Gay Erotic Stories

The limosine 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, feeling 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 while we moved through a series of white rice-pappered-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 elusion 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 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 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 job. 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.

While he was doing this, he was rearranging my body as well from where we had been sitting, yoga style, very close beside each other. He had moved one of his thighs beneath one of mine, and he was twisting my torso to the side, the arm of hand that had been in my hair now wrapped around my shoulder blade, his arm supporting my torso in its twisted, but still upright position, and with an elegant, long-fingered hand palmed across a nipple.

“Have you ever heard of the Japanese art of Kinbaku-ji, Mr. Smith? Translated as “beautiful bondage?”

“No, no, I . . . haven’t,” I managed in a gurgling tone, the thumb of his other hand still in my mouth, before I involuntarily groaned. Shinjuto had moved his face inside my draped kimono, forcing my arm over my head, and he was licking his way up the side of my chest, headed for my pit. He had also pushed his thigh farther under mine, lifting my hips up over into his lap. His kimono was open below his sash, and he was naked under the elegant white silk. His thighs were hard for a man his age, and I could feel the power of a strong cock, as well. I also could tell that it was sheathed, ready for me. There would be no clumsy pauses or wasted movement in his flow toward the taking of me.

“I have a Chinese client. A very, very wealthy Chinese client, Mr. Smith. He also has an attitude toward the West. He will pay me dearly for a collection of art, using the Kinbaku-ji style, but depicting the East dominating the West. You are to be my model for the West, Mr. Smith. And this client has eclectic tastes. While I am painting these scenes in traditional style, one of my students will be taking still and video photography, and my son will be developing a Hentai version.”

I grunted and strained at this point, because the elderly Sensei, showing his extraordinary strength and flexibility and sorely testing mine, had drawn my leg straight up to rest on his shoulder between our torsos, which were now bowed away from each other. His thumb had left my mouth and had returned to fisting and slowly pumping my cock.

“Does that sound interesting to you, Mr. Smith?” Shinjuto said this just before his teeth and tongue found the most tender hollow of my pit and started devouring me there.

“Yes. Oh, yes. Oh . . . OH . . . . YESSSS!” I cried out, not so much in response to his question, but because he had now opened and positioned my lubricated ass to his shaft, and he was burying his strong, virile cock deep inside me and somehow finding the leverage to piston fuck me as I found myself in a melting fuck position I’d never experience before. I knew it was a traditional position for Shinjuto, however, because, as I threw my head back in the passion of the taking by a Japanese master, my eyes caught one of his drawings depicting exactly the same position.

* * * *

The modeling project was much more involved than I had thought it would be. After Shinjuto had jacked me off and cum with a very satisfied and decorous grunt, he rose and readjusted his kimono, which more or less fell back into an innocent drape line as he stood, and glided back out of the room. While a few young male attendants cleared away the pillows and table and half-empty glass of beer, which I could have used after the muscle-stretching exercise I had just gotten, a couple more helped me groan to my feet and took me to another pavilion, where I was bathed by them in a copper tub and dried off with fluffy towels.

All of the male attendants were handsome young men. The two who attended me were especially nice, and apparently instructed to please me. Their appearance along with remembering and reliving what Shinjuto had just so expertly done to me, made me hard again, and, seeing this and while they both giggled, one of the young men leaned over from above my head and possessed my lips fervently with me and reached over and pinched my nipples while the other lifted my hips to the surface of the water and sucked me to ejaculation.

After they had left me, I had a surprise visit from what must have been Shinjuto’s art students. I stood stock still and stark naked in the middle of the pavilion while four young men painted my body. What they were painting depictions of Western arrogance and power projection—polluting mills, dollar bills, conquering armies, plundering ships, and every form of avarice and crass consumerism they could get on my body—in angry red and orange and yellow and black body paint colors. One design flowed into the next. My cock, of course, which they had to pump up to paint properly, was a guided missile. They were quick and inventive and highly skilled. I’m sure that they had worked all of the designing out in advance.

When I was “done,” I was summoned to the first of several “stages.” This was one of the austere stone gardens. The attendants made me lay in the center of a flattish platform rock, where I could barely touch the ground with the heels of my hands as they arched over and out at the corners of the rock toward the ground. White shiny silk runners of cloth ran out from under the rock, at the center of which, they must have crossed and been knotted, and streamed off at the four corners. I was forced to dig my heels into the sand at the lower quarters of the rock, and then the streamers were wound around my wrists and ankles, binding me to the ground in a backward crab position, my cock pointed at the sky.

Through intricate windings of the silken runners, my head was arched back with a strand running taut under my jaw, the runners criss-crossed my chest, and another of the strands wound up a leg and then under my balls and tightly encasing the root of my cock, which effectively kept my cock both pointed straight up and engorged.

Although I had sort of figured it out beforehand, I knew for sure what the body paint was about when I saw the two lithe but well-muscled and very agile Japanese young men who came out into the garden after I had, by the Sensei’s definition, been “beautifully bound,” or prepared for Kinbaku-bi. The two young Japanese were also covered in body painting—but in more subtle greens and blues and whites and certainly in more refined and artistic images than was slathered on my body. Everything their bodies depicted was the antithesis of the crass and angry and grabby images on my body.

I got it. Shinjuto was going to used as a traditional Japanese sexual art form to give his Chinese client exactly what he wanted—an exotic and erotic collection of art showing East controlling and fucking West.

And that’s exactly what they did. After the master and three of his prized art students had arrived and settled themselves in three different areas of the periphery, the two young men representing the East began to regain their dignity. Shinjuto was sitting cross-legged, in an elegant heavily brocaded vermillion kimono behind a sketching easel. Beside him sat a younger man, of maybe nineteen or twenty, and achingly beautiful—but with a melancholy aspect. He handed implements and inks to the elder Shinjuto upon command, and, when not doing this, he was sketching with rice paper pad and charcoal. Every time I looked at him, I found him slack jawed and watching me intently. I knew he wanted me. But I equally knew that he wanted me to fuck him.

Another of the students was busily moving around the garden, snapping photos and switching now and then to video—and always checking and scowling at the light sources. The third young man was sitting as his computer, doing whatever one did to adapt what was happening in real life to the Hentai world.

But I hardly noticed the actions of either of the latter two; I had my mouth and ass full with the two painted models. I was sucking one off, my head pulled back by the “beautiful bondage” so that he could just pump his cock inside my by standing above my head, his fingers busy worrying my nipples. And the other one was between my legs and fucking my ass, while his hand was moving my “missile” to lift off.

In a second “beautiful bondage” setting, I was lying on my back at the last step of a rock-based water cascade formation descending down into a small pond. My wrists and ankle were bound together by the silken runners, which then rose to the graceful limb of a pine branch jutting out over the water cascade. Two runners wound around my waist, with one snaked around an ankle of one of the painted East figures and then to the other, binding him to me, as he stood at the base of the cascade between my spread and raised arms and legs and fed his cock in my mouth. The other East model was lying below me in the shallow pond at where it was cascading down between my trussed appendages. Bondage runners ran from his waist up to around mine. His cock was buried in my ass, half visible and rocking in and out for the artists to see, appreciate, and capture in their various mediums.

In the third and last scenario, although it provided a double bonding image, I was taken into a large pavilion bedchamber. In the center was a large, square bed, covered in mussed silken sheeting of the purest white. Hanging from a hook in the ceiling above the center of the bed was a silken runner, the richest red this time, gathered up so that it was well off the bed. Similarly, there were two other hooks and red hanging runners at either side of the center hook, each positioned near the edge of the bed. I was forced down on my belly in the center of the silken sheets. My wrists were bound together behind my head and encircling my jawbone and then attached to a runner around my chest at the level of my pecs. Inside this runner clips had been sown into the fabric and were clipped securely onto my aureoles, pinching my nipples closely.

Another runner ran off of this chest wrapping from between my shoulder blades and went back and was tied to my left ankle taut enough to pull my leg at a side angle. A runner encircled my waist and another, wider-banded one tied at the chest banding both at the sternum and between the shoulder blades. It wound down and through my ass crack between these two points, winding once on each side around the waist wrapping as well. My right leg was bent back upon itself with a tight wrapping holding the ankle up against my thigh at an awkward position that, by design, left my butt cheeks stretched wide.

I didn’t notice that the runner going between my crack had a shallow cylinder pouch in it at ass level until the East models began fucking me. They took turns. And although their cocks weren’t thick, they were long. The deeper they fucked, the deeper the pouch that now ran up inside my channel was pushed. And the deeper this was pushed, the more tension that was put on the “beautiful bindings” attaching at my chest and ultimately around my jaw and at my nipple clippings. With each thrust, my head was been jerked back, my back was arching involuntarily, and my nipples were being pulled.

From this point to the end, the photography guy was going to video only. He had his microphone down close to my head and he was capturing some sounds of taking like he’d never heard before.

Both I and the men below me on the bed were doing a lot of writhing, and the body paint was coming off onto the white silken sheets. While I was trying to focus on something other than this excruciatingly painful-pleasurable fucking, I briefly wondered how much Shinjuto could get for the framed silk sheets at an art auction in Chicago. Knowing that it could go for high money with the right background story, I was getting fully into this East fucking West scenario that had been created here.

The finale was a doozy. Before the two East models came this time, they untied my legs and undid the binding around my jaw, and I found out what the red runners on the ceiling hooks were for. The ones at the corner were let down and my legs were split wide and my ankles were bound in red well off the bed and straight out at my sides. The center streamer, which was on some sort of pulley system was lowered, and my bound wrists were bound on this and I was raised above the silken sheets in a spread-eagled form.

The two East models then laid stretched on their backs below me, their heads in opposite directions and joined at the pelvis, the thighs of one over the hips of the other. One of them held their two long, but happily not all that thick, cocks together until an attendant had wrapped a binding around the base of their cocks, make their tools one, thick cock. Then the binding between my ass cheeks was taken away, the pouch slurping out of my channel, as I was lowered onto the two cocks. Skewered deep by two throbbing, joined tools, and then raised, and lowered, raised, and lowered . . . until both of the East models had come in much jerking and thrusting up of themselves from below me.

* * * *

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 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. One this higher bar, there were silken strands wrapped near each end at a wide angle.

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 last Kinbaku-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 clearly 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 of Kinbaku-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 last Kinbaku-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 free Kinbaku-bi fuck for his son thrown into the bargain as well.