Piano Study

Preface:

No erotic story could attain the quality of this sequential one without generous and painstaking assistance from trusted friends of acknowledged authorial skills. I pay tribute to three in particular who lent their eyes to the preceding and present chapters in varying degrees: James Rozo, MCVT, and Bill Jonners. Whatever success my story registers with readers such as you owes much to them. By rating and commenting upon this chapter at the end, you will let us know that you appreciate my/our effort. Faults, of course, belong entirely to me.

To catch up with this story, read chapter 6.

The Kyoto concert was swamped. Billed as a benefit for orphanages under the patronage of a front for the J.H.U. Foundation (registered in Tokyo), it sold out at high prices and created a stir. For Wolfgang Mozart’s Concerto in F Major – composed for a mother and her two daughters – Stephanos played the grown-up’s first piano part, Ramses the second, and Michael the simple third. For Robert Casadesus’ Concerto, Op. 65, the parts went to Ramses, Michael, and Stephanos in that order – so that everyone could witness each boy well.

Praise for the Allegro and Adagio was surpassed by that for twenty-year-old Mozart’s Finale: Tempo di Minuetto. So delicate was the boys’ sensitivity to the subtleties of the 18th century dance that critics vied for phrases that verged on poetry to express their pleasure. One wrote, “We were transported to the Salzburg of Mozart’s irrepressible youth.” Another praised “touches at times as soft as powder puffs.”

Casadesus’ Gallic-inspired modern conservatism emerged as highly spiced, “lively on the tongue of taste,” according to one writer. Its movements marched (Allegro marziale), danced (Andante Siciliano), and ventured close to riot (Presto Spagnuolo). Skeptics joined in cheering my three teens.

Stern-faced Noriuki Sato, chairman of the H.U. chapter, appeared backstage, for the first time in our short acquaintance with the most beautiful young boy to grace our eyes in Japan. Diminutive Goku bowed solemnly to each of us and touched his palm respectfully where such an obeisance was meant to go, our crotches. Stephanos started, but J.C. reminded him that, in this circumstance, he was due the respect. How the boy shone!

Next day, we were driven into Kyoto’s heavily wooded mountains – verdure and rocks so beautiful we gasped. Circuitous routes took us to stark, Zen-simple structures perched by means of massive stilts on a steep hillside overlooking the valley. Despite heavy construction, the pavilions appeared as delicate as the twenty-one boys who, along with the membership’s eleven matched couples, were to be our audience.

After hasty consultation, we improvised a program to engage the unexpected group. Stephanos stepped to the Yamaha, met there by a willowy early-teen, pretty as a picture, who spoke English politely as he bowed. “Master Sato bids me to translate for you, Zamparas-san.”

Selections from Schumann’s Scenes from Childhood included Blind Man’s Bluff, Pleading Child, Child Falling Asleep, Dreaming, Frightening, and An Important Event. Each was explained, then played. The music seemed real to the children so vividly did Stephanos bring out the pictorial and narrative elements. They laughed, looked sad, relaxed onto each other, jumped at the idea that Frightening might illustrate a nightmare, and clapped in rhythmic joy to An Important event.

Ramses spoke of dance music before playing the Allemande, Courante, Bourrée, and Gigue from Bach’s French Suite in G Major. Before Beethoven’s Minuet in G Major, he had the happy idea to ask the translator and a boy from the front row to let him teach them to dance a minuet. Very little time went into this before they indeed danced it while he played. Their audience was enchanted. He told them the story behind Beethoven’s Rage Over a Lost Penny. His fleet fingers flabbergasted even the masters standing with J.C. and me at the back.

Michael had to wait for the commotion to die away before he could get their attention. He did it by launching into Chopin’s Heroic Polonaise without announcement. By the middle part’s left-hand octaves – when speed from his wrist made that hand disappear, they were his, rapt.

Noisy applause. Exhilarating to witness. Particularly, many boys jumping up and down.

Before his next piece and instead of speaking out, Michael whispered his comments to the translator. Puzzled, all leaned forward to listen to a rough paraphrase of the poem behind Liszt’s Dream of Love No. 3.

“Love as long as you can love…Keep love in your heart…The more you love, the more you will be loved…For the man who loves you, do all that you can…Make every hour you spend together happy for him.”

Michael had another remark for the translator, “This music is about passion – your body’s and your soul’s.” As the music unfolded its loving arms, silent vows were being taken throughout the room, especially by experienced boys. Many who yearned scratched at themselves and felt twinges in their seats. If only….

To end, Michael departed from what we had discussed, de Falla’s Ritual Fire Dance, and spoke directly, a phrase at a time (for the translator’s benefit), “Bedřich Smetana’s Etude By the Seashorewill remind you of surging waters, heaving waves, and tempests crashing on the coast. For me, it reflects my growing awareness of eroticism – from the time I was the age of some of you – to my triumph along with it in music such as this when I surrendered myself, my love, and my life to my teacher, the great man there.” He pointed to me.

The subject of a room of ravishing almond eyes, I stood and bowed to Michael.

You would have thought the full power of the Pacific had been unleashed so typhoonic became the force of Smetana’s work under Michael’s hands. The Yamaha, an orderly arrangement of leverages between keys and felt hammers, succumbed, surrendering its mechanisms to transformative powers. It became a living component of transmission from composer and interpreter to the audience to yield such results as followed the work’s final watery trickles.

Total silence. Several seconds of it prefaced high-pitched voices began chanting “Psmith-san-Psmith-san-Psmith-san” – or what sounded like it. Michael pulled his vanishing act and sent Ramses back to the piano. His arrival quelled the uprising, which simmered as his index finger summoned the translator.

Copland’s Cat and Mouse caused jollity. Proved to be the perfect end to a musical experience unique for that H.U. chapter!

* * *

Lunch was provided for us away from the boys with only the adult members conversing among themselves, openly with J.C. and me, cautiously with Ramses, Michael, and, by default, Stephanos. Master Sato translated for those whose English was nonexistent or limited.

To preface their curiosity about our “use” of their bottoms, they spoke proudly of five types of intercourse common in Japan to enforce the principle of the master’s sovereignty over his boy: indoctrinational, emotional, recreational, maintenance, and disciplinary. Rumor had it, Sato-san said, that I had developed one or more methods to use intercourse to inspire and, although no one quite believed it, to teach specific works of music.

In their keenness to hear from me, the eleven men, putting aside rice bowls, inclined their heads.

Anxious not to risk insult, my thought was to pose them this question: “Am I correct that your intercourse is an expression of manly control and power to which you are entitled by your status as members of the Hyacinthus Union?”

With that interrogatory, I said, under my breath, to J.C., “We’ll see where their answer takes us before you back me up, all right?”

He understood.

“I am Master Mitsuhide,” a muscular giant of a man, sumo-intent, stepped forward. Without so much as a glance in Sato-san’s direction, he said in an Oxonian accent, “My status was in place long before learning of the Hyacinthus Union. By heredity, I am a member of the Kasumi Kaikan, what you would call the Peers Club. A boy for me must be docile, devoted to his role, and in need of constant reminders of my superiority. Mine is exactly that. You know him. Mareo is your translator.”

“He has served us with honor,” I replied, my brain in a rush. “I speak for both of us here and for our boys when I congratulate you on his skill with our language and his graceful manner of service.”

J.C. followed, “Ohayō (Hello), Master Mitsuhide. Your Mareo’s submission has produced a most estimable result in that, like my boy, Stephanos, he has more than one use – a marked talent.” J.C. inclined his head the way I had seen other H.U. members do in Athens when terminating conversations.

To forestall further testimonials, I spoke again, “Perhaps, while we are here, you gentlemen will share with us your excellent methods of instruction. As for ours, the approach I originated with Joe Psmith, now a cup bearer in the Order of Eleusis, I carried across with refinements to his younger brother Michael. I began when he was pre-adolescent. Ramses Córdova, technically the pupil of Michael at my instigation, is now fully involved with me. They are not my property, however, not as Stephanos Zamparas belongs to our friend, now trusted associate, J. Carter Springwell.”

The occasion was J.C.’s. “Stephanos came to me through the H.U. and with his family’s concurrence. I trained him to match my ideal, which he did over time. What I could not provide was guidance for his musical genius. For that and after hearing Joe, Michael, and Ramses in Athens, I turned to this man’s guiding light. In short shrift, communal interaction led to the inevitable, that we live together for the good of all.”

Sato-san experienced difficulty keeping his translation in synch with our outpourings yet the outcome of our statements was to prompt more curiosity. His was the idea that our hosts take us through their pavilions to observe at first-hand the time-proven techniques in action starting the next day. “For today,” he told us, “we have arranged a whirlwind tour of Kyoto’s historic cultural sites.”

* * *

Glimpses of entrances to palaces and temples – ten total in various prefectures around the valley and on the hillsides – convinced us our next mornings needed to be highly selective. The Imperial Palace and the Nanzenji Temple, with their view-planned grounds – architecture, water, rocks, plantings – struck us as so many immobile harmonies. “Nature,” Michael observed, “perfectly composed by human artisans for aesthetic contemplation the way music is.”

Afternoons offered aesthetics altogether different. Sato-san ushered us into the Shibari Pavilion “to witness Master Yoshitsune demonstrate the art of ritual bondage.” Soft ropes in several lengths were looped intricately about the body of a gangly adolescent of poetic mien who stood still, stark naked, breathed slowly with closed eyes, arms by his sides, and showed no emotion. Master Yoshitsune, clad in black, tied no knots but drew his three-strand pieces of jute into ever tighter, intricate symmetry from the lad’s neck to his ankles. The ropes framed nipples, navel, and unaroused genitals. When finished, noting his object’s complete immobility, he stood behind, stroked fingertips once up the long neck, and caught the boy’s fall back to place him down like a corpse.

“That is ‘Trust to Death,’ for novices to prove their devotion,” Sato-san informed Ramses, who looked with more interest than our others. “It is varied by hands roped – behind the waist, close to the shoulder blades, and suspended from above. All our boys experience the stages which lead to this.”

“Starting at what age?” J.C. asked.

“From the age they are when we choose them – based on observations of their natural inclinations. We start with feet, move to hands in front at first, then behind. Praise for compliance makes boys eager to have hands bound to ankles or to their chests. I will show you.”

A screen slid to reveal three small-size boys trussed like turkeys and looking pleased about it. Our guide mussed their hair and ran his hands symmetrically over their bottoms. The screen slid in the other direction, how we could not see. Master Yoshitsune was before us, this time with another adolescent, smaller in stature, solidly built, hands already bound to a rope collar, sporting nearly six inches of primed boy cock over balls of unusual size. A spreader bar attached to ankle cuffs separated the boy’s feet by about thirty inches, I judged.

Stephanos did not bat an eye. Ramses touched himself with one hand, Michael with the other.

By reaching around with thin-diameter rope, the Master proceeded to wrap the cock’s base, encircle the balls to push them out and down in their tender skin until the whole area was made taut, tied a bow knot, turned his subject’s torso right and left to show us the area’s heightened color, lifted and reversed him, and began to manipulate his attractively muscular butt cheeks for us to see.

Sato-san said softly, “We have moved now to erotic bondage, Kinbaku. It is for sexual stimulation without orgasm. Here, the novice under no circumstances lets himself be provoked into losing his sperm. It, too, has stages. Let us focus on the present, however, on his eyes as they train on ours throughout. We observers are his distraction, to keep him safe.”

Two boys, twins, possibly of mixed race, solemnly appeared from behind the shoji screen. In the the skimpiest of black fundoshis, one bore a ceramic jar in his hands, his apparent brother with, in his, a gently curved ivory dildo of aged patina. Wide at its base and tapered to a smaller helmet-shaped glans, its design ensured exquisite torment of prostate and sphincter.

Ceremony, it seemed, dictated that the two bow, bend to spread what I suspected to be goose grease on the dildo prior to placing its head against the subject’s opening. They looked for Sato-san’s nod.

“We call that the Gate to his Heaven.” He nodded. “See how it opens and widens but does not remain. The ritual demands that they pump it into him until it goes no further – and await the master’s remaining strand of rope, this one is elastic.”

The rope passed through a hole drilled into the dildo’s base. With dexterity impossible to follow, Master Yoshitsune fastened the ivory horn so that it could not be ejected. The servant boys knelt to remove the spreader bar. I thought their duties were finished. Wrong. It was then that they stood by to cup the subject’s elbows as, feet yet apart, he began squatting exercises. Awkward as it was, the exercise meant the subject needed the balance provided by his servants, for the lower he squatted the more his body extruded its penetrator. As he rose, the elastic thrust it back.

He’s fucking himself.

Under Master Yoshitsune’s severe scrutiny, the two boys brought the subject forward to stand before us, eyes refocused on J.C. and me, worried. Sato-san told our boys, “It is for you to test his ‘Resolve to Control.’ Treat him to the pleasures of your attentions, Michael, to his untouched nipples; of your attention, Ramses, to his balls; and of your attention, Stephanos, to his rear – while we watch.”

Ramses commenced first, kneading the skin of his scrotal sack, eyes taking in the sight so close of the tight-noosed binding. He was remembering the intensity of his experience when I’d placed two thick rubber bands between his cock and balls prior to a bout of his own.

Stephanos began by tugging against the elastic until he had extracted an inch or so of the dildo’s length and letting it go. Two inches. Three…four…five – until the return was as an arrow shot from a bow.

With his mouth on one nipple and his fingers on the other, Michael raised the nubs to hardness.

Their subject’s mouth gasped repeatedly for air but without a sound. His chest heaved. His legs shook. Sweat trickled from his brow and neck, from under his arms. His sexual tension grew.

Michael tongued his balls, took them into his mouth, and reached to rub the flared heard of his dangerously wet cock.

At that moment, Sato-san motioned for J.C. to incline his head for whispered instructions. I saw my friend grin and waited for what he would do.

A hand choking the subject’s throat, the other holding hard the back of his head, J.C. leaned down to envelop the boy’s mouth with his – a kiss so profound as to complete the conquest.

Shivers rippled throughout the subject’s body. They stopped. A single tremor, and he fainted.

“Not to worry,” Sato-san said, a hand restraining us. “Wait.”

Master Shoshitsune came forward. With tenderness, he nodded approval, and lifted the subject in his arms as if the boy weighed nothing. He bore away the roped, plugged, still-erect boy as though carrying a treasure.

Stephanos leaned for support on J.C. I hugged my boys, both of whom sported erections.

“We will take that bridge to the Pavilion of Confirmation,” Sato-san indicated a door we had not noticed. The bridge, a walkway wide enough to file singly, crossed a gap overgrown on both sides with tall bamboo. Greens predominated, but there were stalks in yellows, browns, and reddish-purples brightening the mix. A chaotic flutter of leaves filtered the sun into shifting patterns of shadowy spikes.

Shown into a large, windowless room of white-screened walls and a dark, polished-plank floor covered by tatami mats, we were greeted by five bed-length, single-person-wide cushions with pillows, arranged like radiating spokes of a wheel not in evidence. The invisible wheel’s hub was a space perhaps six feet in diameter.

Sato-san saw my eyes circling the outer circumference. “Curious?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Rather than reply, he pointed to a sort of coat rack on the wall, “Clothes go there.” First to disrobe, he displayed a well-honed body, lean and supple, and a dark-hued penis which was in initial stages of engorgement. Impatience showed until the five of us joined him in nakedness.

“Based on observations of each of you during the demonstrations,” he clapped his hands, “these boys have been chosen for you to instruct by your methods, so that we may now learn from you.”

Master Sato’s boy, Goku, as fetching as the first time we saw him, led five boys into the space. “Yoshio, whose name means ‘righteous boy,’ is for you, Stefanos. Extend your hand to him and stand here.”

Here was the far side of one of the cushions.

All eyes were on tiny Yoshi – his childlike face, his rib-defined chest – and what he held, an enameled lubricant jar and several loops of rope.

Goku’s clear voice announced, “Takahiro, whose name means ‘respectful and loving,’ is for you, Michael, here.”

Takahiro carried a jar and ropes to meet Michael at the cushion on Stephanos’ right. Less tall by perhaps three inches than Michael, Takahiro met my excited boy and showed signs of becoming excited himself.

“Naoki, whose name means ‘open tree,’ is yours, Ramses, here.”

Similarly equipped, Naoki met rampantly erect Ramses at the next cushion, and lowered his eyes modestly. His sylphlike figure looked easily crushable. Ramses would have to be careful, I mused.

“Sanju, whose name means ‘happiness,’ will be yours, Springwell-san.”

J.C. practically salivated at the sight of a boy whose winsome loveliness included nipples prominent enough to imply happy pleasures for a man’s mouth and a compact bottom that swayed with provocation. He did not hesitate to assume one of the two remaining places. The Japanese boys ogled his immense inkei.

“Shou, whose name means ‘one who soars,’ has been chosen for you, Maestro-san.”

Anatomically alluring to me beyond the others, Shou smiled with beguiling subtlety and came toward me openly extending his jar and ropes. From a lissome torso sprang a swan-slim neck and, above it, a rounded head with eyes the epiphantic folds of which seemed hardly open. Yet they – and the pupils within - were trained on me. They studied my face, then dropped to my mushroom, the sight of which moved his miniature mouth into a perfect O.

Goku ceremoniously bowed to the room, his job done.

Sato-san was cryptic with a single word, “Teach.”

One of the screens I thought was part of a wall provided his exit. Goku, likewise.

Teach what?It hit me: We were to demonstrate how we combined our sexual relations with music. It would be a stretch, somewhat artificial – a display of artifice – to unseen eyes.

Not unimaginable.

Mental cogs and gears meshed. The expectant faces of Ramses, Michael, and Stephanos responded to, “My friends, a piece we all know, Gershwin’s Second Prelude. Michael, give us our pitches. As we did it in Athens, using these boys.” To Ramses, I cautioned, “Slow tempo. Your boy looks fragile. Gentle now. Piano (softly).”

At the slight provocation of my fingers on his shoulders, Shou dropped to his knees before me and opened his mouth. The others followed suit, mouths at the ready.

I pulled Shou onto me, imitated by J.C. with Sanju (who, like Shou, faced up-close the challenge of our organs), Stephanos with Yoshio, Ramses with Naoki, and last, Michael with Takahiro. Michael’s first pitch was drowned by J.C.’s outcry at being taken fully down Sanju’s throat.

His grip on the boy’s ears evidently meant he wanted to be gulped. Sanju made a gurgling sound but held his place, waiting for release. While Shou tried to fit his lips over my cock’s head and the Japanese boys were noses-against our Americans’ pubes, J.C. bellowed in orgasm. Sanju struggled, but stayed with his task to receive. There must have been a lot to consume, so red in the face and starved for air was he when a panting J.C. released his ears.

Sato-san’s voice came from somewhere, “Make Shou do the same. He can.”

My mind dictated otherwise. I stroked my boy’s cheeks with one, two, and three fingers to encourage his movement forward. He gaped over my corona, wriggled his jaw, gobbled an inch, two, three, secreted more saliva, and slid halfway. He opened his eyes to my kind smile and a wink of understanding, took a deep breath, and lunged. How the narrow passageway beyond his uvula – tightest of my life – accommodated me I would never know. Urgency flared my brain and loins. I denied it, reversing my fingertip strokes to Shou’s cheeks. Drawing back until he released me, he seemed to wonder.

I knelt. Found his lips. Kissed him senseless.

Sanju succumbed to J.C.’s passionate kisses, and fell back, stretching cat-like on their mattress. Before his head reached the pillow, J.C. extracted it and showed Sanju that he wanted it under the boy’s pelvis. Sanju shuffled and lifted his legs only to be turned over. The pillow positioned his little closed buttocks up where they were defenseless.

Shou waited for my cue before reversing himself and placing our pillow the same. His rounded contours showed what I wanted to see, a bruise-colored muscle which may have been pre-greased, it reflected some of the room’s white light.

Boys turned boys prone, face down, bottoms up, and prepared to mount right off. I lifted high my index finger with its coating from Shou’s jar for all to see, only then transferring the fat to myself. “We will need our pitches this time, Michael,” I said, smearing more, generously, to the baton with which I intended to direct the Gershwin from inside Shou’s rear mouth.

Five boyish-toned sounds ricocheted off floor and ceiling – a squeal, a groan, a sigh, a purr, and a sort of coo. Those faded to Michael’s hummed pitches. J.C. and I staked our boys at the same time, establishing by my long stroke back to two of J.C.’s, setting the rhythmic reference for Ramses’ entry and Gershwin’s haunting melody with Michael and Stephanos. We looked across our boys to each other for perfect coordination, only becoming aware that emerging from screens around the room came the team of naked masters and their artfully-roped boys.

Soon pinioned by their Masters’ mightily muscled arms and skewered from behind, their boys – including, on tiptoes, our translator, Mareo, and the two adolescents of Master Yoshitsune’s memorable demonstrations of rope bondage. Held off the floor by deeply driven ramrod cocks and the strong arms of their Masters, the smaller boys – Goku, the unnamed twin bearers of lube and ropes, and small boys who had been on the front row of our recital - all being dandled in time gradually matched with the Gershwin performance – eyes riveted on our bodies’ concerted action.

Multiple voices cautiously joined the lulling melody’s return after the Prelude’s jazzy middle section. Six minutes after it began, the Preludewafted away. Waves of adrenaline ebbed as tides of male passion subsided. Final squirts jammed deepest recesses. Stephanos already had collapsed on top of his charge, Yoshio. To appearances, asleep, they drew breaths that said otherwise. Michael clasped Takahiro as if he could continue. Ramses’ butt cheeks flexed with Naoki’s twitches. Sanju seemed disbelieving of J.C.’s painstaking withdrawal. His head tossed. I saw a tear on one cheek. Shou’s slowly trafficked rectum sucked at me and, when I popped from his sphincter’s last-second effort to hold onto me, he threw himself around and burbled the formal thank-you of a student to his teacher, “Arigatō gozaimashita.”

I pivoted toward Master Sato and Goku, a piece of rope in one hand, “Thus do we instruct by ancient Grecian means without need of this.”

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