Each Time A Little Less

I hunched down and looked away from the sentry as I walked through Kadena's Gate Two into Kozo City. It was a little silly, as the sentries knew that any airman walking into Kozo City in the early evening like this was looking for the bars—and for sex. And, if anything, they were wishing they were too.

But the nature of the sex I was looking for had me slightly embarrassed, even though the sentries wouldn't have the foggiest notion what I sought. Well, one or two of them might. I was pretty free with my dick among the other airmen on the air force base in Okinawa—and I hadn't had any complaints.

But in the last couple of weeks leading up to what I assumed would be a bleak New Year's Eve all alone on the other side of the world from any fun, I'd been going out of the base looking for anything that would pull me out of my end-of-year funk.

I'd found Papasan's bar behind Mamasan's bar, and I'd taken on a whole new interest—small, brown, boyish men. Really tight holes. Can't find many of them on an air base servicing jets. It takes a lot of muscle buildup and a pretty big man to service an air force jet.

Mamasan's wasn't too far into Kozo City, but it was far enough that I'd gotten plenty of offers of "a good time" before I got there. It was almost like the B-girls had a sense of the big wad of yen I had in my pocket. Of course, they might also have taken that bulge as evidence that I was hung—and excited to see them. Well, I

was hung

, if pretty much indifferent to what they considered their charms. It was a rough, jaded crowd out here on the red-light district strip. Given the choice, I'm sure they'd all want to go for the wad of Japanese money I was carrying.

I wondered how much this time. That's what I had been noticing the three times I'd done this. Each time it was a little less. If I reupped my tour on Kadena, I wondered if Takis eventually would be paying me for it.

Brushing two rouged figures off that I wasn't even sure were women, I dipped into Mamasan's bar. It was just like most every bar on the strip. Dim lighting, with colored lights in sconces around the walls; a long bar with a bamboo front and two overly painted, flat-faced and somewhat squat Okinawan women behind it—topless and jiggling big jugs as they shook the jiggers of whatever drink they were concocting.

The only bow to New Year's was on strand of "Happy New Year's" tinsel that looked like it may have been up there since the 1980s.

There was a smattering of men—all Americans from the air base; no Okinawan patrons allowed in this bar—slouched at small, round tables, with at least two B-girls in attendance at each, one in a Japanese kimono, because some men got off on that, and one in a barely painted on miniskirt and halter top. East or West, your choice—or both together, if you have the yen for it.

A few humping couples on the small dance floor, swaying against each other, little attempt to disguise the in and out of that particular dance between the disheveled folds of clothing. A lighted stage beyond the dance floor, with panties-only girls making love to poles—at least until the panties came off. The music was piped in.

I gestured my noninterest in this section of the bar to whatever old, fat woman was parading as Mamasan this evening. She just stepped back and didn't hinder my progress to the doorway at the back of the bar covered in a beaded curtain. I'd been here three times before, brought the first time by a dishwasher at the NCO club I was fucking and, who, it turned out, was a patron recruiter for Papasan's.

I didn't resent his bringing me there; I was grateful—and I still fucked him back on base when I felt like it and he was available. Small, brown body. A hole that opened right up for my big cock, but a talent for squirming and crying out like I was splitting him. He put me right in the mood.

Through the beaded curtain, past doors to rooms off either side of the corridor—private places to do your business for an extra fee, although from the looks of what was going on in Mamasan's, not many were too embarrassed to lap a "hostess" and do her right at a table or pull her close on the dance floor, readjust clothing, and enter her there, swaying against her and moving their cock inside her to the beat of the piped-in music.

Through another beaded curtain and into a smoke-filled, dimly lit bar room much like Mamasan's except that everyone was male—even those dressed as women were, or at some time had been, male. The two barmen were expatriate Westerners rather than Okinawans. They were stripped to the waist, one muscled, one lithe, appealing to whoever.

The "hosts" here were a mixed bag. Some Japanese—or Okinawan, which was much the same thing. More Filipinos. A Thai or two. The latter more expensive than the others, as, I was told, they had "specialties." A few expatriate Westerners. Even an off-duty airmen or two. This had surprised me until the last time when I'd been hit with an offer to work part time there too. It was flattering, but I hadn't given it much thought.

"You huge; and balls like cannon balls," the papasan on duty had said, not talking about my physique, although I had enough pride and worked on my body enough to take the compliment in that area too. But as he had coaxed me, back to the wall of the corridor, and had me unzipped and was giving me a hand job as I was leaving the last time, I knew what part of me he was referring to.

"No, no," I'd said. "I no pay for this."

"No pay, no," he'd said. "My pleasure, you so big. You make a lot of money here," he had concluded. "And lots of jism," he'd added, with obvious approval, as I came for him. "You maybe fuck bareback if money good enough?"

That papasan hadn't been Japanese. He was Russian, I think. Bigger than me, and a handsome, well-muscled devil. Once he'd gotten me up against the wall and had fisted my cock, I was willing to let him finish me off. I'd thought he'd suck it, which would have been nice, but I found the hand job nice as well.

He had said he'd suck it but then backed off when I wasn't showing interest in working for him.

Tonight, it was the same Russian papasan as the last time—maybe the very papasan or record who actually owned the joint? I slipped him some money off the meaty roll of yen as I entered the barroom. He looked at the size of the roll and smiled. I gave him enough to cover a private room as well as his entrance fee, and he smiled for me again and said, "Room 3; go there with me first maybe? For you, free, if you let me hide it for you."

As he was saying that, he stuffed what I'd given him back into the pocket of my shirt. He unbuttoned my shirt and ran a hand inside, onto my chest. The hand was surprisingly smooth for a bruiser that big. And arousing. He knew exactly what to fondle and to tweak to get the maximum response.

It was enough arousal for me to let him show me the room rather than just for me to take for granted it was back there and I could find it on my own. I'd been there before. I can't say I didn't know he'd want more once we got there or that I wasn't interested in what it might be.

Room 3 was much like the room had been the previous two times. It might even have been the same room. The same black-vinyl-covered, padded studio bed in the center. Two black, facing walls, mirrored ceiling; one wall, facing one side of the studio bed also fully mirrored, the mirror surface dull, though, with blemishes. Splashes of something, hardened. Probably semen, given the venue.

The opposite wall some sort of movie screen across which danced the silhouettes of two, closely engaged hunky men. Two thick-metal hoops hanging from the ceiling, one over the bed and one off to the side. I hardened up, remembering how I'd helped use them before.

The Russian pushed me gently down on the bed and sat next to me. He was wearing a kimono-like robe, with a thick obi—sash—around his waist that, when he undid it and pushed it to the floor, caused the robe to open wide. He was naked under the robe, hard muscled, his cock in erection.

He moved an arm around me and dipped me to the side, searching for my mouth with his. But I turned my face away from him, and his mouth went down to my chest, my shirt having already been unbuttoned out in the bar room. He unzipped my trousers and fished my cock out. If he hadn't been so fast doing that, and if my cock hadn't remembered the last time he did that, I might have gotten him out of the room and saved all my cum for later. I didn't come here to have sex with him.

"You can stroke me too," he murmured from inside the thatch of hair on my pecs, as he took possession of my cock and began stroking it.

I answered with what I hoped was a polite demur. It wasn't what I had come for. I had come for Takis. But the Russian was nice too. He'd given me a good hand job before. He was giving me a good hand job now.

When he told me what he had in mind and started to manhandle me, I let him know that I topped, exclusively. He laughed a low, guttural laugh and said that he supposed so, considering the size of my equipment and the cockiness of my walk.

He didn't exhibit any resentment, content, at least outwardly, with sucking me off this time—which he showed was a real talent of his. He went down on his knees, pressing my legs open with his big, soft Russian hands gripping my knees, and his mouth went over the bulb of my cock.

My bulb is oversized, and for several moments before moving farther down the engorging shaft, he held the rim of the glans lightly in his teeth and sucked hard on the bulb, flicking the tip of his tongue into the pressed-open piss slit. Giving a guttural laugh at the long moan I responded to his attentions with, he let me lower my back on the narrow bed, with my head flopping over the other side.

By looking at the ceiling, I could watch his head move up and down as he slid his mouth down the sides of the cock and then back up to suck hard on the bulb again before descending on the cock once more. I lost sight of that, though, when I grabbed his head between my hands to help control the movement of his mouth down and up my shaft. I didn't want him to leave now. It no longer was just about coming for Takis. I needed the Russian to finish me.

His hands glided up my torso, his fingers finding and rubbing and pinching my nipples until, with a jerk and an exclamation, I came down his throat.

He stood and offered his cock for suck, but I indicated I wasn't interested. I had come for Takis, not the Russian. I'd gotten off. The need for the Russian had then evaporated.

He took my refusal without rancor and asked me again if I wanted to work there—that I could only top, if I wanted to—that there were many who would want a cock like I had inside them. He commented again on the amount of ejaculate I produced, and mentioned the possibility of barebacking again. Once more I was flattered, and moaning low, because, while referring to my cock, he was holding it in his hand again and slowly stroking it. I recover quickly, which he seemed to appreciate.

I needed to get him to stop, though. I didn't want to give it all to the Russian.

I told him I hadn't made up my mind about working there occasionally. He repeated that he wanted to fuck me, noting that he had returned the entrance fee and the room fee to me—and that he'd given me a blow job that others would pay well for.

Not wanting to anger him, I complimented him on the blow job, but noted that I hadn't asked for it. Taking the hint, though, I pulled out my cash wad and gave him the entrance fee again—but not the cost of the room. He was satisfied with this, and I already was paying less than I had the last time I was here.

I didn't really have any intention of working here, but I wanted to spin out the offer as long as possible to see how much I could get for less cost each time I appeared. Under the right circumstances and money coming back to me, I could go farther the next time. I hadn't always been a top exclusively.

But maybe, too, the Russian would be willing to bottom for me with the possibility that I'd say yes to working there. I had a feeling, though, that once I'd said yes, been identified to the local conveniently looking-the-other-way police force as an employee, and shown up for work, he'd take me into one of these rooms and work me over any way he wanted to. He was being much too polite and reasonable about it.

I went back to the beaded curtain of the doorway leading into Papasan's bar with him. Takis was on one of the poles on the stage. A small, berry-brown young man of perfect proportions. Not a full-blooded Okinawan, I was sure, as they ran to being squat and many had flat faces. His hair was an auburn red, and I'm not sure it was dyed. If it was, I had ascertained on the first visit that he'd dyed it all over. From the delicate beauty of his features, I'd say that he was mixed race—mixed with some Western background.

He was wearing only a gold lamé jock strap and was making languid love to the pole. Of the three dancers, he was the most artistic and the most flexible. He was everything arousing and desirable that I dreamed of since I found the charms of small Oriental men. That's why I was here for the third time. This was why I was playing the Russian papasan.

The papasan caught Takis' attention and gestured at me and then back toward the bank of rooms behind the beaded curtain, holding up three fingers to designate the room assignment. Takis smiled and worked his way off the pole just like the end of his set was preplanned for this withdrawal.

The Russian leaned over to me, putting a hand on one of my butt cheeks and squeezing as he named another price in my ear—unless, of course, I wanted to remain in Room 3 for him to fuck after I was finished with Takis. I smiled and whispered, "Not tonight." As a test, I only gave him half of what he requested. And he let that be enough. Once again a lesser amount than the time before. So far so good.

"You tease me," he murmured in my ear as he slid away toward the entrance to wave off one of the hosts and to take his position again. "It makes me want you more. I know you come back and let me fuck you. I give good fuck."

If his hand and blow job talents were any indication, I didn't doubt that he gave good fuck.

"You let me fuck you and then maybe," I answered back.

The expression he was wearing on his face as he moved away indicated that maybe he'd consider it. If he did, I was game. I liked them small and almost feminine like Takis. But I didn't mind them big and hard muscled either. A channel was a channel, and, with what I was packing, I could make the big ones squirm and scream too.

I was sitting on the bed in Room 3, facing the mirrored wall, while Takis was dancing for me, starting from the middle of the room and working his way over toward me. When he was almost touching my knees with his, he stood there gyrating slowly until I took the wad of yen out of my trousers pocket. I had zipped up, but my shirt was still open, my dog tags dangling on my chest.

I extracted a few bills and tucked them into the waistband of his jock strap. He ran his hand up my chest, closed his fist over the dog tags and gave them a tug or two, and then moved his hand down to touch the wad of bills again. All the time his face was smiling and he was licking his lips and puckering them up into air kisses.

His hips were gyrating slowly—side to side and toward me and back. Two more bills in his waistband and I ran my hand over his basket—as he did mine, without any objection from him. He turned his bare butt to me and waved it over my lap until I inserted bills in the back of his waistband.

Full frontal again, with his hands gliding over my bare chest and mine over his, him giving me a lap dance over my lap, but off the surface of my thighs. More air kisses and a tongue in one of my ears. More bills in the waistband and he was unzipping me and pulling my engorged cock out. I leaned over, took the curve of his cock through the gold lamé pouch in my mouth, and slid my teeth down along the curve. His hand left my cock and moved to cover the hand holding the wad of yen.

I pulled off several more bills and moved to stuff those in his already-stuffed waistband, but he took them in his hand and let them float to the floor. Unsnapping his waistband at either side, he let the jock strap fall to the floor as well—accompanied by a downward flutter of all the bills I'd stuffed in there already.

I didn't stop him when his hand reached over and pulled four more bills off the wad of yen. After letting them float to the floor at his feet, he put his small, delicate hands on the back of my head and pulled my face toward his groin. I opened my mouth over his small, thin, but now-hard cock and slid all the way down. And then back up and down. He arched away from me, letting his arms dangle at his side, in symbolic surrender, as I supported his small body with hands gripping his waist at the flare of his buttocks.

He moaned, the first sound he'd made since we'd entered the room. He was moving in a languid dance, his thighs encasing mine, me scooted as far off the edge of the bed as I dared. I palmed his buttocks and spread the cheeks, the index finger of each hand searching for, finding, and entering his ass channel. He wriggled his buttocks for me, helping the fingers to sink deeper.

He murmured in Japanese and then whispered a few, accented English phrases—the usual, "Yes, do me like that, soldier," "fuck, yes," "Oh, shit that's good" phrases that seemed incongruent coming from such a small, boyish Oriental. I sensed movement and let my eyes lift as I continued to suck him off to find that I could see my cock-stuffed face in the mirror across the room. He had arched back and placed the palms of his hands on the floor behind him. The flexibility of him—imagining how that could be put into play—heightened my arousal.

I let my fingers sink deeper into his channel and started teasing it open. He moaned deeply and wriggled his butt.

I worked his little cock with my mouth for several minutes, but he didn't come for me. I ached to give attention to my own throbbing dick, but my hands were occupied with squeezing his butt cheeks and opening his channel.

He made the next move, bringing his body up and moving away from me. Just a few feet but just beyond my reach. He stood there, smiling, gyrating, and dancing in place, waiting. I knew what he was waiting for. I'd gotten clued into this move during the previous visits. More bills came off the wad and floated to the floor.

He moved back in, encasing my thighs in his, bending down and taking my mouth with his in a sweet-tasting kiss, while both of his hands went to encasing my cock, one hand over the other, not fully encasing what I was swinging, though. A thumb pressed on the piss slit and I shuddered. Now I was moaning, fully aroused by receiving the cock attention I'd been aching for.

He straddled my thighs coming down into my lap and encasing both of our cocks in his hand. Squeezing and stroking. We kissed again, and then he lowered his face to between my pecs and pressed me back with the pressure of his head. I still had my hands palming his butt cheeks, but now I had to move them to behind me to keep my torso inclined back, off the bed, straining to watch our coupling in the mirror across the room.

His mouth went to my nipples and then to my dog tags, which he took in his mouth and sucked and tugged on with a slurping noise that made my cock bounce. If my cock could scream, "Me, me, suck me!" it would have done so.

Takis was in complete control. That was new to me in a fuck—except for when I had visited him before. Each time with him it was something new, something devised and controlled by him—and totally arousing. It probably was why I kept coming back to him.