Bought with a Tux

We were taken to the exclusive Okura Hotel, which I was familiar with, because it was very near the American embassy compound, where I reported to pick up classified messages daily when I was in charge at my office. I had been in the hotel before but never to the restaurant that had been picked out—and where we obviously had been expected, as we were ushered to a private dining room. Saito sat at the table with Tanaka and me, and the chauffeur took up the same defensive stance beside the separating Sochi screen that he had taken in the box at the concert hall.

We were in the hotel's Japanese restaurant, Yamazato. Tanaka went whole hog and ordered the simmered sea bream head with sweet and sour sauce, but he didn't criticize or ridicule me when I stuck with the far-less-exotic tempera medley. I didn't even recognize what Saito ordered, although he ate little of it. What conversation there was was initiated and husbanded along by him.

Once more he brought up Beautiful Bondage. "Did you have an opportunity to look it up?" he asked me. "Does it appeal to you?" I could tell that Tanaka was closely attending what I would answer.

"No, I'm afraid I was much too busy at work today. Is this something Mr. Tanaka wants me to do?" I looked at Tanaka who was busy pretending to savor his fish head. It was Saito who responded.

"Yes. It isn't onerous, as sexual positions go, and there's great variety. But you will be incapacitated."

"Ah, sexual positions," I murmured.

"Yes, Mr. Tanaka finds you very handsome in the tuxedo he has gifted you with—and arousing. He wants to fuck you. He has his favorite methods."

Ah, both laying the cards on the table—calling a spade a spade—and playing the tux gift card. I found it arousing to hear the crude, direct word dropped in all of the couched refinement. I'd had inklings before in my short time in Japan that this technique could be used very effectively. It certainly did the trick here; my arousal increased, regardless of who I would be coupling with.

It also didn't escape me that he had used the word "will" rather than "would." But I'd been bound by leather in Bangkok—and suspended on a meat hook, for that matter. The word "beautiful" took the edge off of anything Saito was suggesting.

Even while he was expertly stripping morsels of meat off his bream head with chopsticks with one hand, Tanaka was busy with his other hand, under the table surface, checking out whether the prospect of Beautiful Bondage and being fucked by him was arousing to me. I trust that his exploration proved that it was. Once more he was fishing my cock out of the fly of the tux and stroking it.

And the experience wasn't that bad, if all too brief. In fact, it was all a little tame for the buildup I'd received for this Christmas adventure. And I left more keyed up for more than satiated with "more than enough."

I was in Tanaka's penthouse apartment on the nose-bleed floor, on a platform bed in the center of a huge bedroom on the corner of the building, where two walls were composed completely of glass overlooking the glitter of downtown Tokyo at night.

The artwork on the other two walls—at least what was on the floating panels when we first went in—brought my mind back to the unanswered question in the concert hall earlier. They were all woodblock prints. Some from the Shin-hanga period but even more from the post--World War Two era, including, I didn't fail to notice, some very nice Saitos and Tanakas.

As Saito was wrapping reams of silk scarfing around my naked body as I lay on the bed, though—the colors all Christmas colors that made me want to laugh again—a servant was manipulating the floating panels so that the art changed to homoerotic lithographs featuring just what Saito was introducing me to—Beautiful Bondage.

The art depicted beautiful naked men bound in silk in various different positions, some of them requiring a great deal of flexibility and contortionist skill to achieve—and other men, not as beautiful as those bound; older, not as muscular and trim, but more in command fucking the bound men in various creative attitudes. From where I was, and when I could take my mind off the silk being wound around me, it looked like the men doing the fucking were a single man—a man looking very much like Sadao Tanaka.

When Riyoshi was done, I was trussed up like a pig on a spit. I was on my side on the bed, my arms raised above my head, bound together by the wrappings of silk, which were tied off at the head of the bed, so that I had no use of them. My legs were similarly wrapped, but whereas my right leg was pulled straight down and held in place by being tied off at the foot of the bed, my left leg was almost painfully bent up, with the sole of my foot bound to the front of my right knee. I was turned three quarters to the right. Everything was wrapped in the colors of Christmas—red, green, and blue—except that my buttocks was free of covering, as were my pectorals and my face.

When he was done, Riyoshi looked around to ensure that the room was clear of servants and then bent down and took my lips in his. After a sweet, lingering, hungry kiss, he patted me on the wrapped shoulder and said, "It will be fine, and you shouldn't be long here. He has much to give but poor stamina, and he will not hurt you—assuming you can accommodate them long."

He went over to a corner of the room and picked up a camera, as Sadao Tanaka entered the room, dressed only in a red silk robe. More Christmas? I wondered. On Easter did he wear a yellow robe and at Thanksgiving wear a brown robe to his fuckings?

I realized I was being a bit giddy and seeing all of this as slightly silly. But, hey, it was Christmas and something totally different to remember.

When the robe came off, I was even more convinced that the man in the lithographs was depicting Tanaka. He didn't have a bad body for a man his age, although he was a bit withered and had a bit of a belly on him. But he did have a superior cock in length, and there was no question what his intentions were. He was in raging, red erection. (Riyoshi later admitted to me that the erection was pill enabled. This many years before pills became popular as such aids.)

The adventure lost much of its luster from that point. I thought the bondage was a bit kicky, but a Christmas surprise for me would have been Riyoshi and the chauffeur fucking me together. I had celebrated that way before in Bangkok.

Except for a brief couple of minutes Tanaka was all art and understatement in the fuck, not to mention fairly quick on the release. He had brought a hand whip in with him, with long, red-silk cords. And he did swish that around my body, but more in a ceremonial fashion than to build up either pain or heat. He also tweaked my nipples painfully a couple of times as some sort of bow to BDSM, I guess. It did make him breathe harder and more noisily. And the process seemed to help him maintain his erection. Saito snapped photos of this and of the rest of the ritual, as well.

Dispensing with the whip, Tanaka held my head between his hands for a bit and slow-fucked my face. This perhaps was the most taxing procedure during the fuck. His cock indeed was long and he did seem to enjoy listening to me gag on it.

When he mounted me, it was from the rear, but also with his cock entering me from the side of my channel at an angle I'd never experienced before and that had the bulb of his cock rubbing on side walls that hadn't had the touch of man like this before. I groaned and sighed at the different, exotic feel of this approach. My channel walls began to shimmer at the touch of him, and I closed my eyes to block out his age, because otherwise he was giving me something I'd never experienced before—something I could come to.

His knees were buried in the mattress on either side of my extended leg, his hands spreading my exposed buttocks, and his torso ramrod straight. He fucked me deep with the long cock as the camera clicked off shots that I assumed later would become guides for a lithograph or two for his walls.

There was maybe a minute or two of what I could classify has a superior fuck, when he was thrusting deep and rapidly, at that exotic angle, reaching far up into me with that long cock of his, and during which I writhed and cried out involuntarily for more of just what I was getting. But he couldn't sustain that for very long. The strong gush, along with his reaching around my belly and stroking my cock with his hand, was enough to make me come as well, however.

I didn't begrudge him the rather strange and tame fuck—other than the bondage and the angle of attack. I was getting a nifty expensive tux out of it—not to mention hearing the Vienna Boys Choir live and some delicious tempera. I had sold myself for less in Bangkok—more times than I could remember. And the studs who had fucked me there had done a taxing job of it, leaving me exhausted, panting, and sore.

When he came, it surprisingly was in prodigious flow—as Riyoshi had hinted it would be. And he had barebacked me. This was 1977, nearly a decade before there was any hint of AIDS. We never thought in those days of protection in this brand of sex. And I'll have to admit that the flooding of my insides was pleasant—a little extra present for Christmas.

Riyoshi had also been right, though, that Tanaka didn't have the stamina to ride me long or to do so more than once. I found I would have welcomed a second mounting, if only to maybe experience a whole new, refined approach. And there was a minute or two that I was soaring on the clouds quite meltingly.

As Riyoshi was unwrapping me, I wanted to cry out that I wasn't fully satisfied—that I wanted the younger man to fuck me as well. But apparently Tanaka was not into the voyeur fetish and didn't consider bringing in Saito for a second act. This too I was used to in Bangkok—there being a second, third, and sometimes more acts, with different players.

I thought, as I was at the door of the apartment, ready to leave, once more dressed in my Christmas present, that this would be it. That the chauffeur would drive me back to the hotel and my seasonal adventure would be over. And such an adventure it was, I have to admit. Much better than watching Japanese TV Christmas night in the plastic space-craft pod that was my hotel room.

But Saito both surprised me and gave me hope when he suggested that he walk me to my hotel, which he said was only a few blocks away. I wasn't acclimated to the Tokyo downtown area enough to know where my hotel was in relationship to where we stood now. But to be alone with Saito and to have one last crack at him, I would have been happy to walk three miles.

The walk, arm in arm with Riyoshi hit the spot. The snow was tapering off, leaving a wonderland effect even in the inner city, the streets were nearly deserted, and the sweet strains of the Vienna Boys Choir were wafting through my brain. We stopped more than once in darkened doors to kiss and fumble around with each other's clothing strategically—me with much melting delight at what I found. My spirits rose with the unspoken promise of the man.

My Christmas was, indeed, destined to be complete, and my presents beyond satisfying. When we reached the hotel and I asked him to come up to my room, Riyoshi Saito said "Yes." And when I pressed my luck and asked him if he could come up for all night, into Boxing Day morning, he smiled and said "Yes" again. And he told me that he, at least, had no problems with stamina whatsoever.

And he didn't. When I opened my legs to him, he split me asunder with a magnificent staff, expertly used, and applied at length—and entering me in four separate angles that made me think he'd had lessons from Tanaka and that gave each aspect of my channel walls full attention.

We even used a modified Beautiful Bondage approach, with my wrists tied together with one silk scarf—a red one—and my mouth stuffed with a green silk one to muffle our celebration from the small modules on either side of my hotel room. Again, Christmas colors, but this time I was being too gloriously taxed to laugh at the image.