Discovering Japanese Tail

“Are you enjoying yourself so far?”

“Fuck no. I’m jittery as hell,” I answered Tom, who was leaning into me with a tray of something I couldn’t identify and wasn’t sure even was cooked. All of this foreign crap was just too much for me. I was out of place and I’m afraid I had just fucked up. “There are Japs to the left of me and Japs to the right, and they all came in their robes.”

Thomas laughed. “I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to be referring to them as Japs anymore. I think they’re interesting, Jack. Like that young one over there. He’s been looking at you and giving a little shy smile since they got here. Dipping his head. You know what dipping his head means, don’t you, Jack?”

“Yes, I know what it means—at least I know what is means here and in our circles. I’m not so sure what it means in Tokyo. I’m not interested. He’s different and Japanese. Just too different in a robe like that. I think I’d laugh through it all. It would be like unwrapping a Christmas present. And too young anyway. But, what? You’re jealous?”

“No, should I be?” Thomas answered. The way he said it told Jack that he was, in fact, a little concerned.

“I didn’t ask to be here,” I said. “Frank wanted me to be here because he’s trying to sell us to the Japs—excuse me, Japanese—he’s entertaining. But it backfired that he made me come. That one he had me talk to—Hayashi something or other—wanted to talk theory, and I just make the glass, I don’t pray to it. I came across as a country bumpkin.”

“No, you didn’t mess that up,” Tom countered. “He was very attentive to you. You came across as someone who knew exactly how to get it done. He’s got a hotel to put back together, not a theory to run after. If anything, I think you helped show that what Frank has to offer is grounded, not just pie in the sky. And you know how too many critics see Frank’s designs—as pie in the sky.”

“Are you trying to make me?” I asked with a smile, “what with the flattery and all.”

“I’m always trying that, Jack. You know you only have to look my way.”

“Are you stuck serving the crap on this tray all evening?”

“I can get away for a while, if you want me to.”

* * * *

“We’re being watched.”

I turned Tom a bit to where I could see up the dimly lit corridor leading from the drafting studio at Taliesin back to the main house, where Frank Lloyd Wright was entertaining Aisaku Hayashi, manager of the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo; his wife; and Japanese architect Tori Yoshitake. It was unseasonably warm that February of 1916 and it was the first entertaining Frank was doing at his reconstructed complex in southern Wisconsin, near Madison, since the fire there two years earlier during which his mistress, Mamah Borthwick, and her children had been murdered by a disgruntled employee, who then burned the main house down. Frank said he had to entertain the Japanese because he’d been trying to get the commission to renovate and add to Tokyo’s premier Imperial Hotel since 1911.

I’d been among those Frank said had to come to the party, not because I was presentable in fancy society, which I wasn’t, but because I was his chief stained-glass artist, and Frank wanted the key artisans who would be working on the Tokyo project to be there to convince the Japanese to hire us. Frank was nearly out of money—he always was nearly out of money—and said he needed this job. I wasn’t one of his pansy artists—I thought of myself more as the guy who made reality out of someone else’s design. I’d come to the stained-glass specialty the rough way—as a welder and glass blower—but Frank and his assistants did the designs themselves, so I only had to do the hot-lead part of the work. I could design as well, but I wasn’t up to Frank’s standards on that.

What I did design and render in glass beyond what Frank paid me to was glass dildos. I made special ones and was known for doing so. It helped me in getting the men I wanted. Of course, Frank and his designers didn’t have an inkling that I made those.

Frank had said to be nice to the visitors. I’d been more interested in being nice to Thomas Aikens, one of the new brick-layer hires, who was serving refreshments at the party.

There was a young Japanese guy among the visitors I’d been exchanging looks with. I don’t know why I kept looking at him. I’d told Tom I wasn’t interested in the young Jap, but that was a lie. I was attracted to him despite not wanting to be. I told myself I wasn’t attracted to the Japanese visitors at all; that they put me off. They were too foreign, too different looking, too stiff. Just too different. I was just a regular guy. An American. I wasn’t all that interested in Frank’s Japanese project. But I needed the job and I needed to be working on Frank’s designs. I couldn’t get that feeling of being part of something important and long-lasting from anyone but Frank.

But as much as I was put off by the Japanese visitors, I kept looking back at that young one and wondering. Maybe if he didn’t give those signals of submission and I wasn’t so horny tonight. But I was on shaky ground here—were those really signals of interest for a Jap? I had no trouble figuring out interest from my own kind. I didn’t need this shit.

I usually kept my business away from the main house and stuck with guys closer to my age. Thomas was twenty-six to my thirty-one, but the Japanese guy couldn’t be more than twenty-two. I didn’t need this confusing shit. But he looked so exotic and sexy in that kimono or whatever Japanese robe he was wearing—all of the Japanese visitors had come dressed that way—that I was turned on. That didn’t set well with me, though. I didn’t have any interest in anything exotic like a young Japanese guy in a robe—or so I told myself.

At the same time, though, I was thinking about unwrapping the guy’s robe. I needed to stop thinking of what he was like under that robe—what he wore under the robe and how easy it would be to take off. Would his body be small and slender, as berry-brown as he appeared to be, exotic? Would his cock be small or long? Would he sigh for me when I fingered his hole? Would his hole take me? Would he screech in some guttural language or moan as I fucked him?

I had plenty of guys around me who were just rough workmen, like me, and could take a good fuck. I didn’t need to go chasing any different tail. He probably wasn’t even intentionally signaling to me.

His name was Yukio Takamoto and he apparently was some royal Japanese something or other and had spent the fall studying architecture at the University of Wisconsin in nearby Madison. Hayashi had brought him along to meet Frank because Takamoto could help in getting the royals to support the hotel redesign. But he’d done as much looking at me as I’d done at him, and, unless signals were different in Japan from here, I could tell that he wanted it—and from me. I wasn’t all that sure that that was what Frank meant about being nice to the visitors, though. And who the hell knew if signals were the same on both sides of the ocean? Maybe the signaling was flip-flopped over on the wrong side of the world.

He was the one Tom said was watching us from down the hall, where the corridor to the drafting studio connected with the now-reconstructed main house. He was standing in the light from the house in his Japanese robe—blue silk with golden-beaked white herons on it—looking sexy, and watching me almost fucking Tom—intending to fuck Tom. And Tom was moaning for it.

I had Tom backed up to one of the brick columns running down the corridor to the drafting studio. He had a hand palming my basket, feeling up my hard-on, and I had one hand cupping his chin to hold him in place while we kissed, with the other hand stuffed down the back of his pants—a finger inside him. He was moaning and I was about to put him on my cock. But he tensed up when the Japanese guy showed up to watch us.

“Maybe later,” I said, as I dropped the hand cupping Tom’s chin and withdrew the finger from his ass. “I’ll stay around until you guys have got the kitchen cleaned up and we can go over to my cottage if you want.”

“I want, and perhaps you can show me one of your glass toys I’d been hearing about” Tom said, as he straightened up what he was wearing and padded back to the house, giving Takamoto a lingering look, not all that friendly, as he reached and passed him and disappeared into the main house, where someone was playing the piano and there was a tittering of conversation. I had planned on introducing him to one of my glass dildos there in the hallway; I had one in my pocket—not long, but thick. But that would have to wait now.

The young Japanese man stood his ground while I slowly walked back toward the main house. I really didn’t want to go back into the party. I was out of my element there. These weren’t my class of people. I was a horse of a skilled laborer, not one of Frank’s pansy artists. I knew my job but I didn’t know how to discuss the art of it with anyone, let alone some Japanese people.

I paused by Takamoto as I reached him. God, he was young. Early twenties I’d heard, but looking younger, at least in American terms. I hadn’t done any guy that young. Even Tom was young for who I normally did. It would be like robbing the cradle. But that look. I thought I knew what a guy wanted when he gave me that look. I was more sure of it now. There couldn’t have been much misunderstanding about what Tom and I were doing, even in the eyes of a Jap, and yet Takamoto stood his ground and watched us. I think he would have stayed and watched if I’d put Tom on the cock and pumped him against the brick column. And Takamoto—Yukio—was such a sexy little thing.

OK, I had to admit that the exotic thing turned me on. I liked to pretend it repelled me, but it didn’t. And that exotic robe he was wearing. I wondered what he had on under that. Was a Japanese guy’s passage as tight as an Americans?

Without thinking, I leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. He opened to me, taking my tongue inside. It was a lingering, sweet kiss. I let my hand move into the folds of his robe and found his chest bare, slim but lightly muscled and hard-bodied. I found a nipple with my forefinger and was rewarded with a sigh. When I came out of the kiss, I turned and walked back down the corridor, away from the party and toward the dimly lit drafting studio, a long, narrow brick-walled room, trimmed with wood—very much the Frank Lloyd Wright design style—with a row of drafting tables arrayed back along the far wall.

Yukio followed me.

I found out what he was wearing under that Japanese kimono of his—just a loincloth sort of thing that fell apart and away when I unknotted it. I laid him on a drafting table midway down the dimly lit room and laid him good. He wanted it bad. He was such a small, slim thing. I could barely believe he was even twenty. I didn’t think I’d feel right about fucking a guy that young and small, but I was wrong. I loved it. And once we got going, after I’d undone that knot of black hair on the back of his head and let it cascade to his shoulders, I wasn’t finding fucking someone so different from me repugnant at all. I found a Japanese could moan like an American—that, once on the cock, he could move and receive me like any American could. If anything, he was more flexible and yielding than the American workmen I usually spiked.

And he wanted it; he wanted it bad.

He melted to me as I had him on his back on the desk, holding him secure there while I worked his ass with the glass dildo I had with me. He lay there, staring wide-eyed up into my eyes, moaning, and whispering, “Hai, hai, hai.” When I was ready to mount him and fuck him, he was more than ready to receive me.

He was dusky-skinned, smooth and supple. And flexible. After I’d gotten my dick in him, which was a chore—and very enjoyable as he writhed and moaned but he definitely wanted it—I moved him this way and that way on the table, laying him on his back, with his knees pressed up into his chest and pumping him, turning him to his side and dicking him sideways, and then on his back again with his ankles on my shoulders and the palms of his hands working my bulging chest and nipples. He took it however I wanted it.

I fucked him from behind, bent over the table, and arching his head back toward me by using the sash of his robe like a leash around his neck. The little fucker couldn’t get enough of it. He coaxed me onto my back on the drafting table and he saddled on me, his robe gaping open and my hands working his perfect little torso as he bounced on my cock.

He left me there, with a smile and an “Arigatou—Thank you.” I gave him the glass dildo, so I don’t know for sure whether the Arigatou was for the fuck or the toy. I got that word, because they’d been saying it all evening at the party. But then he added, “Anata ha ookina, utsakushi Otokodesu,” and then, when I gave him a confused look as I was readjusting the fancy party clothes I didn’t feel comfortable in, he smiled shyly and said, “I said you are a big, beautiful man. Very big, thick and long, in fact. Hijou ni lookii, futoku te nagai. You master well—Yoku wo masutaa shi masu.” “You do not disappoint.” Then he turned and padded away, up the corridor between the drafting studio and the main house, back to the party.

Shit, he was young. I had no idea I’d like do a small guy that young. But shockingly, he seemed experienced, like he knew how this worked better than I did. It was almost anticlimactic when I fucked Tom Aikens in my bed in my cottage on the Taliesin grounds later that night. I’d never fucked a guy five years younger than me, which Tom was, before I’d fucked Yukio, nine years younger than me, earlier that evening. I was already doing the comparisons and thinking I might want them as young as I could get them—and Japanese. Foreign. I don’t know if it was just this one Japanese who didn’t turn me off. But Yukio most certainly didn’t turn me off, as I had been afraid he would.

He was such a flexible little bugger, able to go into any position I put him in and to meld and ride with me in perfect rhythm. I’d assumed I would be showing him what to do, but it was more like he had been teaching me. Maybe the Japanese had fuck positions that were more arousing than we did. Shit, thinking about that made me go hard.

In any event, I’d done what Frank told me to do—I’d been nice to Yukio, one of the Japanese visitors. It had been quite clear that he wanted what I gave him—or maybe, more precisely, what he’d pulled out of me.

* * * *

We sailed for Yokohama, Japan, in December 1916, aboard the Empress of Asia. Frank was on board, but we rarely saw him—even when we got to Tokyo and were starting work on the Imperial Hotel redesign and reconstruction. Howard Holt, the building supervisor, was the one who kept us together—and he was the one to try to keep an eye on me, to the extent he could, which wasn’t much. Since I’d laid the sweet, twenty-two-year-old Yukio Takamoto earlier that year and discovered that I liked them younger than I’d been laying them, I’d sniffed around other guys in their early twenties on and near the Taliesin grounds and had gained a “robbing the cradle” reputation. The guys I spiked didn’t seem to mind, though. I was still athletic and muscular from my work. I could swing from the rafters with the best of the manual laborers at Taliesin.

I had no trouble getting young guys under me. My welding and glass-blowing skills gave me a body of Vulcan, guys claimed that my dark looks were easy to look at, for some reason guys gravitated to my hirsute body, and I’m betting I was the most hung guy in southern Wisconsin. They all said they loved what I did to them with my glass dildos, and each guy I did got one as a gift. I tried to be the most active coverer of young men in the state. I found that there were male brothels as well as female ones in Tokyo and I became a favorite at them with my big, foreign body. The male courtesans in the brothels melted to the novelty of my glass dildos, and the spun on my shaft.

I had acquired a taste for young Asian men going beyond Yukio Takamoto before reaching Japan. Howard and I were standing at the rails of the Empress of Asia the third day out of San Francisco, when I saw the young man. Howard was on point but I’d gone beyond him.

“One of the ship’s officers was after me about the attentions you were giving one of the young dining room waiters, Jack,” he was saying. I was looking beyond him down the deck, though, at a family that had just come out on deck and were settling in lounge chairs.

“Which one, Howard?” I asked. Indeed, there had been several. Since the first one I spiked reminded me of Tom Aikens, I thought of them as Tom, Dick, and Harry, although I hadn’t taken names. I’d had them all, and I don’t think any of them complained to a ship’s officer. I’d had most of them twice and they were sniffing after me for thirds. I had found that ocean liner dining stewards liked muscles, body hair, big dicks, and a man who could manhandle them.

“Well, shit, Jack Wells,” Howard was saying, “I hope when we get to Japan . . .” But I wasn’t tuned in to him anymore. I was watching the exotic and sexy little piece who had gone to the railing of the ship up the line and turned and looked at me with “that look,” while an attractive couple, but older than he was—his parents?—settled on the deck chairs. He was mixed race, Caucasian and something Asian, having gotten the best of both worlds. He was dressed in a suit, marking the upper classes who insisted on dressing formally and expensively even when three days out on the ocean. He looked like a student pretending to be a businessman—one who had plenty of money. He was small and trim, with jet-black-wavy hair, alabaster skin, and a slight, arousing Asian cast to a beautiful face. All made sense if he, indeed, was the son of the couple in the deck chairs. The man, not much older than forty, was a handsome, tall, well-built Nordic blond, full of assurance and dripping in wealth. The woman was a beautiful, porcelain, ageless Japanese beauty.

What a surprise this was to me. I’d thought that Yukio was a one-off in me being attracted to a younger Asian man. I was wrong. I had gone hard the moment I’d seen this mixed ethnic guy at the ship’s rail, and it was the Asian aspect of him that I was picking out as arousing.

One of the dining room stewards I had spiked and who Howard was admonishing me about came out on deck at that moment and took drink orders from the couple. He went to the rail to get the young man’s order and the two exchanged more than a drink order, as they both looked down the rail, to me. The steward whispered something, looking at me, and the young Japanese-American honey followed his eyes and smiled at me.

I went harder with want. He was just a young guy, though, younger than the early twenties guys I then was indulging in. Maybe twenty at the most. But I was trying them younger and younger and finding the younger they were, the more satisfaction I got in getting my dick in them. I’d popped the cherry of one guy and that had been a thrill. What was most arousing about this young man, though, was the Asian aspects of his appearance. The look and smile he was giving me told me that the steward had revealed what I had to offer and that the young man wanted me—wanted me inside him.

I almost always carried one of my signature glass dildos with me, and I slipped the one I had out of my pocket and flashed it down the deck in a position where Howard couldn’t see it but the young man and the dining room steward could. There was more of a whispered exchange between those two, and the smile the young man gave was dazzling.

His name was Neal Schorner. His father was Anthony Schorner, a steel manufacturer, extending his business to Japan, which was beginning to modernize and had also recently lost a significant number of buildings to an earthquake and resultant widespread fires that necessitated rebuilding. As I estimated, Neal was twenty and I wasn’t his first, but close. He lay, moaning and panting, as I worked him with a glass dildo, not letting up until I’d brought him off. Then I fucked him on the bunk in my small, private cabin, and he wanted it so much the first time that I fucked him twice more before we reached Yokohama.

He looked so innocent and scared when I got him naked and under me on my bunk. His eyes telescoped wide when he saw the glass dildo, but he opened to it and begged me for the cock while I twisted and pumped the glass shaft inside him. He was mixed reactions going with his mixed heritage, both as sweet as hell—struggling against me, making me pin him down, less than half my size and weight, while all the time saying “Yes, yes, fuck me; be good to me.”

I was good to him—eight thick inches good to him—first in glass and then in flesh. He writhed and struggled until I had him under control, pinning his wrists together over his head, possessing his mouth, and fucking him open with the glass dildo, while he moaned and bucked against me. He arched his back, panted hard, and writhed under while I worked him to a jackoff with the dildo. But when I got the cock bulb where my glass shaft had been, he went all docile and yielding to me, whispering, “Yes. Yes. Do what you want.”

He brought his pelvis up to meet me to give me a straight shot up into him. He spread and bent his legs and raised his hips, leveraging off his feet pressed flat onto the mattress. He yielded totally to me, taking and holding the position I put him in, murmuring, “Yes. Yes. Be good to me.” I was in no more than a couple of inches when he bucked up with his pelvis and took the rest inside. He was rocking as hard as I was during the fuck. When I released his wrists, instead of trying to push me away, he was running his fingers through my chest hair and still going with the rhythm of the fuck. “Fuck me!” he cried out. And I did just that. “Oh, fuck, YESS!”

At twenty, Neal Schorner was no innocent. He was a luscious lay, and he dragged the peak of my arousal down another couple of years into the world of the young. Most important, he consolidated my realization that I loved fucking Japanese men.

* * * *

I can’t complain about the reception in Yokohama. We were met like royalty by the manager of the Imperial Hotel, Aisaku Hayashi, and various other dignitaries, including my own young conquest, Yukio Takamoto—although I’ll have to admit that perhaps it was I who was his conquest—and, I was told, by a fine collection of Japanese royals, who conveyed us to Tokyo in style. I found I wasn’t as uncomfortable around a group of Japanese in their kimonos as I had been the previous February at Taliesin.

Yukio picked me out of the arriving passengers and told me, in a breathless voice, that I wouldn’t be staying in the rooms at the hotel itself that had been prepared for us but at a nearby artist’s dwelling.

“I live there myself,” he said. “I thought that it would be well for us to be near to each other. You will be staying with my uncle. In exchange for housing and board, he wishes that you install some stained-glass windows for him. I took the liberty of saying you would be willing to do that.”

I should have realized what he meant when he said I’d be staying with his uncle. I knew that Yukio was a royal. It wasn’t until we got to Tokyo that I realized that his uncle, Norihito Yamato, in addition to being a woodblock print artist of some renown, was also a prince and that his dwelling was a not-so-small palace on the Imperial Palace grounds just across a moat and ancient wall from the Imperial Hotel grounds.

Yukio guided me to a sumptuously furnished bed chamber in an upper floor of the palace overlooking the manicured Imperial Palace grounds. Four burly young men in kimonos, or yukatas, I didn’t know which to call them, although Yukio said that the yukata was more the everyday version of robe, carried in a high-rimmed copper bathtub. All the time they averted their eyes from Yukio and me, as the young Japanese beauty was unclothing me and doing so with fondling and kissing involved. The men had smiles on their faces and did peek at the two of us—Yukio wasn’t undressing. The younger, smaller chamber attendants who followed with ewers of hot water similarly made a pretense of averting their eyes, while not doing so. When I saw them see me for the first time, I saw their eyes dilate. I don’t know if it was from my muscularity, my hairiness, or the size of my shaft. With the attention I was getting, I, of course, was in full, throbbing erection. It might have been a combination of all three. I probably looked like a bear to them. It, too, might be because they saw the glass shaft I was holding.

I was bathed in an intimate fashion by Yukio when the rest had cleared the chamber, the first time I’d had a full bath since I’d sailed from San Francisco. I pulled him into the tub with me and lifted the shimmering glass dildo out of the bath water for him to see, to respond to with a moan, and then to position himself so that I could work the shaft inside him, using the dildo and my hand grasping and stroking his cock to bring him off.

After we had both dried off, I was sat on the end of the bed and Yukio knelt before me, clad once again in his kimono, took my cock in his mouth, and gave me suck. I took his sash from him and wound it behind his neck, holding the two ends, and using pressure on that to help control his head as it moved between my thighs.

After I was engorged, and only then, did I lift the young man up, run my hands into the folds of the kimono, and unknot and unwind his loin cloth. He crouched between my thighs, moaning and groaning, as I fondled him inside the folds of his silk kimono. One thing he had taught me was how sexy it could be to fuck a man who was clothed, exposing only various sections of his flesh, playing with his nakedness, and with only his entrance exposed when I penetrated him, all of my attention going to the effect of my possessing him there. When neither of us could stand the teasing any more, I lifted him; sat him on my lap, facing me; pulled his passage down on my cock; and fucked him to heaven—or, rather, I held there while he bobbed up and down on my shaft.

As before, Yukio was a sweet lay. But something was a bit less satisfying than when I had fucked him at Taliesin, in Wisconsin. Then he was the youngest male, at twenty-two, who I had ever fucked. It was a thrill to fuck a man that young then. But on the boat, I fucked Neal Schorner, who was younger yet—at twenty. I was dawning on me that the pleasure of the fuck was building as the youths I laid grew younger. It helped now that they were Japanese. I now assessed every young Asian male I saw as a possible sex partner. There was something in the way that both Yukio and Neal had melded with and yielded to me and gone with the fuck that was making me believe Japanese men were superior sex partners.

Perhaps finding that ever-younger sex partner was almost as key to my arousal was why I wasn’t totally into the fuck of Yukio, the young man rising and falling on my cock as I held him in my lap until I saw that not all of the chamber attendants had withdrawn. There was a beautiful Japanese youth, even younger in appearance than Yukio, standing shyly just outside the chamber door, in the shadows, watching Yukio and me fuck. He was smaller and younger looking than any of the men I had yet fucked. Upon seeing him, I panted hard, engorged larger, and became more lost in the fuck of Yukio. Yukio yielded to me and went with me in the sex as deliciously as he had before in Taliesin.

But in my mind was I fucking the even younger Japanese youth standing in the shadows outside my chamber door?

Feeling the cum rising up inside me, I placed a hand on Yukio’s tailbone and pulled him into me, taking my cock deep up inside him. With a little cry, he dropped his arms to the side, arched back, and exhibited that he was completely under my command. He jerked with me on each of our series of releases. When I was spent, he rose back up into my chest and we kissed.

“You know that one of your chamber attendants is watching us,” I murmured in his ear.

“Yes. That is Hiro. Hiro Owada, one of my uncle’s wards. I let him act the attendant to carry in water because I had told him about kyodai na membaa ni watashino cokina kemukujara no kuma—my big, hairy bear with the giant member—and he didn’t believe me but wanted what I told him I got from you—how it felt to have a giant ‘penisu’—penis inside and to be covered by a ‘kebukai’—hairy giant. He is much favored by my uncle. He wanted to see us ‘koubi’—copulate.”

I nearly went hard again immediately. The Japanese certainly were more direct and matter-of-fact about sex than we Americans were. “And how old is this curious favorite of your uncle?”

“Hiro is eighteen.”

Well, shit. “And has he ever—?”

“Not yet. But he’s interested. He poses for my uncle’s private art, but he has not gone beyond simulation yet—at least in penisu—penis-in-the-hole sex. He was interested that perhaps you would be his first.”

“His first?”

“To koubi—copulate with him—karno uchigawa ni haichi shi, tanewo ririsu—to put it in him and release the seed—how do you say it? Breed him? I told him you would be too big to be his first but that made him all the more interested.”

Well, shit. He had aroused me to the point that I put it in him again and released my seed.

Hiro remained in place and watched me fuck Yukio a second time. While I fucked Yukio, I was imagining fucking the younger Hiro. I had discarded the glass dildo by the bed, and Hiro retrieved it and pressed it to his body here and there. I resolved that I what have it in my grip and work the young man’s ass with it before I left Japan.

* * * *

Three crews—one for establishing the parameters of work, one for design, and one for setup—had come to Tokyo from Taliesin earlier in 1916, so all was ready for Frank to razzle dazzle and do the final signings and for the rest of us to begin with work in facilities in which we could get right to reconstructing the hotel. Frank was going all out on this project. I had everything I needed to work with in turning designs into Frank Lloyd Wright style windows, transoms, skylights, and decorative walls. I had three American assistants, although when the work got hot and delicate I did it myself, stripped down to fire-resistant heavy-material baggy pants and a welder’s mask. I was good at keeping cinders from leaping up on my bare chest and lighting up my chest hair, but not perfect, so I was well scarred. I had found I couldn’t work in the heat I had to produce to render the stained-glass, though, with anything but a light cotton athletic shirt on, so I went bare chested more than not when I was working on putting the glass together in the patterns Frank and his students designed.

I worked in fluid motions, almost a dance, and I invited men I wanted to fuck to come watch me work. They quickly fell into calling me by the nickname Vulcan. When I let them watch me fashion a glass dildo just for them, I had no trouble getting them into bed. Yukio came to watch me and sex with him always was good afterward.

I had brought two assistants of my choosing from Taliesin. I fucked both of them regularly and we worked together like a hand and glove with both the glass work and in bed. Both were in their late twenties, though, and ever since I’d first covered Yukio at Taliesin in February of what was now the previous year, I didn’t get the enjoyment out of my assistants that I had before. They both were totally loyal and attentive, though, and they gave me release regularly. I was a highly sexed man. I needed frequent release.

That would have been enough staff for me to cope with the demand for stained glass in the Imperial Hotel rebuild, but, as part of the agreement with the Japanese government for Frank to develop this desirable property and to have the free rein he did in doing so, we had to train Japanese artisans in the design work as well.

I was assigned three Japanese artisans. It was a nuisance, and my first instinct was to turn them over entirely to Jason and Anthony, my assistants, but when the artisans were presented to me, I quickly changed my mind.

“How could this one be a Japanese artisan in such a refined and demanding art,” I asked. “He couldn’t be more than—”

“Eighteen. I’m eighteen, and you need not talk to me through the translator. I speak English. My name is Hiro Owada,” he said. “I’ve been working with the glass design since I was eight.”

I, of course, knew who he was, although I hadn’t retained his name. He was the favorite nephew of the prince who was hosting me, Norihito Yamato, a famous Japanese artist who must have known what he was doing and had assurances of Hiro’s skill to send him to train with the foreign artisans. It was the Hiro who had watched me fuck Yukio from the stated curiosity of what it would be like to be fucked by me.

“Well, Master Hiro, I suppose I can let you follow me around to get some sense of how I do it.” It was, of course, a double entendre accompanied by a knowing smile that Hiro shared with me, but there was no reason for my American assistants to be aware of that.

When my assistants turned away to help prepare for the glass blowing, I murmured to Hiro, “And are you still—?”

“Unridden by men? Not yet breeded?” he asked, with a little smile, and when I didn’t say anything, he added, “Yes. I have saved myself for someone special.”

Then I went to work, stripped down to my baggy pants and welder’s mask. I danced, sensually, as I worked and Hiro watched and melted. What I was making was a glass dildo just for Hiro and when he realized that was what I was fashioning, I heard him moan. If I hadn’t known before that he would willingly go under me, I knew it now. When I finished, he was flushed and was panting.

“Is this special enough?” I asked when the dildo was laying on a cloth between us?

“Yes, that is very special,” he answered.

That night, in my chamber in Prince Norihito’s palace, my sexual instructions for the luscious, small, dark hair and eyed, alabaster skinned, eighteen-year-old Hiro Owada began. We had both been bathed—in the same copper tub, Hiro’s thighs on top of mine, me frotting our cocks—his pert, mine gargantuan—together until the water between us went murky white from our released cum. Then we patted each other down with fluffy towels, and each donned a loose-fitting silk kimono.

I sat him in my lap, sideways, and kissed him on the lips and throat and nipples while my hands roamed inside the folds of his kimono. He yielded all to me, sighing and moaning, completely open to what he knew was coming—and clearly wanted. He could feel the thick, long hardness of me rising between his clinched thighs. I kissed down to his nipples, brushing his kimono open, and then he did the same for me, letting his tongue make small swirls with my black chest hair, while his tongue and teeth found and played with my nibs. He gasped as, holding him bent back securely in front of me, I entered him with the glass shaft, but he didn’t shirk from it. His hands came down to cover mine as I gripped the dildo and worked his passage with it. He arched his head back and my dipped my face and took his lips in a kiss. He was hungry for me.

“You are not a novice of this,” I murmured, when I came out of the kiss. “Your passage opens to the glass. I was told you were a virgin to men.”

“I am a virgin to men’s penisu inside me,” Hiro whispered, “but my uncle has trained me in all else so that I can pose with other men for him to draw in the creation of his woodblock prints for private collectors. He taught me to do this too.” Whereupon Hiro moved off my lap onto the floor, took my cock in his mouth, which I thought would be impossible to do, but he took it deep in his throat and I lay back, not intending to let him take me to a finish, but he was so expert at it that all he had to do was lightly palm my lower belly to keep me in place as I built up to a release and then exploded again and again, into the back of his throat.

We lay there for some time in full body embrace, his small and trim, mine large and muscular, as we kissed and I explored every inch of his supple little body, still exploring within the folds of the kimono, finding this Japanese technique of covered sexual art highly arousing. Once more I employed the glass shaft, and once more he arched his back, spread his legs, and murmured “Hai, hai, hai.”

I was in full erection again when we moved back to my providing and Hiro taking my lead. I had him on his back and I was stretched out along his body on my side, hovering over him.

“Sigh for me,” I commanded as I unwrapped the kimono, brushing it to each side, exposing his beautiful little body, and ran my big, coarse hands in the crevices and over the curves of his supple, vibrant white body. He sighed for me. “Watashini sore wo oku—Put it in me,” he begged.

“Moan for me,” I commanded as I coaxed his thighs open with my hand, rising to where his thighs met, stroking his perineum, the taint between his balls and the rim of his hole around the sides of the buried glass shaft until he did moan for me.

“Moan for me deeper,” I commanded as I slowly pulled the glass dildo out and my fingers, first one and then two, breached his sphincter muscle, coaxing his no longer tight hole to open enough for the tips of the fingers to find and stroke his prostate. And he produced a deeper moan for me and his slim hips began to softly rock against the fingers.

“Watashini sore wo oku!” he cried out. “Sore wo oku watashino okufuykaku watshitachini! Tsu wo tsukuru!—Put it in me deep. Make us one!”

I leaned over and took his mouth in a deep kiss as I continued to work his passage, only very reluctantly blossoming open for me, with my fingers. Coming out of the kiss, I kissed and tongued down his small, trembling body, pulling my fingers out of his still-tight ass and replacing them with my tongue when I reached the cleft between his buttocks cheeks. “Groan for me,” I commanded and he did.

“Ai, ai, ai!” he exclaimed, as I worked my fingers in to the knuckles and massaged his prostate.

Hiro, though he was groaning at the difficulty of opening enough even for my fingers, was very much into the fuck. As I ate him out, he moved his pelvis rhythmically against my face and gripped my head hair to hold me to him. “Hai, hai. Watashiwo fakku,” he murmured, and I needed no translation as Yukio had begged me in Japanese to fuck him several times before.

“Open to me. Let me in. Cry out for me,” I commanded as I positioned myself over him and began the difficult journey of sheathing my thick, long, throbbing cock in his small hole. It took time and effort and much crying from Hiro, but I did get it in him, established position, and, as he cried out “Ai, ai, ai! Watashiwo fakku! Watashiwo fakku!” I did just that. I fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.

After that, for the second and third fuckings, I didn’t have to provide any more instruction. The little firecracker was adept in the theories of the Japanese art of sex and quickly was able to bring them into practice. He was flexible and yielding and insatiable.

I had met my ideal level. I wanted to fuck eighteen-year-old Japanese youths forever.

In the months to come, although I continued to fuck Yukio, it was Hiro and other eighteen-year-olds, mostly virgins, after him as he aged who brought the highest arousal and release out of me. I repaid Prince Norihito’s generosity as a host, which included providing new eighteen-year-olds as the months and years in the construction of the Imperial Hotel, which didn’t open until 1923, spun out, by modeling with the small, young Japanese men for his sex-position woodblock prints, to which I brought the refinement of actually fucking the youth as we posed. I also trained one young Japanese artisan after another in the stained-glass art, contributing, I hope, to the flourishing of that art technique in Japan. I exhibited my work technique, dancing bare chested for each of my young apprentices, and each of them opened his legs for me.

Before my contract on the hotel was concluded, the male brothels of the country had incorporated the use of glass dildos in their services.

When 1923 arrived and, with it, the finishing and opening of the Frank Lloyd Wright redesigned Tokyo Imperial Hotel, I did not return to the United States and Taliesin with the rest of Frank’s artisans. By then I was hooked on fucking eighteen-year-old Japanese youths, which I was able to do in Tokyo under the protection of Prince Norihito and Yukio Takamoto and would never have been permitted to do freely in the United States.

The adjustment to Asia was good enough for me—just as long as I had access to eighteen-year-old apprentices, even as I started to move toward forty myself. The young Japanese men kept me feeling young as well. And the demand for glass shafts burgeoned.