I had been told that the assignment was a bit kinky, but a weekend stopover in Hawaii and three days on my own in Tokyo, paid for by the generous fee addition, were enough for me not to care. My pimp, Leon, told me to make myself blond all over, which I had grown used to in any assignment sending me to the Orient. And I was a bit intrigued because I was told up front that the client was Matsu Shinjuto, an elusive Japanese billionaire, much of whose wealth came from his Japanese ink paintings and block prints of ancient Shinto shrines during the various seasons.
The limousine sent for me at the hotel stopped at a massive set of iron gates at the base of a sharp steep slope up a hill, heavy with ferns and carefully pruned weeping trees, and I climbed slowly up to a hilltop eerie high above Kyoto, where my client had placed his many-pavilioned Japanese-style mansion floating over Japan's cultural capital. As I climbed, I looked up at the red-lacquered railings on the terraces above, sensing many sets of eyes on me, assessing me, although I wasn't able to discern any movement.
I entered the compound through a brightly painted torii gate, ushered by a black-robed figure nearly bent at the waist. We moved silently on stockinged feet through a series of white rice-papered-walled, wood-framed pavilions seemingly floating in the clouds. Between each pavilion was a austerely beautiful, uniquely landscaped stone garden atrium straight out of the master's style of painting. I was to find that his art went much beyond the scenic, however.
When I entered into the first courtyard, a deceptively small, square space that used stunted Japanese maples, mountain-like rock formations, and running water to provide the illusion of scenic splendor, I was escorted into a small room off to the side. I was asked by the elderly, severely demeanored gatekeeper who had taken over as my escort at the entry of the second pavilion, which seemed to mark the beginning of the core living area of the compound, to strip down and wrap an emerald-green kimono around my torso and tie it off with a royal-purple sash. There was a tube of scented lubricant on a low stool, with instructions, written on rice paper in elegant, black-inked calligraphy, to apply it generously to my channel. None of this was shocking to me, of course. I was way beyond the capability of being shocked in the world of the extremely highly paid male prostitute.
When I was escorted to the third pavilion, I was motioned to sit, yoga style, with my kimono billowing about me on a cushion placed in front of a squat rosewood tea table. Another, more luxurious and plumper pillow was set beside me. As a willowy young Japanese man in a shiny silver and black kimono served me a glass of perfectly chilled Sapporo beer, I gazed, in great interest and awe at the walls about me, where a large collection of traditional Japanese ink drawings were displayed—composed of highly graphic male-male gay erotica set in some ancient oriental era.
As a whole, the exquisitely drawn collection could stand as a tutorial in the many exotic positions men could get into in fucking each other. I was particularly drawn to the style Shinjuto—because they unmistakably were the work of the master—used to gain maximal erotic images from the clothing. Rarely were the models completely naked; rather Shinjuto had used clothing to help enhance the senses and understanding of the paintings. By exposing only fingers on a nipple and a half-buried cock in an ass—along with the expressions on the faces of both taker and taken, Shinjuto had perfectly caught privacy and sensuousness in one work. And in yet another, by showing the clothing in dishabille as in a struggle, the bent-over position on a moss-covered rock in a garden, and the panicked look in the face of the significantly smaller, taken one and of the flailing, helpless position of his arms, Shinjuto caught nonconsensual ravishment perfectly.
"Ah, do you find my private collection to your liking, Mr. Smith? I presume we can refer to you as Mr. Smith in our arrangement?" Shinjuto had arrived, on silent rattan sandals, while I had been absorbed in his artwork and settled very close beside me in a sigh of satin and silk. He was in his early senior years, at least into his mid sixties, but he looked toned and handsome in his traditional kimono of pure white undergarments and an over dress in a blue oriental waves pattern. He was well groomed and had long, elegant, strong fingers that attracted the eye with their fluid motion and precise placement while he talked.
"Yes, that name will do, Sensei," I responded, using the term for master teacher and lowering my eyes as I had been instructed to do in a quick tutorial I had been given before I left Los Angeles. Shinjuto was paying top dollar, and I was warned to treat him as such. "And, yes. I find your art extraordinarily . . . melting. It has me . . . excited . . . with anticipation, if I might be so bold as to say."
I saw no reason to mince words. Shinjuto already had one hand behind me and at the nape of my neck, running his elegant fingers through my blond hair and his other hand buried inside the folds of my kimono below the purple sash and gently encircling my engorging cock. The preparation, the foreplay, had already begun.
"And which do you find most erotic, Mr. Smith? Perhaps that one over there, depicting much of what we are engaging in now?"
He had indicated the work where the two figures were nearly fully clothed but undoubtedly steeped in a very intimate act of taking. As he spoke, he had untied my sash and folded back the material at my breast, exposing one of my nipples. And his fist had brought my cock out from the folds of the material below where the sash had fallen away.
I sighed and trembled for him as I had been carefully taught men of refinement and an artistic temperament appreciated. The fingers at the nape of my neck tightened as did the fist on my cock. Shinjuto pulled my head back and down, and I arched my back for him, my chest expanding and bulging out from the draped kimono.
"I wish you to come for me, Mr. Smith. In good time, while I tell you why I have engaged your services."
So, it wasn't to be just a simple fuck. What he was doing now wasn't the main thrust of why my time and body had been bought by him for top dollar. His lips and teeth went to one of my nipples as my back was arched by the tension of his closed fist in my hair and his other fist slowly and relentlessly jacked me off. He had a thumb on my piss slit, and as I flowed in precum, he thumbed the fluid around on my swollen glans.
"Yes, like that, Mr. Smith," he said when he lifted his head from one nipple in preparation for giving equal attention to the other one. "I want to see how large you can become. I was explicit about that . . . and it seems my desires were satisfied."
"I am paying well for you, Mr. Smith, as you no doubt are aware, but you are a means for me to make millions."
I moaned and trembled a bit at what Shinjuto was doing with his mouth and fist. He drew his head back and watched the effect of his artwork, as he briefly took his fist from my cock and then glided the palm of his hand up my torso, his moistened thumb, moistened by my own precum and raised outside the fold of my kimono, up to my mouth. He rimmed my lips with the moisture from his thumb and then pushed it past my lips, into my mouth, and I sucked on it.
