The actual connection, since this would be a half-hour pose, of course, was left to the artists’ individual imaginations and rendering.
Reno left the artists to their work. Folding the clothes he had shed for his own turn at modeling, he gathered them up and climbed the stairs to the third floor.
The young model, Arata, the wakashu from the first two poses Reno had observed down in the studio, was waiting for Reno on Haruo’s tatami-floored platform bed. Arata was Reno’s favorite of Haruo’s wakashu and chigo models. He was young and small, pretty rather than handsome, soft and yielding. His hair was still in a bun when Reno arrived, and, kneeling beside the young man on the bed and embracing him, Reno unbound the bun and let the hair cascade down to dip to below the young man’s shoulders. Arata knew Reno liked to do this and to run his hands through it, as he did now as they kissed and embraced. Reno, twice the size of the small Arata, nudged the young man onto his back on the bed and moved to where he lay on top of the Japanese model, not making the young man take all his weight, but holding himself supported on his elbows and knees. Both men knew they were going to fuck. Both also knew that Reno liked to take his time doing it—except when he wanted to surprise his sex partner, in which case he just laid him out and took him quickly and totally. This wasn’t to be one of those times.
Reno was in full erection as was Arata, who was panting lightly. Reno’s long, thick cock penetrated between the young man’s thighs, and Arata squeezed the thick shaft between his legs and rubbed his inner thighs against it. He sighed and arched his back.
Arata was wearing the kimono he’d had on for the second pose of his art modeling, and Reno brushed the kimono open, kissed Arata’s nipples, and then teethed and sucked on one as the small Japanese model moaned. Reno pulled his cock from between Arata’s thighs and moved down his body. He kissed down the young man’s chest and belly and into his bush and took Arata’s cock in his mouth. The young man was groaning. “Ima watashi o fakku shite kudasai. Watashi to ima watashi o seiko shite kudasai—Do me now. Please fuck me now,” Arata pleaded in a whisper. He was too aroused already to want the tease.
Reno didn’t care what Arata claimed to want; for Reno this was just a good time fuck for them both. He kissed along the crease between Arata’s lower belly and the tops of his thighs on both sides. He stroked the young man’s flanks as Arata sighed and repeated, “Watashi to ima watashi o seiko shite kudasai—Please fuck me now.” Arata raised his pelvis and squeezed his mounds open, offering his entrance as a sacrifice. “Kudasai, Kudasai—Please, please. Uttori. Watashi wo uttori—Ravish. Ravish me,” Arata whispered. Reno spoke very little Japanese. He had no idea how intensely Arata was feeling this. Reno’s hands went under the young man’s buttocks, caressing and squeezing the mounds, brushing the young man’s hands away and pulling them apart himself, moving his thumbs to the hole and gently pulling it open.
Thinking he had won and Reno would give him the cock then, Arata set the stance of his spread and bent legs. He knew that no matter how open he was, it would be gloriously painful to sheath the gaijin‘s—the foreigner’s—huge cock initially. The gaijin term was deeper than merely “foreigner” for the Japanese. It had been the term, meaning “foreign devil,” applied to the Westerners who had first descended on Japan to break open their isolation and to conquer them, one way or another. That’s what Reno was to Arata now—a man of monstrous size. That’s what Reno, the overwhelming monster, was doing to Arata now—conquering him. Arata moved into a stance to convey to the gaijin that Arata had surrendered all.
“Watashi o fakku shite!—Do me!” Arata called out. Then he gasped as Reno rolled his buttocks up and buried his face in the young man’s crease. “Hai, hai, hai—Yes, yes, yes,” Arata moaned as Reno ate the young man’s ass out, opening him up more with his tongue. The young man was whimpering as Reno returned to tonguing his shaft.
Reno kissed his way back up the young man’s chest until he was hovering over him, still holding him up off the thin mattress and protecting him from his heavy weight in a cradling embrace. Reno ran his hand between the young man’s smooth-skinned thighs, and Arata opened them to him again, immediately and without hesitation. Reno stroked the young man’s inner thighs and Arata murmured, “Hai, hai—Yes, yes,” and spread his legs wider, placing his feet on the surface and raising his pelvis, begging, in response, for Reno to enter him—with his finger, his fist, or his cock, whatever he wanted, completely submissive to however Reno wanted to take him—as long as the man did take him.
Reno fingered the young man’s hole some more, and Arata panted and arched his back as the finger penetrated him. There was no resistance whatsoever. Reno moved his finger inside the hole, deeper, searching for and finding the prostate. In, out. In, out, rub. In, out. Arata moved his hips with the cadence of the finger fuck, letting Reno know he could have whatever he wanted, however he wanted it. “Hai, hai. Watashi wo uttori!”
This was one of the reasons Reno enjoyed fucking this young man. He was yielding, flexible, and malleable—and so, so passionate. It likely was in his model training—to be put into positions, not asking questions, instinctively knowing what was wanted of him, and fully cooperative—and to remain there until moved. Reno pulled his finger out of the hole and bent and lifted the young man’s leg, knee to chest. Arata flexibly yielded to him without hesitation. “Ima, ima—Now, now,” the young man pleaded in a whisper. Reno’s slow tease was such delicious torture.
Arata’s hole was fully open to access. The smaller man was unhesitatingly open and vulnerable to penetration by the larger man. “Watashini niyo koto no . . . kobito—Be good to me . . . lover,” Arata whispered. If Reno had heard the young man whisper “kobito—lover,” he didn’t react to it. To Arata this was more than casual sex. He was smitten by the blond American hunk. Reno was not an insensitive man, but, to him, this was merely getting his rocks off with a luscious little piece. He hadn’t understood any of Arata’s pleas. The arousal of Arata for him was the sensuality of the young man’s long, black, silky hair—and that he was so pretty and yielding. He was from another world. How would he know when a Japanese sex partner was interested in more than casual sex?
Reno thrummed his index finger over the hole and Akata moaned. He then placed the bulb of his cock at Arata’s entrance. Both the bulb and the rim of the entrance were pulsing. Arata’s hole puckered and opened to the cock. He moved a hand down there and pulled the bulb of the cock inside to the rim of Reno’s glans. Reno was waiting for the small man to be ready for him.
Arata had been ready for Reno since he’d seen him leaning into the door frame in the art studio, looking oh so sexy and drinking coffee. Reno could have laid him out on the tatami platform there and then, thrust up inside him, and fucked the hell out of him and Arata would have gone with him, given him anything he wanted.
“Ima. Ima. Ima watashi o fakku shite kudasai—Now. Now. Fuck me now!” Arata cried out, and, with a thrust of his hips, Reno forced his way inside and thrust up deep, into the young man’s core. Arata screamed in pain and passion. But this was not the first time they’d fucked. This was how Arata wanted it—one painful thrust and then the flooding in of pleasure. As Reno pushed in deep, the young Japanese model collapsed, letting his torso fall back on his shoulder blades on the tatami mat. He flung his arms wide and turned his head to the side, his eyes glazed over and his mouth formed a little smile. “Hai, hai, hai—Yes, yes, yes,” he murmured as Reno slow pumped him.
Arata’s passage was tight, but Reno preferred this to loose. But as in all things, the young man was cooperative and yielding, and he opened to where he fit Reno’s thick shaft like a velvet glove, as in long-time lovers, the lovers Arata perhaps thought they were being. The older man joined him in moaning when the muscles of the younger man’s channel walls began to ripple along the surface of the invading cock. Reno fucked him slowly, deeply, and then increased in intensity, fucking faster and harder and faster and harder yet, as the young Japanese man writhed under him, crying out “Hai, hai, hai,” and Reno took them to a mutual ejaculation. They lay there, recovering, until, having done so, Reno asked. “You remained in the kimono and brought the other one. You want to fulfill the poses from downstairs, don’t you?”
“Hai, kudasai—yes, please. All the time we were posing I dreamed of you being the okama covering me and carrying through with the taking.”
Reno shucked the remainder of his cowboy costume and Arata helped him don the navy-blue and silver threaded kimono the graybeard model had worn in the second pose. Reno than moved Arata into the position of the first pose, the young Japanese in his lap, legs draped over Reno’s spread and bent legs, and Arata’s pulsing anal channel deeply sheathing Reno’s erection. Once in the same pose as the artists had seen, Reno reached around and grasped the young man’s erection, and as he moved his hips in waves of taking of the young man’s ass, Reno masturbated Arata to an ejaculation.
A video camera set up beyond the foot of the bed, as well as one at the side of the bed, recorded the fucks, each of them in succession. Reno had his own, more modern art, media platforms to serve than the traditional Nanshoku art form.
Arata had been given release, but Reno had held himself in check for a third recording section. This one replicated the second pose taken earlier in the art studio below, with Reno on his knees, leaning back, and Arata streaming out in front of Reno, buttocks on Reno’s lower thighs, Reno’s cock buried in Arata’s ass, and Reno stroking the young man’s cock off. Arata’s unbound, long, silky black hair fanned out on the bed, radiating from his head. Reno’s cock gave a little jerk of pleasure when he saw that. So much better for effect than the hair being in a bun during the modeling session, he thought. He’d have to remember to mention that to Haruo—as an idea, of course, not as something he’d observed while fucking the small Japanese model. The image of the fanned-out hair was so arousing to Reno, though, that he went out of the Nanshoku stance, moving over the small body under him, grabbing the upper arms of the young man and pinning them above him, dipping down to brush Arata’s robe open with his nose and to take a nipple in his teeth. Then he started cocking the tight passage faster—and then faster, deeper yet. Arata writhed under him, arching his back, and murmuring, “Hai, hai, hai. Watashi o Seiko. Watashi o Seiko hado—Yes, yes, fuck me. Fuck me hard.”
Whir, whir went the video cameras.
The art class two flights down was still in session when the two upstairs had showered; Arata, purring and smiling, had gone his way, perhaps with a misunderstanding of where this had taken their relationship; and Reno was dressing out in his cowboy persona to take up his early afternoon duties. Haruo would never know what had been happening on his bed while he was painting a samurai scene in the studio.
Reno judged that it was best that Haruo didn’t know, especially considering the concern the old man was having in losing a sexuality he had enjoyed and practiced so much. It meant, though, that Haruo didn’t know either that Reno’s own robust, heart-stopping-and-breaking sexual life went on without him.
* * * *
From 1:00 to 3:00 most afternoons, Reno was a kagema, a male prostitute, and, in his case, a high-in-demand gaijin kagema, foreign male prostitute, at the nearby Shinjuku Prince Hotel. He was in high demand not only because he was a tall, well-built, beautiful, hung hunk, but also because he was a Westerner—the magic of being an American, no less. He had adopted his cowboy persona and dress to emphasize that he was a unique gaijin kagema.
He strode into the lobby of the Shinjuku Prince Hotel at 12:55, stopping at the concierge desk long enough to be directed to the coffee shop. He had been promised lunch there.
Kazu Mori was a nervous, reticent businessman from Okinawa. Reno had a disarming way of belying his brash appearance and making such men comfortable with him in small talk, in low, soothing tones, and compliments of the man’s looks. Kazu Mori was pleasant enough to look at and downright good-looking when he relaxed. He was in his forties—most men who engaged in Reno’s services at this hotel were—and was slight, almost squat in stature. He was wooden in mannerism at the beginning of lunch but Reno had loosened him up considerably by the end of lunch when the man was paying cash on the bill. Reno didn’t have to be told the Okinawa businessman didn’t want the appearance of two lunches on his hotel accounting.
Mori was even more loose upstairs in his hotel room, where Reno fucked him in a position the businessman had never been put in before but that he loved. Taking a cue from the morning, Reno was sitting, just in vest, boots, wristbands, and cowboy hat, on the bed, legs spread and bent. Mori was in his lap, facing away from him and sitting on and sheathing Reno’s cock, his legs draped over Reno’s, and Reno reaching around and beating him off.
“You know this is an ancient Japanese traditional pose for men in the world of Nanshoku?” Reno had whispered in Mori’s ear after causing the businessman to spout his load.
“Nanshoku? What’s that?” the man asked in a breathless voice.
Reno told him, also telling him where he could buy art that depicted the sensual traditions and positions of Nanshoku.
“This isn’t Nanshoku, though,” Reno said, as he readjusted their positions, turning Mori onto all fours on the bed, mounting his buttocks, and sliding into him. Reno hadn’t come yet. “This is just you and me.” Reno held the man in place under him and pumped him slowly as the man groaned and moaned to and past Reno’s ejaculation.
At 2:15, Reno picked up a room card at the concierge desk down in the hotel lobby.
Surprisingly, what he found in the hotel room was a young Japanese man of twenty, a TV drama star, who had heard the rumor of Reno and who wanted to try him out.
“Do you want it refined or rough?” Reno answered.
“Yes,” the young man, Michio Tawagata, answered, with a grin.
Channeling back to the morning, Reno, once again wearing his vest, boots, hat, and wristbands, went on his knees on the bed, with Michio’s buttocks on his lower thighs and his naked body streaming out below Reno, and Reno pulled the young man onto his cock, slowly and with difficulty, as the TV star was small, slim hipped, and tight channeled, and Reno was horse hung. The young man cried out of being lost to the fuck as he endured the pain that melted to the pleasure of being slowly pulled on and off Reno’s cock. Fully buried, Reno suspended the cocking to masturbate the young man to an ejaculation and then resumed the pull of channel onto cock to his own coming.
As he was doing so, Reno noted again that they were in an ancient Japanese Nanshoku—man-on-man—position, an aspect of which they now were performing, wakashudo, older okama fucking younger wakashu. If Michio was interested in learning other Nanshoku positions, he could visit Haruo’s shop in Shinjuku and ask to see the special collection. Michio, panting hard from Reno’s attentions proclaimed that he was, indeed interested, and would visit the shop.
“Are you an expert in Nanshoku positions?” he asked.
“Certainly,” Reno answered.
“If I see ones I want to try, will you do me in them?”
“Yes, happily,” Reno said, but not yet having come himself, he growled, “But now to go the way of the samurai. I will be the nenja and you will be the chigo. This is my sword and I will slay you with it.” He turned the young man on his back at the foot of the bed, grasped Michio’s ankles and splayed his legs out wide, thrust up inside him, and as the young man cried out his pain/pleasure/passion, Reno fucked him a second time hard and deep. The book on Reno was that he was just as good, if not better, in a second fuck—and that he had the stamina to always provide multiples, as desired.
“Watashi wo fakku Gaijin Kagema. Watashi wo koroshimasu—Fuck me, Foreign whore. Slay me!” Michio cried out, loving using the words of what he was paying for.
And Reno slayed him and slayed him and slayed him again, as the young man, arms extended in a crucifix position, clawed at the bedspread and cried out, “Hai, hai! Watashi o Seiko; watashi o Seiko! Hado to dipu! HAI! WATASHI WO FAKKU!—Yes, yes. Fuck me; fuck me! Hard and deep! YES! FUCK ME!” Reno did just that, more than earning his gaijin kagema fee.
* * * *
Reno continued on through the afternoon in the Okama Gallery advertising and gaijin kagema mode.
He’d been invited by the British art expert, Jain Winslow, owner of the Shinjuku district Gallery Nippon art gallery, to a special opening that afternoon at 5:00 p.m. Jain, a frenetic, effeminate, slender, and distinguished-looking art collector and seller, was always a bundle of nerves for a gallery show opening, running around and half doing and overdoing everything until someone lassoed him and calmed him down. Knowing he had this problem, he invited Reno not only to the opening, to provide spice and good, all-smiles-and-pats-on- the-back art commentary to patrons, but also to a private pre-exhibit fuck for Reno to lasso him and calm him down before the crowd arrived.
Reno lassoed him to his chair in his office, with the door locked and the blinds pulled down over the window of the door, draped the gallery owner’s bare legs over the arms of his chair, and, in full cowboy regalia, unzipped and erection-exposed, crouched over Winslow and fucked him to a mellow “I don’t give a shit about anything other than the cock inside me” submission.
Winslow glided, hands and eyelashes fluttering, through the opening, while Reno stood out in the main gallery and charmed the patrons with his hunky cowboy persona and his knowledge of art, Japanese art in particular. For likely marks, unaccompanied men of obvious wealth, who followed into deeper conversation on Reno’s hints of the existence of the unique Japanese art world of Nanshoku, Reno guided them to a closed-door gallery deeper into the bowels of the art gallery, where a display of art for sale from Haruo’s Nanshoku art collection could be viewed—and bought.
One fifty-year-old, but still-in-pristine-condition wealthy German art collector, Hans Brukener, was so taken and aroused by the Nanshoku art—and Reno, standing close to him, with a hand palming his buttocks, that he not only bought two ancient Nanshoku woodblock prints, but he also caused Reno to move from his art commentator and seller of the Okama Gallery special art to kagema by showing the German where there was a private staff bathroom with a lock on the door. Inside that small space, Reno posed, steady and trouserless, feet on either side of the toilet bowl, back leaning into the toilet tank, pelvis jutting out, the German’s bald head between his hands, while Brukener went down on his knees to Reno and gave him head.
Winslow had introduced the two in the main gallery, winking at Reno and saying, “Hans asked about you, having observed you from across the gallery. His interest burgeoned when I told him of your talent and the position you played.” And then the gallery owner wafted off with a little laugh, leaving the two standing side by side, staring at the highlight of the show, one of the large, somber-hued woodblock prints from Kiyoshi Saito’s “Winter in Aizu” series.