozing charm and charisma and making them want to come back frequently for their art fix. Some of her richer patrons expected fringe benefits. It didn’t take Clare more than a week after I’d moved in, having given up my previous life entirely, including the option of a free trip back to the States on Uncle Sam’s expense, to let me know in no uncertain terms that I was a fringe benefit. I was virtually penniless, a kept man. And soon I was being pimped—no less than Steve Benton had pimped me.
Women and men alike. Clare set up a signal between us to convey to me which patron had shown interest in me as a fringe benefit to their purchases, and when she gave the signal, I homed in and played nice-nice. And before the patron left smiling, wrapped print under her or his arm, I spent an hour with her or him—in the back bedroom, on the beach, or in the backseats of his or her automobile or Clare’s van, fucking and/or being fucked.
And, having gotten what she wanted, Clare spent less and less time with me in bed at night.
Late in the summer, she declared that we were going up to Tokyo. She had some really expensive prints she wanted to sell up there and several patrons who had shown interest but weren’t completely decided. She said there were a few she wanted to introduce me to—and I had no trouble figuring out exactly what that meant.
Clare’s Akasaka gallery was quite a setup—gallery on the first floor of the three-story townhouse that had risen from the ruins of the bombing of Tokyo just after the war, with a party room with extended art exhibits on the walls on the second floor, and two bedrooms and baths, a small sitting room, and a kitchenette on the top level.
The better-heeled patrons were taken up to the second floor where they were wined and dined and stroked and given the history and provenance of any print that they were even remotely interested in. And the top select of these were introduced to the third floor and to the charms of either Clare or me—or both—depending on their proclivities or fetishes.
I learned that the Japanese women—in stark contrast to the wantonness of the American and European expatriate patrons of Clare Tokyo—carried their reserve into the bedroom. At least up to a point. All of the preparation and seduction was mine. But then, when they had demurely surrendered at last and I was well sheathed, they became tigresses. Great heavings and writhing and crying out and slashing long, sharp nails along my shoulders and back and buttocks, and multiple, noisy orgasms as I held steady and long and thick inside them, only releasing myself after they were spent and quiet once more. And they loved it.
In contrast, the Japanese men who came to me were in control and attentive from the first moment, dividing into two categories—the older men, who invariably were out to avenge themselves on the Americans for past indignities of national honor dominated and took me in repeated, sometimes cruel ravishings and then bounced out of bed and were gone. And then there were the younger, more sensitive men, who had studied hard what to do and how to do it and played me like a musical instrument and drew every last ounce of satisfaction from me and laid there inside me afterward and rocked me and hummed to me like I was a baby.
But all were the same in the end—all were paying for sex, and I was providing it for some form of payment.
It was the latter who reminded me how much I missed the piano. I had begged Clare to buy a piano for me, but thus far she had ignored my pleas. I knew, if she didn’t, that this ultimately would be what built the barrier between us.
It was during one of the afternoon cocktail parties for the more important patrons in the second-floor salon that I saw him for the first time. He was standing across the room, talking to several other patrons, but he had his eyes on me. Tall for a Japanese and ramrod straight. A military man without a doubt. Movie-star handsome, well built, graying at the temples. Perhaps a banker instead. No, I decided, a military man. I somehow knew my first instinct had been correct. And a man who commanded troops, who dominated masterfully. A chill of anticipation—and even of pleasure—went down my spine as I saw Clare join his group and both look over at me.
Sure enough, only moments later, Clare brushed by me and said, “I have someone I want you to meet.”
“Now?” I asked. I already was talking with a real Japanese banker who was half-interested in one of the Hoshi tree prints but who was nearing full interest in seeing the third floor with me.
“Yes. The general said he’s pressed for time, but he is interested in two of Saito’s ‘Winter in Aizu’ prints.” I drew in a breath. This would be a purchase that would go into the high five figures.
“The general,” she had said. I had known it.
Clare introduced us and then discretely moved away.
“You were looking at me from across the room,” I said. “I couldn’t help but notice.” If the general couldn’t stay long, there wasn’t much time to seal the deal.
“Yes, pardon me. It was forward of me. But your hands.”
“My hands?” I said, nonplused. I’d never received a come-on line like this.
“Yes. Long, strong figures. And the way you move them . . . Tell me, are you a musician?”
“Yes, I play the piano,” I answered, suddenly pleased that he had so deftly reached into my heart. Melting to him. Wanting it already. A whole different plane from where I had been set.
“Classical or popular?” He asked, not hurrying, drawing me into him.
“Both,” I answered. “But mainly popular as that’s what people mostly want. But I’m afraid I haven’t played in months.”
“Such a pity. I am a player of instruments too—and somewhat of a master and connoisseur, or so I’ve been told—but not of musical instruments, alas.” He paused and his hand traveled down his side, taking my attention with it—purposely so, I’m sure—and brushed down along his thigh. My eyes, though, lost contact with the movement of the hand and were drawn to the bulge in his trousers. He was hard, and quite obviously was well endowed. “But you’d like to play . . . and be played, would you?” he whispered. There it was. Both subtle and direct. I felt my cock hardening. He had me. He could have taken me right there in the middle of the cocktail party crowd, fucking me wildly on the carpet in the center of the room, if he had wanted to.
“Yes,” I whispered, turning my eyes up to his. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
“Another pity, alas,” the general said in smooth, baritone tones. “When I play, I prefer a concerto over a short tune.” I shuddered deliciously at the implication of that. “But I must be at the palace in an hour. I trust you will be in Tokyo again soon?”
“I can make a point of it,” I answered, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
“Now, perhaps we can find Clare and have those Saitos wrapped?”
“You are buying the Saitos?” I asked, almost incredulous that he was settling the deal without making prior use of the fringe benefit.
“Yes. I enjoy my art . . . and my other pleasures . . . separately, and totally, and hours at a time. Each is given its full measure; one does not depend on the other,” he said. And then he left me there, knees weak and cock throbbing, as he glided over to Clare.
The Japanese banker was getting the fuck of his life by transference twenty minutes later on the third floor—and wound up buying three Watanabes.
Playing the encounter with the general over and over again in my mind helped get me through the next few weeks after we had returned to Okinawa. But the longing he had resurfaced and strengthened in me to have access to a piano equally tore at me those two weeks. Ever the two forces working in opposite directions with me.
And when I was approached about the opportunity to play the piano in a newly opening nightclub down in Naha, the only regret I left behind from my time with Clare was that I wouldn’t be making another trip with her to Tokyo and thus wouldn’t be encountering the general again.
* * * *
The out-of-the-blue offer to play at a new club opening in Naha seemed almost too good to be true, and, as it turned out, it was. I learned soon after hauling what little I had in life into the capital city of Okinawa and finding a tiny apartment near the port that the new club was owned by Steve Benton, who had shed himself of service commitment shortly after I had and who, like me, had decided just to stay on in Okinawa.
It would be immodest of me to think that Steve had opened the club just to lure me back, but that was a distinct possibility. I could tell as soon as I walked into the club that it essentially, despite its luxurious fittings, was a pickup bar for men. Steve’s interest in pimping men obviously overshadowed any interest he had in running a nightclub. But I had burned my bridges with Clare, and the club had a Steinway grand prominently staged for me, so I decided to give it shot—at least until I had saved enough money to fly back to the States and start yet another new life.
I was determined, however, to keep Steve at arms’ length and not to slip back into letting him sell my body. This didn’t last for over a couple of weeks.
The club was quite a success from its first day. Lots of patrons from as far away as the U.S. bases up island. The club was always full. And from the opening night, some subset of those showing up regularly—both men and women—somehow knew that the waiters were for sale and that there were rooms available at the rear of the club room through a beaded curtain.
And from the beginning I was a constant draw for attention and suggestions as well, with fewer of the suggestions being song requests than for visits beyond the beaded curtain. I fended them all off in as friendly and polite way as I could—and still they stuffed the glass on the piano top with big tips and whispered their hopeful “maybe laters,” with most taking our dance of availability in good stride.
There was one most persistent U.S. Army colonel who came down from Camp Hansen regularly who didn’t really want to take no for an answer and who was becoming increasingly belligerent about it. I feared that I would have to be more direct and less pleasant in my rejection of his propositions before too long.
The turning point was one Saturday night after the club had closed and I was at the piano going over a new collection of songs to introduce in the next week. It was heaven to be at the piano again, and I found that I hadn’t lost my touch or my memory of songs in the months I had been away from it. This was my element, however, and I never wanted to lose touch with this aspect of me ever again.
The club lights were dim, but I’d left on the spot over the piano so that I could check scores. I’d been playing for some time and was gliding through “Deep Purple”—”When the deep purple falls over sleepy garden walls . . .”—before I realized that Steve was standing in the shadows next to the beaded-curtained doorway, listening to me play. He was wearing a robe and the bareness of his calves below warned me that this was all he was wearing. He was smoking a cigarette and held a liquor glass in his other hand—and staring at me with those bedroom eyes of his.
I tried to bury myself, my eyes, my entire focused attention in the piano keys in front me. I was playing away furiously, now not even aware of whatever tune I changed to—especially since “Deep Purple” had been a special fuck song for the two of us—willing Steve to go away. But not wanting him to. Remembering, as I played, how expertly and totally Steve took me. How much I melted at the smell and taste of him and churning of his cock deep inside me. I had not had sex for weeks. I had come to want it and expect it nearly daily.
I was ripe for Steve. And somehow he knew it. Having started into “Deep Purple” in the first place probably was my unconscious saying I wanted it. Steve always seemed to know me better than I knew myself.
I heard the robe hit the stage floor behind me and saw naked, well-muscled arms reaching around me from both sides. The cigarette, still burning was placed, ash end hanging precariously over the side of the piano on the ledge next to the keyboard on one side, and the glass, still half full of ice and an amber liquid, was being set down on above the keyboard on the other side. And then, hard, muscled thighs were swinging over the piano bench on either side of me and Steve was sitting precariously at the back of the bench with me huddled between his thighs, my hands still furiously running across the keyboard. My mind, however, was in a hundred places at once: trying to identify the tune I was playing, trying to remember if I’d eaten supper, concerned that the cigarette would burn down to the wood of the precious piano lacquering; equally concerned that the condensation from the liquor glass would leave a ring on the piano; wondering if I’d brought that score of Gershwin tunes with me, feeling Steve’s hard cock running up the small of my back, trying to remember whether I had picked up my other tux from the drycleaners that morning, wanting Steve to leave me alone, wondering how I could get through the night if he did leave me alone, feeling Steve’s hard cock, smelling the essence of Steve, remembering how much I loved the smell of Steve, feeling Steve’s hard cock, feeling Steve’s hard cock.
“I’ve missed you,” Steve whispered in my ear, then taking the lobe of my ear between his lips.
“Well, I haven’t missed you,” I said in a strangled voice, still banging away on the piano.
“Yeah, well you lie,” he murmured, and then gave a little lap. “Your body tells me you lie.” He was cupping my dick and balls through the fabric of my tux pants. He was right. My body was betraying me.
“Come, give us a kiss,” he said as he cupped my chin in his other hand and turned my face toward him. I was still playing the piano, but even my hands were betraying me, having returned to the strains of “Deep Purple.” He needed no other signal that he had me in his power again. The hand that had been at my basket was now struggling with my belt buckle and zipper and with forcing my trousers and briefs down over my thighs.
My lips betrayed me by meeting his and opening to his searching tongue. My shoulders betrayed me by trembling to his touch. My hips betrayed me by rising and letting him slip the trousers down to my shaking knees. My channel betrayed me by seeking the hardness of his cock helmet and then by opening to his invading cock and rising and falling on him, fucking myself on his familiar pole—the indignity of wanting it so much that I fucked myself on his cock—all the time playing that song he liked to fuck to as he softly laughed at how easily I had returned to him.
After I had quickly come, his hand squeezing and pulling at my cock and me ripe for the taking after weeks of unaccustomed abstinence, he pulled me up from the piano bench, stripped me completely of my trousers and briefs, and led me back beyond the beaded curtain. Taking me into one of the rooms off the darkened corridor, he pushed me down on the bed on my back and spread and held my thighs wide, and fucked me to my exhaustion.
I had nearly dozed off when he pulled out of me and left the room. I heard murmuring in the corridor and looked up in time to see the colonel from up-island, the one who had been pestering me for some time, enter. He was naked—hairy and cock hard and curved up from a thick bush of curly hair. Steve stood at the door, money in his hand, smiling, as the colonel moved quickly to me and pounced. I tried to rise, to escape, but the colonel back handed me across the face and I fell back on the bed, shocked and stunned. He flipped me over on my belly, at the edge of the bed, my feet reaching for, but not quite gaining a foothold on the floor. He had one hand buried in the hair at the back of my head and the other one had a grip on one of my wrists and was twisting one of my arms cruelly across my back. I lurched and cried out in surprise and pain when he thrust his dick inside me and began to piston me furiously. He let lose of my arm, but arched my back up to him by pulling my head up and back with the fist in my hair. His other hand was groping and slapping and pinching and digging fingernails all over my body as he hooted and imagined himself a cowboy breaking in a new horse. He rode me until I simply didn’t care anymore. And then left me alone, panting, on my belly on the bed. When I struggled up, I was alone in the half-lit club.
The next day I told Steve I wanted the pay I had earned thus far at the club and that I was leaving.
“You’ll get part of the money after each client you’ve fucked,” Steve said. “I didn’t like it that you left me high and dry with an angry Marine general to satisfy. You can earn your way out of here and back home.”
His harsh words slashed directly to my gut. But I was weak. Whenever he told me he wanted me to go behind the beaded curtain with him, I went. And whenever he just laid on his back on the bed, with that long, thick pole of his pointed at the ceiling, I mounted my pelvis over his hips and fucked myself with moans of ecstasy until I had drained him dry.
Nearly every night too, in hour-long breaks between my time on stage, I gave my time in one of the rooms beyond the beaded curtain, fucking and being fucked by men and women alike, developing a following that just couldn’t get enough of me. Being so much in demand that I was assigned a room exclusively, whereas the waiters and bartenders had to settle for whatever room was available at the time.
One night, between sets, Steve came over and told me there was someone he wanted me to meet. This only meant one thing. He didn’t even try to hide the wad of bills he held in his hand. I had already been bought and paid for.
My hands started to tremble and my knees turned to jelly as I approached the table back in the shadows and saw—the general from Clare in Tokyo.
Steve started to say something, but the general said, “No introductions required. You may leave now.” The dismissiveness and slight distaste in his voice were unmistakable, but Steve had gotten the money so had no qualms about taking the hint and pissing off.
“So, you didn’t come back to Tokyo,” the general said as I sat down beside him. He was turned toward me and placed an arm around behind me, laying lightly on top of the banquette. The fingers of his hand rested lightly on my shoulder, but they felt heavy and possessing to me. His other hand rested on my thigh, just above the knee. I willed it to move higher.
“No. I no longer work with Clare,” I answered in a weak voice.
“Yes, I see,” the general said, his eye wandering the room, his mouth set in a grimace of slight distaste.
“I apologize,” he said. “I was rude at our first meeting. I did not introduce myself. I am Takehiko.”
“Takehiko.” I murmured, a catch in my voice, as I realized that his hand had moved higher on my thigh. “A nice name. But first name or last?”
“Just Takehiko,” he said and then laughed. “More a description than a name, really. I am thus just known as Takehiko. It translates as soldier prince. I come from a long line of samurai warriors. From here in Okinawa, actually. All great swordsmen. I’m told I’m a great swordsman.”
I was taking in more air than letting it out, almost hyperventilating, as I felt him holding my cock through the material of the tux trousers.
“You have a very nice sword too,” he whispered. “May I possess it?”
“Yes, yes, please,” I croaked. He unzipped me and took my cock out and wrapped his hand around it, as I gasped for breath and grew inside his fist. The lights and sounds swirling around in the nightclub took on an intensity that made me feel like I’d popped a pill or two. But I hadn’t. All I had done was come under the sway of this magician. I was on the edge of a vibrant, boisterous scene and yet apart, in a tranquil pool, with every sense centered on that fist encasing my cock.
“May I kiss you?” he asked gently.
“Yes, please.” He tasted of honeysuckle. His tongue was thick and long and invaded my mouth cavity in a way that made me want to scream for another invasion farther down my body.
“May I take you to completion?” he asked as our lips parted.
“Yes, oh yes, please,” I answered in a small, dreamy voice.
“You may want to make use of this napkin,” he said with a smile. And I took a napkin in one hand and brought it under the table top and held it loosely over my engorged cock cap while he slowly, rhythmically hand pumped me. We sat there, in the shadows, me watching the life of the night club whirl around us, him watching me for signs of nearing climax. And when saw evidence that I was near, stopping the pumping and holding me in check.
I was whimpering. Both wanting to ejaculate and not wanting the attentions of his hand to stop.
“I can hold you off indefinitely, as you can see,” he said in a voice that had gotten more hoarse, had gone down into the bass clef.
“Yes,” I gasped.
“I can do this with my sword inside you too. Do you believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to do that?”
“Yes, oh god yes.”
“May I strip you here and carry you up to the piano and play a concerto on you on the piano top? Here, with all of these people watching?”
“Yes, yes, Anything you want. Oh, god yessss.”
“You would do that?” He was pumping my cock again, slowly, rhythmically, but he had already gone beyond the point that he formerly had stopped. I was going to come this time, even if he stopped and tried to hold me in check. The tip of one of his fingers had worked its way into the slit in my glans and I felt like I already was being fucked.
“Not here, though, no,” he murmured. “And not now. There is a place and time for you and me. Will you go with me whenever I call—wherever I take you. And stay with me forever if that was what I desired?”
“Yes, yes. Ohhhhh. I think . . .”
“You think you are coming now, Yes?”
“Yess, I don’t think I can . . .”
“May I take your essence?”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I would have said “yes” to anything then, so I did.
His head went below the table rim. He pushed away the napkin I was holding, and his lips opened up over my glans just in time to catch my first spouting. Even as I came, he was flicking the slit of my cock with the tip of his tongue. My head flopped back onto the top of the banquette and my hands went to his head and held him there, to my crotch. And his lips just kept on moving down my shaft, the tip of his tongue insinuating its way into my slit, as I shot off twice more, moaning the ecstasy of my release. And he held there, teeth lightly pressing on the root of my cock, showing that he was fully capable of taking me all in, while I jerked and sighed and moaned and cooled down and, eventually, began to soften.
He sat up at last and dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth with the napkin I hadn’t used.
“You play the piano beautifully,” he said after he’d taken a drink from his cocktail and settled back into the banquette.
“Thank you.” I answered, awed by the control and command he exuded—and feeling chosen that he had come to Okinawa and singled me out for attention. “And you . . . you play beautifully too,” I said.
“After this. After all of this, I can still touch you?” He asked. And now he had turned to me and was looking at me closely. I felt we were at some very significant point.
“You touch me deeply,” I whispered. “More deeply than anyone ever has before.”
“And yet you have not even known my sword yet?” he asked simply. “You know that from just what we have now done.”
“I knew that from just what you spoke to me of at Clare in Tokyo,” I said. “I have sought your sword ever since. Even now, I can feel your sword piercing me, as I open to its passing and you reach for and pluck out my heart. Please, please, fuck me now. Take me anywhere you want, no matter who is watching.”
“Ah, I knew you were the one,” the general said. “And do you like castles?”
I gave him a peculiar look. “Yes, I am fascinated by them. But what . . .?”
“The ruins of my family castle are here on Okinawa, on the west coast toward the north. I believe the area is now called Bolo Point. Will you go there with me and let me do whatever I want to you for as long as I want to? If so, we leave a 3 AM tomorrow morning.”
“Yes.” I’d said this without hesitation, fully trusting him. Not letting anything else interfere, even though I knew Steve expected me to be in his bed at 3 AM in the morning.
“Do you want to pick me up? I live at . . .”
“I know where you live. I know everything about you. I suggest you pack everything you have.”
Takehiko picked me up in a Japanese Army jeep, reminding me of who and what he was. It was a good thing we took the jeep, because the castle was on top of a craggy outcropping accessible only by a narrow track through a sugar cane field. When we entered the shadows of the small enclosure between the outer and inner gates, Takehiko pushed me up against a crumbling, gray stone wall and placed strong hands on the wall on either side of me.
“One last time,” he told me in a low, husky voice, “are you sure? This is not just a casual fuck. I came to Okinawa to perform a family ritual. If you are not committed to this, my ancestors will not be pleased and my family will not prosper. Have I chosen well?”
I tried to keep my voice steady when I answered in the affirmative, although I was trembling. Still, the general seemed convinced of my sincerity.
Takehiko lit a lantern that had been sitting inside the entrance, and as he led me through the ruins of his family castle and cast light on various features, what was most striking in the comparison of Western castles and those of ancient Okinawa was the fundamental difference in their plans. The stonework, towers, and battlements were all quite similar, but whereas a Western castle tended to be fortified from the edges in, with the most precious holdings located at the center, the Okinawan castle invariably was built against a precipice, as this one was, with the holy of holies being a sacred grove and ruling family altar at the rear of the castle, hanging on at the top of the cliff.
After a brief tour of the outer works of the castle, Takehiko guided me back to the sacred grove, which was just that, a grove of pine trees at the very back of the castle walls on a small apron of land suspended over the boiling surf at the foot of the cliff. Here there was a grassy area in the middle of the grove of trees and a stone altar—the center of the ancestor worship for the family that once had ruled the castle and the surrounding fields and had acted as the sentinel for invasion from China to the west or the Japanese islands to the north.
Takehiko left me standing by the altar briefly while he went off behind a crumbling wall to one side. When he returned he was draped in a heavy brocade samurai robe, but the robe was open and he was naked underneath. His body was magnificent, well-worked and well taken care of, and his cock was long and thick and ready. He laid out a richly embroidered brocade coverlet on the ground in front of the altar, and after pulling me to him in a standing position and fondling and kissing me into a lustful mood, he undressed me, pushed me down on all fours, prepared my asshole with his tongue and saliva, covered me with his body, and, sliding his sword into me in a long, stretching, searching journey that I had dreamed of in the hours before Takehiko had come for me and that did not disappoint me, fucked me to paradise. As he pumped me, I listened to the roaring surf at the base of the cliff and the wind sighing in the pine trees, and I added my own sighs and moans of ecstasy to the sounds of nature.
As the night before when he was working my cock with his mouth, he was masterful in bringing me to the brink and then holding off until my coming had subsided and then stroking inside me again, bringing me to the heights of desire and wanting release. It was still dark outside, but the blackness was turning to shades of indigo blue, and I increasingly was able to make out more of the form of the ruins and see farther down the hillside toward the sea.
“This is the taking of the vassal ritual,” he murmured. “I fuck you roughly, simply and with little preamble, and from behind on all fours like an animal to honor the land and those who work it. This is paying homage to our vassals, to the workers of the fields and the soldiers guarding our gates. This is the simple fuck of the night. This is just to appease those in service to us. The dawning will bring the high ritual. You may come now, but I cannot.”
With a sigh of relief, I knew he would take me over the top now. And he did, and I rewarded him with prodigious spoutings of pent-up cum.
I thought we would rest then, but we didn’t. Takehiko pulled me over on my side within his arms and entered me again and handed my cock to another coming. Then, me spent and wondering at his unhuman stamina and control, we both merged with the wild beauty of the setting until our breathing had regularized.
At my ejaculation, he had raised me and pointed my spouting cock toward the ground beyond the rim of the coverlet. “Fertility of the land requires lust and constant reseeding,” he whispered as he brought me to climax for a third time. I had no trouble with lust and reseeding.
I moaned at the touch of his words and of his fingers lightly dancing on my body. We then kissed and worked each other’s bodies with our hands until we were in full rut once more.
Takehiko’s timing was impeccable. The dawn was breaking as we were both in full heat again. He pulled me up from the ground and took the brocade coverlet and draped it over the stone altar in the middle of the grove. He then pushed me onto my back on top of the altar, spread my legs wide, and we worshipped the exuberance of our joining and vitality and our healthy, lustful bodies on top of the altar with merging and rhythmic thrusts and counterthrusts and with me crying my passion to the tops of the swaying pine trees.
“This is the family ritual,” He cried out as he ejaculated deep inside me. “This is the current generation’s homage to all who have gone before. I ask for your blessing on the Onna clan as I sincerely seed my chosen one.” And then he ejaculated again deep inside me, pulled back and thrust even deeper and ejaculated again, and then again. The cum was running down my legs and I was ejaculating up his belly as well. I felt the essence of him reaching and gripping my heart. I was aswim in cum and the honor of being chosen.
As we lay on the altar, me spooned into his chest, he told that we should leave the next day for Tokyo.
“We? Leave?” I asked, incredulous. “You want me to go with you?”
“Yes, I thought that was clear from what I said about being sure of the commitment—and telling you to pack everything you needed,” he answered. “It wasn’t just your commitment to me. Through the ritual of the ancestors, we have become one now—and you have a place at my side henceforth.”
“I’d much rather have a place under you,” I quipped weakly. I was avoiding facing the stupendous decision of changing my life again.
“That can happen as frequently as you are willing,” Takehiko answered. “I sense that people have used you and have failed to treasure you—or at least have not given you your full value. I know your full value. And although I have used you in this ritual, it was with the understanding of the two joining as one. I will not fail to treasure you nor will I use you badly; I have sealed that promise on the honor of my ancestors.”
He felt me trembling, and yet I still could not answer.
“And you need not have to make the choices in life that I know have been tearing you apart—I have a very nice bed in my bedroom and I think you know that I can satisfy you—and I have a baby grand piano in my bedroom as well.”
“That settles it, then,” I answered with a laugh of relief. “I am yours.”
“And I am using what is mine . . . now . . . again,” Takehiko said as he thrust his cock deep inside me and pumped hard, sending waves of pleasure and lust through my body. “And this time none of it is for the ancestors; all of it is for you and me.”