Tea with the Prince

June 1929, Tokyo, Japan

I was straining for him to start. I ran my hands down his hard-muscled back from the shoulder blades to his buttocks, pushing his trousers down further on his buttocks and clutching at the orbs, willing him to start the stroking. He was inside me deep and I was panting hard for him.

He spoke from the hollow of my throat. "I . . . we need a favor of you."

A favor? What in the hell was this? He had me on the floor of his hotel room, my legs spread and bent, him lying on top of me between them. My trousers and briefs off, my shirt open to the work of his lips and teeth on my nipples. He was inside me, goddamnit. Why wasn't he fucking me? Why was he picking a time like this to speak of a favor?

"Fuck me," I murmured. "Give me your cum."

He continued, as if he didn't hear me. "A prince, a professor at Tokyo University. We need his permission to get into the private art collection in Kyoto."

Private art collection. He was speaking of the homoerotic art he wanted to see during this university study tour to Japan. This whole study tour was probably because he wanted to get into that collection of homoerotic art in Kyoto. That was what Professor Tyndale did on the side himself—sketches of men fucking. And Tyndale was good at it. He had shown me his art that first time, that old "Come up and see my etchings" ploy, and it had aroused me so well that I'd laid down and opened my legs to him then—and whenever he wanted me to since then.

"Fuck me," I whined. The professor was old—maybe in his late forties—and gaunt and ugly. But he had a good cock. I wanted his cock now. Not just inside me. Stroking. To pump me deep. To fuck me. to blast me with his cum. To make me come too.

"He wants me to come to tea with him. To bring a young student with me. A willing young student. He says he likes young blond men."

"Please do it; do me now," I whimpered.

Tyndale cupped the side of my head, ran his fingers into my blond curls and kissed me on the lips. Coming out of the kiss, he gave me three slow, deep, long strokes. I buried my fingernails in his butt cheeks, arched my back, and, through pants, cried out, "Yes, yes, fuck me!"

But he held there. "I would be there too. He wants sketches done. Will you do us this favor? The study group needs to see this collection."

"Fuck me and I'll do anything you want."

He began to stroke, establishing a steady, deep beat. Lost to him, I arched my back, as his lips went to my nipples, and ran my hand up and down his back from his shoulder blades to his buttocks, digging my claws in at the down thrust. I panted and set my pelvis in motion in a counterthrust, writhing under him, no thoughts in my mind of anything but that staff working my passage.

He tensed, held, and ejaculated in two bursts, holding for three after spurts, creaming me deep inside as I purred and sighed and ran my fingers up into his hair, pulling his face to mine for a deep kiss.

Tyndale went up on his knees between my thighs and looked down into my eyes.

"We meet him at the Meiji Shrine tomorrow at 3:00 and he'll take us to wherever he wants to perform the tea ceremony," he said, adding, "You haven't come yet. Masturbate yourself for me, please. I want to see you come."

Dutifully, I encased my own hard cock in my hand and began to stroke it. He slipped his hand under my buttocks, and I felt one, and then two, fingers enter my ass, search for, and finding, the prostate.

My eyes went to his now-slick cock, slick with his own cum. The best feature of him. It had only gone half flaccid and was thickening again as he watched me masturbate and he fingered my ass. I knew he was going to fuck me again. That knowledge drove my arousal, and minutes later I tensed, arched my back, and shot my load. Immediately, he was lowering his body to mine again, entering me, grabbing my knees in his hands, rowing my legs, moving them back and forth—pushing them wide apart as he thrust in, pulling them together as he drew back.

In ecstasy, I arched my back, threw my head back, and in a panting voice of total surrender, whispered to the ceiling, "Yes, yes, fuck me," as the pumping of his cock picked up speed.

* * * *

The first indication I had that the man we were meeting was anyone of importance, even though Professor Tyndale had said he was a prince, was when our car was let through in front of the shrine when all others were being kept back. There were three black Duisenberg limousines lined up in front of the Torii—the ceremonial gate—of the shrine, and burly Japanese men in black suits cordoning off the area.

At the top of the steps up into the first shrine hall stood a small-stature, mousy-looking Japanese man, graying hair, wearing wire-rim eyeglasses and a black, tailored suit, complete with vest and top hat.

Professor Tyndale leaned over and whispered, "Prince Satsuma," in my ear.

It was obvious to me then that the man was of some import because a crowd had gathered behind the imaginary line the black-suited guards had set and were bowing their heads in the prince's direction. This was a chore for them, because as soon as Tyndale and I stepped out of our car, I became another focus of attention, and those in the crowds were doing what they could to look at me too. I had grown used to the attention in Tokyo, because, with the exception of a contingent of jackbooted Nazi Party Germans roaming the streets of Tokyo during what later proved to be secret pact talks between the Japanese and Germans, blond young men were few and far between in Tokyo in the later years of the 1920s. And it was supposedly good luck to touch blond hair. So, I was getting a lot of furtive attention during this university art class study tour to Japan, the last, we were told what probably would occur in a while, as the flames of war were building in Asia.

So, this little man was going to fuck me in order for Professor Tyndale to have access to a collection of homoerotic art in Kyoto, I thought. Piece of cake; he was such a runt, I thought. He was all mousy diffidence and refinement as he showed the two of us through the shrine, with his guards clearing the spaces so that we had a private tour. During the tour I had to reassess my impression that he was a weak runt. He led me from space to space with a grip of steel on my arm that belied his looks and his weak, tinny-voice precise English that showed him to be a professor type as well as a prince.

As we stood in front of a massive reclining Buddha in polished wood, he stood close behind me. With one hand he pointed my attention to the

fundoshi

—the loin cloth—the statue was wearing and the subtle peeking out at one side of the bulb of a cock. He moved his other hand around my belly and down and was fondling my package. He also was holding me close into his body from behind.

I look sharply to the side to catch Professor Tyndale's attention to what was happening, and he just smiled, shrugged slightly, and gave me a furtive palms-down signal. Obviously the permission to view the art collection wasn't a done deal. There was a checking out of the goods phase. I stood there, dutifully, in front of the Buddha of the Peeking Penis, while the short and wiry Japanese prince felt up my body from my throat to my knees with strong, searching hands. Tyndale and the bodyguards stood, pretending not to be watching, as if nothing untoward was happening.

Satsuma grunted and turned, and we were making our way back to car park, the prince and Tyndale in front of me. I heard Tyndale lean over and ask, "Satisfactory?" and the prince answer, "Quite satisfactory indeed."

* * * *

We were sitting on eight-inch-deep, silk-covered cushions with a low tea table between us. Professor Tyndale was sitting across from the prince and me, his sketch book and charcoals at his side. The prince was sitting very close beside me.

In addition to two ceramic tea pots and three cups for tea sitting on the table between us, other objects, one of which had me hyperventilating, were set off to the side. There was a bowl of fragrant oil, a six-inch strand of ivory beads with a tiny eyehook at one end—and a clear-glass knobbly dildo, very definitely a dildo, as it was slightly curved up with a vein on the underside running across the knobs and the head on the end undoubtedly was in the form of a penis bulb.

Nothing was said about the added implements. The conversation was quite refined, with the prince providing a step-by-step explanation of the tea ceremony. The surroundings were sparse, but richly appointed, the setting definitely Japanese, with shoji screens and niches with Ikebana—flower—arrangements in them. There were few pieces of art on the walls; what was there was homoerotic and was lit. A Roman-like bronze sculpture was in one corner of the room. It was of two torsos, rather than the usual one, armless and legless, accentuating the muscularity of the torsos. The torso in front was in erection, the bronze plate of this hanging low from the bottom of the torso plate. The torso in front was slightly turned so the root of the cock of the one behind could be seen buried in the ass of the one in front.

Nothing was being hidden about the reality that this was the house of a man who fucked other men and that I was going to be fucked.

The house itself was a conundrum and screamed of refinement, wealth, and power in Japan. The estate took up a whole block in a bustling downtown area of the city. The grounds were so covered in manicured and landscaped foliage that the house could not be seen from beyond the grounds and the city could barely be heard from the house. The house itself was set on a small man-made hill in the center of the property. The surprise was that the house obviously was the design of the American architect Frank Lloyd Wright. The prince explained that Wright had accepted the commission to design it, the original house having burned down, while he was building the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo, which had been completed six years earlier.

Once inside, the blending of Japanese tradition and Wright's style was shown to be perfection.

After we entered the house, both Professor Tyndale and I were led off to a room walled with shoji screens, floored in tatami matting, and overlooking a walled pocket garden with a small pond surrounded by rocks and foliage. The pond turned out to be a tub of fragrant, steaming water, where we were bathed (and embraced, kissed, and fondled each other) before being dressed in silk

yukatas

—robes—Tyndale in white, me in a rich red—with only one-material-length fundoshi wrapped and knotted underneath.

The tea ceremony was long and involved, and my tea came from a separate pot than the one the prince served Tyndale and himself from. It didn't take me long to figure out why. Almost immediately upon drinking the tea, I began to feel all tingly, warm, weak, and ultra sensitive to the touch all over my body.

The ceremony over, servants, with well-formed, muscular bodies, and wearing only fundoshis, appeared, heads bowed and not looking at any of us, and turned the tea table so that it was at the opposite side of the prince from me. They took away the tea implements. They left the bowl of fragrant oil, the string of beads, and the glass dildo.

Tyndale rose and I started to do so as well, assuming he'd take the lead in showing me what I should do. But he motioned me to stay in place, and the prince put an arm around me, in which I again was surprised at the strength of him, and held me in place, pulled close into his side. The servants carried the bolster Tyndale had been sitting on to the far side of the room, and he settled down there with his sketch book and charcoals.

As pedantic as the prince had been about explaining every aspect of the tea ceremony—other than the drug he was using on me—and as long as the ceremony had taken, I expected a longer phase of getting down to sex. But it didn't happen that way.

It started with a kiss on the lips, but while that was happening, the prince was brushing his blue-silk yukata open—only to expose his cock and groin. He already was in erection. With a hand cupping the back of my head, he made my eyes lower as we came out of the kiss to ensure that I saw what he had uncovered. I shivered and gave a little moan. He may be a small man, but there was nothing small about his cock. It wasn't thick, but it was long, long, long. It was upcurved, in angry erection, accentuated as it was stained red; and it had a thick Prince Albert ring in the bulb.

Upon being assured I'd seen the cock, which he could have told from my intake of breath, the start of light panting, and my low moans, he grasped my left hand and pulled it around, nudging me to take the cock in my hand, which I did. Directing me only by movement, not by spoken command, he signaled that my fist should be open and loose, so that he could stroke his cock in the fist, which he started to do.

The fingers of the hand he had at the back of my head—his left—were buried in my blond curls, gripped my hair, and pulled my head cruelly back. With his right hand, he brushed my yukata open at my breast, and he possessed my left nipple with his mouth and teeth. His right hand then brushed my yukata open at my crotch and, with one deft pull at the knot of the fundoshi, he stripped that away and took my cock in his hand. His hand was slathered in oil, and I realized that he must have dipped it in the bowl of warm oil on the tea table. After slick-stroking my cock for a minute or more, he dipped his hand in the oil again and slathered it over my balls, letting it drizzle down between my crack, my pelvis rolled-up, and entering my ass with oiled fingers

I lay, trapped in his strong embrace, breathing heavily, all of my senses, sexually energized but feeling physically weak from the drug he'd given me, pinging on what his hands, lips, and teeth were doing to my body.

"Fuck me, fuck me please," I softly whimpered.

He made me come with his hand stroking my cock. Across the room, Professor Tyndale was sketching like crazy, tearing one sheet off when he was done, and moving on to the next, capturing each change of position initiated and controlled by the prince.

The prince moved into the next major change, turning me to face him more, with my groin totally exposed down and under to my hole, with my pelvis rolled up, my weight on the small of my back. My left leg was bent, the sole of that foot buried in the tatami matting. My right leg was raised straight up his chest, my ankle hooked on the back of the prince's neck. We were still mostly covered, with only his crotch, his pubic bush hair; a darker black than the grayer hair on his head, and his angry, long, upcurved cock still in hard erection, exposed. My left pec, with its puckered nipple, and my crotch area were exposed.

I watched, mewing softly, past the unavoidable screaming erection on the man, to the tea table, where he was spinning the head of the glass dildo in the bowl of oil. I watched in fear, and arousing anticipation, as he slowly brought the dildo out of the bowl, moved it to my hole, slowly penetrated me with it, and fucked me. At first in a slow stroke seeking out every surface inside me and then hard and vigorously until, me straining against an embrace I couldn't escape, I gave him another ejaculation.

I was still trying to bring my pulse under control from that when I was forced to watch him pick up the string of ivory beads, dip them in the oil, and attach them to the ring in the bulb of his cock. With no further preparation and certainly no explanation and no time for me to try to relax to it, the prince turned his pelvis toward mine; dipped his hips; came back up with his beads-enhanced cock head, deftly targeting my entrance; and plunged up inside me. The dildo had opened me up to where I easily took the girth of him, but my eyes popped open from the effect of how deep he could get up into me.

I cried out and tried to writhe out from under him, but he was too strong for me. One hand was arching my head back with a grip in my head hair. The other was gripping my left thigh and holding my leg out. His cock, the beads aswirl, was pumping my passage hard and deep.

Tyndale was busily sketching on his pad. I knew that the resulting sketches would become part of the prince's homoerotic art collection—and maybe find their way eventually into the Kyoto collection that Tyndale was so hot on seeing.

I didn't really care at that point. The little Jap was giving me the fuck of my life.

He moved me to the position of kneeling over the bolster, my elbows on the tatami matting on the other side of the bolster. My yukata was pulled up and gathered around my waist. The prince was naked, except for his glasses, his body wiry and thin, but his muscles hard, and his small size accentuating the angry length of his cock, the beads drooping down to the tatami. Kneeling at an angle behind me to give Tyndale a shot of my buttocks and erection and drooping balls between my spread thighs, the prince leaned over and ate out my ass, distended and squeezed my balls, and milked my cock through my legs. He mounted my ass and finished me off in a good ten minutes of stroking and swirling the ivory beads inside me.

He left us then, Tyndale finishing up his sketches and me laying in a heap, belly over the bolster, and moaning and purring having been finished royally—in more ways than one.

When a servant came to usher the professor out of the room, I started to rise, having difficulty doing so because of how deeply I felt the prince still inside me in the form of my rippling passage walls and his cum seemly in my stomach. But Tyndale signaled me to remain.

"You are staying here until we return from Kyoto," he said. "You are to help the prince in a project of his own."

If his project included more of his cock work inside me, that didn't bother me a bit, I thought. But then I looked up to watch Tyndale being escorted out of the room, I saw, entering the room, one of the jackbooted German Nazi generals who had been roaming around Tokyo. He had a big smile on his face, he was lightly slapping his leg with a riding crop, and he was unbuttoning his brown uniform shirt.

* * * *

December 9, 1937, Nanking, China

I moved the pillow from underneath the small of my back and placed it under the other pillows behind my head. After reaching for the cigarettes and lighting up, I looked down the line of my naked body, my legs still spread and bent, and watched the German colonel dress in the black uniform of the Nazi Party. This was the first time I'd seen Heinrich Krentz dressed thusly. He'd told me that it was for expediency. The less-dressy khaki uniform of the Chinese Nationalist Army that he had been wearing as a secret German adviser to Chiang Kai-shek's Chinese Nationalist military was folded into a suitcase set on a nearby chair.

"Do you really have to go, Heinrich?" I asked. "Is it really not safe here?"

"The Generalissimo left two days ago. The Japanese 10th Army is closing in on the city on two sides. I haven't been released by Berlin as adjunct to the Chinese yet. I must follow them to Chungking. You should come as well, Wilhelm. I can guarantee your transport."

"Can I leave on the 15th?" I asked "The university is being packed out to go to Chungking. I have students I'm responsible for."

"That might work. But not much longer after that—especially for your Chinese students. The reports say that the Japanese march from Shanghai has been brutal. No prisoners taken; no one left alive along the track."

"Surely that's just propaganda."

"I wouldn't count on that. In fact, I think you should leave with me today."

"I have responsibilities. But I'll miss you until I can catch up with you in Chungking," I said.