Beautiful Bondage

* * *

As I was being unbound and praised for my contribution to art by the attendants and the photographer, I looked up and saw Shinjuto standing there, half way between his easel and the bed. He stood tall and straight, but he was shaking. And I could tell how wound up he was and moved to a higher plane of desire by the expression on his face alone. His sash had come untied, and the kimono had fallen away from his body. His heavily-muscled chest was heaving, his nipples were puffed and rock hard, and there was a thin film of sweat glistening at his sternum. His erection was gigantic and angry red and slightly bobbing up and down.

The young man who had been handing implements to him and crouching beside him and sketching as well was still huddled back at the easel. I could see the want and need in his eyes as well. But I could also see fear and confusion, and it hit me at that moment that he had no experience in this. Only want and need.

"Come. I am well pleased," Shinjuto said in a wavering, barely controlled voice. "I will pay double. I will also charge double. And my client will gladly pay it upon seeing the samples."

He took my hands, my wrists still bound in "beautiful bondage," in a firm grip and led me over to the side of the room. There was a contraption in front of the rice-paper wall that looked like the side view of gymnasts' parallel bars—quite widely divergent parallel bars. The lower bar was the nearer one and was set at mid-thigh level. The one beyond it was set at shoulder height. On this higher bar, there were silken strands wrapped near each end.

In short order, my thighs were straddled on the lower bar and my ankles were bound above the higher bar at the widely spread interval. Shinjuto was crouched down behind me, his angry red, gigantic tool working its way up into my ass channel, his long, elegant fingers digging into my aureoles. My bound wrists were thrust over his head, joined behind his neck, which held my shoulder blades against his heaving chest.

I saw the young assistant in my periphery vision, at Shinjuto's elbow.

"Please, uncle, please. You said that I might . . ."

"Yes, Kanto, you may have your first taste."

The younger Japanese came around in front of me and knelt and tentatively started to taste my cock. As he worked at it, he quickly got better, no doubt having had a lot of instruction in the theory of it from his father's art.

"One lastKinbaku-bi, just for my own pleasure," the Sensei was muttering. "This does not go to the Chinese client. I have this part of you for myself."

I was thinking—between grunts and groans at Shinjuto's expert fucking and the young one's pleasurably learning—that it was a shame that this wasn't being captured in art if it meant so much to Shinjuto.

But even as I thought that, the pavilion wall panels before my eyes were splitting and being drawn back . . . to reveal a life-sized, obviously Shinjuto master painting of just what I would see if there had been a mirror there. The agency must have sent him a photo of me, because it clearly was me in the painting, trussed up on this apparatus—and it clearly was Shinjuto fucking me and showing a pleasure in the fuck in his face that I couldn't see in real life from where I was bound. And between my legs in the painting was the bobbing head of the handsome young Japanese nephew of the master.

Shinjuto had orchestrated it all. He was the master.

* * *

I never saw Shinjuto again. As far as he was concerned, I'd done what I had been paid handsomely to do and now he was going to be paid even more handsomely for having created art out of his sensuous, torturous taking. He was the master, the Sensei. Before he released me from his bondage, however, he told me that before I left Japan, I would received one more token of his appreciation. But that I should only accept it—and he declared that it would be quite valuable—only if I would grant the one wish of the one who delivered it to me. I hesitated slightly in responding, but he reassured me that the present would be worth far more than I would have to give for it, so I told him I accepted.

I was intrigued about what this present might be, and it was that more than the declared value of the gift that made me say yes. Shinjuto had been very generous to me. But, despite all that I had made—and even how much I had enjoyed the exotic taking and learning of the Japanese sexual art ofKinbaku-bi, I was just too mischievous and imbued with the need to control in my heart to leave it all completely at Shinjuto's design and command.

I had seen that Shinjuto was holding his nephew back—that he had every intention of teaching him in the ways of men with men. But that he was going to dole it out piecemeal and almost reluctantly—and completely under his control and at his direction. That he was going to torture the handsome youth with it.

Kanto, the nephew, was in the pavilion where I was being cleaned up and given a chance to rest. I could tell that he wanted to linger when the others were finished, and I decided to help him with that and to assert a little control of my own and to leave my mark on Shinjuto's well-ordered and orchestrated life.

As Kanto was putting the towels into a bin, I went over to him and took him by the hand and walked him around the walls of the pavilion, which was the same one in which Shinjuto had first taken me. We viewed the erotic art together, going from one to the other. I felt the intake of his breath and his tightening up as we stood in front of one that showed a young, willowy Japanese receiver rolled up onto his shoulders on a mat, his torso rising in the air and the older muscleman Japanese giver standing over him, one leg over the thigh of the younger one, whose heel rested on the older one's butt cheek, the older man holding the younger man's leg at the knee. The younger man's other leg was spread out wide, being held by the older man's hand under the thigh. The muscleman Japanese was fucking down into the receiver's hole, his thick cock only half buried. The expression on the giver's face was one of triumph and lusting cruelty, and the younger receiver's head was arched back in a cry of passion and overstretching.

I unknotted the sash of my kimono and let it drape open. And I searched down in the folds to ensure that the tube of scented lubricant I had retrieved from earlier and hidden there was still there. Then I came up very close behind Kanto and drew him into me.

He shuddered at the feel of my cock in the small of his back, and he moved as if to pull away from me, but I held him fast to my chest. I held his torso to mine with a palm spread on his chest and I untied his kimono with the other hand and, tugging at the kimono at his shoulders, made it drop unto the tatami mat below.

Kanto whimpered and struggled again, but I held him fast with a palm over his chest and the other hand going to his cock. He was already almost fully aroused. He was ready for me already.

He swiveled his head away from the painting, but I raised one hand to his jaw and held him there, face forward, fully looking at his uncle's masterwork of an older, muscled man dominating the younger virginal man. I got a large glob of lubricant on the fingers of the other hand, and I started working his tight asshole with my fingers. First one finger and then another.

Kanto was panting heavily and moaning, and I could feel his legs going to rubber. But I held him up with the framing hand under his jaw, forcing him to look at what was happening in the painting and with the strong finger of my other hand skewering up into his tight ass.

When I felt he was open enough to take me, I crouched down at the knees a bit and just picked him up off the floor with my hands on his waist and sat him down on the crown of my cock. He cried out at the pain of the taking, but now he had thrown his hands around my neck and locked his fists and his chest was arched out. He jutted his butt cheeks back into me, helping me to bottom.

We were united there, joined at the cock and channel for several long minutes, while we waited for his virginal channel to stretch to accommodate me and his pain and suffering to turn to wanting and lust. We were both panting, and he was groaning and moaning and telling me he never knew it could be like this and that this was his first time—which he hardly had to tell me.

Holding him to me with one arm across his panting chest as I lapped him in my semicrouched position in front of the painting, I reached down and fisted his cock in my other hand. He ejaculated almost at once with a joyous shouting that sent my own fluids spewing through me and deep into him.

Again we held the pose for several minutes as we cooled down and recovered the strength of our manhood, which he was able to do quickly because of his youth and because it was all so new and arousing to him—and I was able to do through professional conditioning.

Still, I had thought that would be enough. I had taken the virginity of Shinjuto's precious nephew, who he intended to slowly cultivate. I had thus accomplished my little flash of mischief and grabbing for control. And, just as important, I had thoroughly enjoyed myself.

That thought caught in my mind with a guilty twist, though, because Kanto was shaking inside my grasp. Perhaps I hadn't thought of him well enough in all of this. I'd thought he wanted to be relieved of his virginity as soon as possible, and his body had been sending out unmistakable signals to me. But he was trembling, so maybe I was wrong. Maybe he was upset at what he had lost.

"Kanto—" I started. Not really know how to say it; not even knowing what to say, what to ask. I couldn't given him back his innocence.

"I'm sorry. I can't pay you much," be blurted out, ending it with a sob. But then he continued in a flood. "I know you make a lot of money at this. I have very little, but I could send you a little at a time . . . for as long as it takes."

"Oh, Kanto," I said and then laughed with relief. "I didn't do this because I wanted you to pay me for it. I did this because I thought it was what you needed, and, frankly, because you are super hot and I wanted you. I don't have to be paid when I want to do it. You honor me by giving my your virginity. You don't know how thrilling that is to a man. To be the one to deflower a hot young man like you. So, now, shall we clean up and—"

"No. Please . . . no." His voice started off stubborn but then got shaky again.

"No, what?" I asked, surprised.

"The painting. Can you fuck me like they are doing in the painting first?"

"Yes, of course," I said, laughing again. And, taking him off my lap and turning him around and setting him gently down onto his shoulder blades, I showed that I could . . . and I did.

* * *

Three days later as I was packing my bag and getting ready to leave Tokyo after having had a great time in the Shinjuku ni-chome bar scene—and after bar hours activities, where I picked up some extra cash from several randy Japanese men with open and overflowing wallets, I answered a knock at the door. Shinjuto's son stood there, grinning in recognition and, no doubt in remembrance, and, after bending in synch low at the waist, handed me a wrapped package.

"From Sensei Shinjuto, with regards and thanks," he said. And then he came out of his bow and gave me "the look," and I then knew much of what receiving the gift would entail.

"My father said that you would grant me my one wish," he said, and then, when I nodded in assent, he said, "My one wish is one lastKinbaku-bi with you. I assure you that it will not be as strenuous for you as my father was."

"Certainly," I said. "Come in."

I was already starting to strip down when he went back out in the corridor and returned with a laptop computer, which he sat at the foot of the bed, facing the headboard, and revved up. He also had red silk bindings with him.

I watched the computer screen in fascination as he put me into beautiful bondage, one wrist bound to the railing of the bed's headboard at the left corner and the other wrist and my left ankle loosely bound together at the right corner of the headboard. I was then trussed up, my butt resting on the side edge of the bed near the headboard, left leg raised and torso stretched back toward the other side of the bed.

What fascinated me with the computer display was that it was of an animated Hentai of the cartoon me and Shinjuto's son in just this position. Shinjuto's son stripped down. He was slender but well muscled, a handsome young man, and his quite presentable cock was already engorged. He must have been a little self-conscious about his endowments, though, or overly ambitious, because the cock on his Hentai character was the size of a baseball bat. But then, so was the dick on my Hentai character—and my character's hole was big enough to take the baseball bat.

I watched both on the screen and in real life, as Shinjuto's son bound his forearm to my right calf with the silken bounds. Then, already encased with a condom, he just pressed between my spread thighs and fucked me as closely as he could in real life to the exaggerated good sex unfolding in the Hentai animation on the computer.

When he was finished, he just quietly unbound me, turned off and closed his computer, gave me a look and salute of full satisfaction and appreciation, and departed.

When he was gone, I opened the package to find an ink drawing, done in bold strokes, undoubtedly by the master, Shinjuto—of me fucking his nephew, Kanto, in front of the painting depicting the same act.

I had to laugh. Shinjuto had mastered me again. He had planned even what I thought I was controlling—the deflowering of his nephew—for free. And he'd managed to get a freeKinbaku-bi fuck for his son thrown into the bargain as well.