“Oh, Keizo, it’s you. It’s a self-portrait.”
“I had no model…do you like it?” Keizo seemed concerned now.
“Like it? I love it.”
“It’s for a big client. Shiro, do you really like it?”
Shiro couldn’t speak again. Keizo’s nearness robbed him of all his vital functions. Even breathing.
“Are you okay?” Keizo asked.
Shiro nodded. “It is beautiful, Keizo.”
Keizo smiled. “Thank you, Shiro-san.”
Something passed between the two men. Shiro knew nothing about Keizo except that he was probably gay seeing as he lived in Ni-chōme. His website and all biographical detail was strictly business when he’d researched the man online. He had no idea if Keizo was single, or not.
“Thank you,” Keizo said again and Shiro knew he was being dismissed. As he bowed and walked to the door, he felt as if he was losing a friend. It was as strange feeling, as if he would never see Keizo again. The air was thick with unspoken feeling.
“Shiro.”
He turned, hope hammering in his soul.
Keizo’s gaze burned into his.
“Travel safe, the roads are very wet.”
“Hai. Thank you, I will.”
Shiro wondered what Keizo really wanted to say and tried to shake the image of kneeling between the gifted artist’s legs and sucking his cock.
His cell phone rang as he walked outside. His feet touched the wet pavement. He’d forgotten his shoes inside. The front door clicked shut. He had no choice but to press the buzzer again. When Keizo heard his voice, he was silent for a beat.
“Come upstairs,” he said.
Shiro was worried that Keizo would call Shiro’s immediate obayun, or boss, Nobuo-san. He wondered how he could apologise for disturbing the great artist’s valuable work time, not to mention his privacy. He heard the ping of the elevator door and stepped towards Keizo’s apartment.
The artist stood there naked, smiling.
“You like?” he asked.
Shiro’s cock stirred in his pants. He stared at Keizo, taking in ever beautiful inch of him.
“Come in, Shiro-san, let me touch you.”
Shiro felt he was in a dream as he walked inside. He could hear the rain starting again as Keizo’s kisses began on his temple, down Shiro’s cheek and finishing at last on Shiro’s waiting mouth. Keizo’s kisses became more insistent, his tongue moving into Shiro’s hot mouth. He tasted strawberries on the other man’s tongue and tried not to think of his mother.
Keizo took all of Shiro’s clothes off, inspecting his body.
“Lovely. I know you are part Japanese. What else?”
“Hawaiian.” Shiro bent, claiming Keizo’s cock with his hungry mouth.
Keizo laughed. “Wait, sweet one. Wait.”
He took Shiro’s hand and led him past rows and rows of Japanese screens to a small room with a raised platform. There was a futon mattress on it, one of Keizo’s male nudes adoring the wall above it.
“Lie down,” Keizo instructed.
The black bedding was surprisingly soft. Shiro’s hot gaze remained on the artist whose cock was half hard. Something made Shiro glance to the long, lacquered table against the wall. There were all the packages of pencils and brushes he’d delivered to Keizo.
“You didn’t need them all?” he asked.
Keizo lit some candles and dimmed the lights.
“I needed the first package. The rest…were all about you.” He reached over, picking up two of the brushes and came to the bed, kneeling beside Shiro. His cock was getting harder.
“May I touch it…please?” Shiro begged.
“Of course.” Keizo leant back, allowing Shiro to lick and fondle his cock. It wasn’t huge but it was perfect. Shiro began to suck it, but Keizo urged him to lay back.
Holding the two long brushes in his hand, Keizo swept them across Shiro’s belly, swirling first one, then the other into his belly button.
The sensations were exquisite. He felt ripples of pleasure soaring through him. Keizo moved the brushes down his thighs, meeting just under his ball sac. Keizo bent, pressing soft kisses against them.
“Your cock is perfect,” Keizo whispered, making small, feathery movements with the bristles against Shiro’s ball sac. He could feel the pattern. A figure eight.
No, infinity.
Keizo began to work on Shiro’s cock, which hardened under the man’s surprisingly erotic brushwork. Shiro blinked. His cock felt as if it was on fire. The brushes moved opposite each other, then up in one sweep and down again. Each time Keizo drew the bristles up his shaft, Shiro felt the pressure increase. Keizo bent once more, Shiro’s cock head touching the artist’s chin as his tongue pressed into Shiro’s belly button again.
Shiro cried out. He couldn’t believe how intense his pleasure was.
“Oh, fuck me, Keizo.”
He couldn’t believe he was saying such words. Keizo ignored him. He was in his own zone, drunk with his own power. He slid the magic brushes up along Shiro’s shaft again.
“Open your legs, beautiful boy.”
Shiro obeyed. He felt his teeth chattering with need as Keizo took his time criss-crossing the brushes against his perineum and up to his ball sac. Shiro longed to feel the soft brush heads against his ass hole. His legs opened wider. Keizo murmured his approval. Shiro felt open, vulnerable but incapable of doing anything but surrendering as the bristles made a determined swathe across his ass cheeks. Shiro squirmed to get the bristles right on his ass hole. He sighed when Keizo allowed them there at last.
Their gazes locked.
Keizo waited a moment, and then began a frantic upward brushing with the two bristled-heads. It felt as if a giant, rough tongue worked on his opening and Shiro groaned. He was going to come. Keizo bent his head again, his brushes in one hand now, gently stroking Shiro’s ass as he sucked the thrashing man’s cock.
Shiro came so hard, he couldn’t see anything when he opened his eyes but bright, purple strokes, slashes, behind his eyes.
“What colour did you see?” Keizo asked when he released him.
“Purple,” Shiro said.
Keizo smiled. “Show me.”
Shiro gaped. “Show you?”
Keizo rose, his cock hard and jutting up towards his taught belly. He moved to the table, bringing back tiny black jars and the two brushes as well as a piece of parchment. He lay on the bed beside Shiro, who thought nothing could be sexier than lying here naked with this gorgeous man.
He could feel Keizo’s cock at his ass cheeks and yearned for it.
“Soon, boy, soon.” Keizo positioned everything on a tray in front of Shiro, submitting at last to a kiss from Shiro.
“Now,” he said. “Show me.”
Shiro found it hard to tear his gaze away from Keizo’s face but he forced himself. Keizo mixed colours on a plate.
“Take over for me.”
Shiro took a brush and added a little white, mixing the colours. He watched Keizo lift a condom package from the tray and heard him open it. He felt the man’s beautiful monster poking at his ass. Keizo looked over his shoulder.
“Paint for me, Shiro-san. Please.”
“But I can’t paint.”
“Yes, you can. Paint for me.”
Keizo disappeared behind him and Shiro’s soul did a two-step when Keizo started licking his ass. The second Shiro began to paint, Keizo took his face away and replaced it with his cock. He entered Shiro from the side, looking over Shiro’s shoulder, fucking him with an incredible rhythm. Shiro painted. And painted. Keizo reached down, stroking Shiro’s cock. He was not only hard, but also desperate to come again.
He kept painting at Keizo’s urging as he came in the man’s hand as Keizo filled his ass.
“Oh…” Shiro stared at the painting. How had he done it? Two male forms collided. It was a painting of passion. Primal lust. It was a painting of them.
“I wonder what colour you’ll see the next time
I fuck you,” Keizo said, kissing him again. “What did you do before you came here to Tokyo?” Keizo suddenly asked.
“I’m a student, doing my Master’s degree in Hawaiian literature and philosophy.”
“Next time I see you, tell me a story as I’m fucking you.”
Keizo reached out a thumb, touching Shiro’s bottom lip. It was heartbreaking to tear himself away from Keizo, but the artist promised to call him. Shiro was in orbit over their lovemaking and couldn’t wait to see him again. But as he let himself out of the building again, he saw he had three late-night collections to make, more deliveries. He worked through the night, falling asleep on the tiny sofa at the office, dreaming of Keizo fucking him with his brushes.
He had about two hours of sleep when his cell phone rang.
Disoriented, he grabbed the phone, staring out the window at the grey sky.
“You forgot about me.”
“I didn’t forget you,” he assured Miki. “I’m sorry. I had to work. You know how it is. I even fell asleep here in the office.”
“Yes, you forgot about me.”
He offered to make it up to her by taking her to breakfast at her favourite place. Lauderdale, a nice little café in Roppongi Hills, was one of the few decent breakfast places in Tokyo. It was a cool place Siono would have loved. One wall was decorated with hats. Siono loved hats. Shiro started to ache for his mom. Another wall was covered in empty picture frames, which he felt, was the story of his life. It seemed odd but comforting that this very un-Japanese place would be the hot breakfast place in town. But then, there was a lot about Japanese life he was still learning.
Miki sat opposite him, smiling. She looked ecstatic. He guessed she didn’t have too many dates that didn’t involve her being on her knees or flat on her back. He, on the other hand, could not wait to get this date over with.
She ordered buttermilk pancakes and tea. Shiro ordered a gruyere and fresh basil omelette. Good sex always made him hungry. Great sex made him ravenous. He ordered an apple cinnamon soufflé right after it. Miki ate a few spoonfuls, but he was pretty much on his own with the light and airy concoction.
“I want my date now, please,” Miki said.
He cringed inwardly. He thought this was the date. He hadn’t even had a chance to process his night with Keizo. He wanted to hold it to himself like a soft, warm blanket. He’d never had such a wonderful night with any man. He’d needed it. He needed to feel alive, the comfort of skin-on-skin.
“Okay,” he said, aware that he owed Miki a debt of gratitude.
“I want to go to MPM.”
“To what?”
“It’s a special museum,” she said. “It is the hottest place you can take a girl on a date, Shiro-san.” She giggled.
“Okay, I’ll take your word for it.”
He helped her with her helmet. She wore a pink dress and matching panties, giving him a healthy flash of those as her long, lean legs straddled the bike. He slid to his seat in front of her. Her machinations and her close-hugging thighs were lost on him. All he saw in his mind was a naked Keizo, beckoning him. He followed her shouted directions. All morning he’d waited for an assignment and it worried him that he hadn’t received one. He was hoping more than anything that Keizo would require more brushes and pencils.
Miki tapped his shoulder as they took a corner. “That’s it, right there.”
He parked outside a building called the Meguro Parasitological Museum.
“What is this place?” he asked her.
She giggled. Of course.
“You’ll see,” she said.
He noticed a lot of young couples, arm in arm walking into the museum. Admission was free. No wonder the place was packed. She gripped his arm. They shuffled around the first floor, which was filled with printed information on parasites. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Walls and walls of bottled parasites taken from animals. Graphs, maps…pictures of the worst-known parasite infestations in the world.
“Are you ready for the second floor?” a guide asked them.
“Yes!” Miki said, clapping her hands together. She immediately resumed her sumo-like hold on Shiro’s arm. He could hear moans, groans, a couple of screams, muted laughter and a few gasps from upstairs as they took the stairs to the second floor and he almost lost his breakfast.
Parasites.
As far as the eye could see there were parasites. An eight-point-eight metre long tapeworm extracted from some poor guy’s stomach got the most interest. It was coiled on a blue velvet board and framed in glass. Over four thousand parasites were displayed, most of them huge, a few of them tiny.
It was a fucking horror show.
Miki kept giggling. He kept gagging. He tried not to look but it was hard to avoid some of the real monstrosities such a severed turtle’s head with a gigantic spider-like parasite growing out of its ear.
Shiro and several other men clustered around an alarming photo of some guy with elephantiasis of the scrotum. It hurt just to look at the unbelievable growth that went from the guy’s balls to his knees.
He couldn’t wait to get out of here.
“Come on,” Shiro said, feeling sick to his stomach.
Miki wanted a souvenir of their visit. He kept his mouth shut, allowing her to drag him to the museum store.
“I want this,” she said, after examining all the souvenir parasites on offer. She plucked a big key ring from a bamboo box. It was an intestinal worm encased in blue plastic resin. At least she had inexpensive tastes.
He was in the middle of paying for the key ring when his cell phone buzzed. A text, from Shun’ichi’s henchman and Shiro’s immediate boss, Nobuo-san.
Meet me downstairs. Now.
Chapter Two
Shiro had no idea what to expect. He rarely saw Nobuo-san, but he knew he had to leave immediately. He’d seen and heard enough about his mercurial boss to know that dithering was unacceptable.
Miki tried hanging onto him, but when he received a second text, he panicked, shouting at her.
“Don’t you understand? I have to go. I’m in trouble!”
She started to cry. People were staring now, so he took her arm and guided her out of the store as fast as he could. Outside, a long black Lincoln awaited him.
“Get in. Both of you,” Nobuo-san said as the shiny, blackened passenger window lowered. Only his eyes and nose were visible.
The driver hurried to the other side of the vehicle and opened the door.
Taking her elbow, Shiro led Miki across to it. Now she wasn’t just upset about their ruined date. Fear had caught up with her and she trembled.
“It’s okay,” he said softly, but in truth, he was petrified too.
“My motorbike,” he said to the driver who shook his head.
“It’s my motorbike,” Nobuo-san said from inside the car. “It will be taken care of.”
Shiro let Miki into the car first then he squeezed in beside her. An ice cream truck passed them. They were called yaki imo in Japan and the music emitting from them was like a dirge. Shiro froze, one foot in, one foot out. Was it an omen? Was he on his way to his own funeral?
He forced himself to join Miki in the car. She was so frightened, she sat as far from their boss as she could, not giving Shiro much room to sit. Nobody said a word as the driver shut the door and they merged with the flow of traffic. Shiro could smell Nobuo-san’s aftershave. It was quite…erotic. For the first time, Shiro realised that Keizo had unleashed long-dormant hormones in Shiro. In spite of his fear, he was attracted to Nobuo-san. Beside him, Miki shook. Shiro wondered if they would both die. What had upset Nobuo-san so much?
He knows I’m gay. He found out I slept with Keizo. Keizo. His heart flip-flopped at the memory of their torrid encounter. I can’t apologise for the best sex I ever had in my life. I know Nobuo-san is homophobic…oh, man. An image of his mother floated into his mind. The thought came to him in a burst of clarity that he recognised because it happened to him so infrequently. Intuition.
Shiro tried to quell his desperate thoughts. The first time he’d met Nobuo-san was over lunch at a food stall in the quaint, pedestrian-only street, Nakamise-dori. Maybe Nobuo-san had been lulling him into a false sense of security in a place with so many people on foot and no cars in sight. He agreed to meet the nephew of his Honolulu banker and treated him to a meal. Not that Shiro had been able to eat. Sparrow, snakes and scorpions on sticks were not his idea of tasty fare. Nobuo-san had gloated over the crunchy bones of the cooked, whole sparrows. Shiro had worked hard to hide his revulsion as he begged for a job.
He had worked out his prepared speech, that he was willing to start at the bottom.
“Oh, you will, don’t worry about that,” came the response.
Nobuo-san had surprised him. He didn’t look like the Yakuza he’d seen in movies.
“You have both pinky fingers,” Shiro had said.
Nobuo-san had actually laughed.
“We don’t do that anymore, Shiro-chan. We try to blend in these days.”
Shiro had spent some time with Nobuo-san who showed him the magnificent Buddhist temple at the end of the street. He introduced Shiro to two of his immediate subordinates. They took him to one of the lodges, more like a dormitory, where the baby Yakuza slept. They gave him a cell phone, which took days to master, then his motorbike. Shiro had felt challenged and tested, but felt he had remembered all the rules, followed all the instructions.
Until now. He quickly tucked his thumbs into his palms. This was a sign of respect and one of many, crazy things he’d had to learn.
They stopped outside Miki’s building and she wept softly as Nobuo-san opened his door and pointed outside. She climbed over him, not looking at Shiro, and walked on shaky legs to her front door. They sped away before she even entered the building, but Shiro was certain he saw a man standing inside the entrance.
“Is she…going to be okay?”
Nobuo-san gave him an indignant look. “What kind of question is that? My business is not with her. It’s with you.”
The iciness reminded Shiro of the danger he’d glimpsed behind Nobuo-san’s elegant, understated suit the first time they met. He didn’t exude flashiness. He did, however, exude danger.
My Yakuza Page 2