In Praise Of Daikokuten Ch 01

Well, Gentle Reader, here I am again. If you're not interested in my introductions just scroll down to where the italics end.

During my time in the U.S. Air Force, I was stationed in Japan for three years. Much of what follows is a reasonable reflection of that society although it should be filtered through the understanding that my experience was a half-century ago. I liked the society. I liked the formal politeness when you interacted with the Japanese on a personal level, and the crazy, casual lack of politeness when in a crowd as we discovered, my wife and I, when we took a subway train into Tokyo during a month-long leave.

I found, most relevant to this story, a culture oddly obsessed with sex but with strange hangups. For example, our flight, Air Forcespeak for the shift, would celebrate the end of our four-day rotation on the swing shift, the 3:00 to 11:00 afternoon/evening shit, with an "after swingism" that involved, as you can imagine when the average age of a pack of males was 20, heavy drinking at the various bars on

AP Alley

and then a visit to the skinflick house. The XXX-rated movies dealt with things you would never see on American screens. I watched bestiality involving dogs and goats. I watched the first time I ever saw a bukkake party, and remember,

bukkake

is a Japanese word. I watched BDSM and FemDom, Hucows, you name it. But when it got down to, you know, the "money shot," a vagina or a penis would be blurred out.

As I say, an oddly hung-up but sexually obsessed society.

As far as I know, there is no cult of

Daikokuten

although I would not be surprised to find out I'm wrong about that. The unlucky number four is real although the cancellation of it by multiplying by another four is a creation of my weird imagination.

Anyway, if there was such a thing, I imagine it might be something like this. Once again I'm asking for guidance. If you like this story, please leave a comment. I'm not sure if I should follow it or not although I am, to be honest, curious to see how things develop with Arlene and her Husband.

My husband pulled, not hard, not hurting, but controlling, on my hair, forcing my neck to bend slightly, making me look up.

"

Shosā Daikokuten

," he said, which translates roughly as "Praise Daikokuten."

The next erection was there now, inches from my nose. The urge to take it into my mouth was almost overwhelming, but for tonight, that was not my role. Instead, I watched Marilyn's hand as she slowly stroked Roger, her husband. Each movement was slow and deliberate, making what was happening even more erotic and fulfilling as the delay allowed my need, desperate by now, to build.

I watched the tiny slit of his urethra, not even blinking. I didn't want to miss that beautiful instant of his release.

Daikokuten

teaches that the Mangift of seed is the greatest gift possible and women are its vessel. Over the past two years, I have come to accept

Daikokuten

and was desperate to receive this fourteenth gift.

Four, you see, is the Japanese equivalent of thirteen in Western culture. But four times four cancels the evil. To be accepted fully into the

Daikokuten Karuto

, the, well, "coven" is probably the closest English word to the concept, a woman must accept

omiyage

, "the gift" from fifteen men to complete her

nyukai

, her initiation with her Husband providing the sixteenth to complete the full

Karuto

of sixteen couples. The Husband gives the equivalent

omiyage

, an orgasm, to each of the women to be fully initiated.

I watched as that beautiful first drop emerged, Marilyn's hand slowing, drawing out Roger's pleasure and extending my anticipation, that need, deep in my belly, throbbing now, a living thing desperate for its finish. I took a deep breath and let it out, slowly blowing through pursed lips, striving for control while my body begged for completion.

The fifteen couples breathed a collective sigh and said

omiyage

in unison as Roger erupted, his thick, white semen, very hot, splashed on my forehead with that first great contraction of those internal muscles evolution designed to send his seed deep into a woman.

"

Omiyage

my husband breathed into my ear, his fingers entwined in my hair twisting a little, ensuring I would accept the full gift. Roger's second and third pumps hit between my eyes and on my lips respectively, a weak fourth pump as he hissed his pleasure, hanging in a big white teardrop from the tip of his already-softening cock. Marilyn pulled him forward and used her hand to wipe that last drop into my hair.

When they stepped back, Fred and Margie took their places. They were older, expatriates who had been stationed in Japan, fell in love with the culture, and stayed after he separated from the Air Force. He still worked as a civilian consultant on base, while Margie taught English in the local school. And of course, they were both fully devoted to this

Daikokuten Karuto

. Whenever a member received orders then Fred would recruit a replacement. The

Karuto

must always be sixteen couples or the good luck might fail.

Margie was a hugely fat woman, one of those fat girls who just said "fuck it," and embraced her size. Fred was one of those wiry guys you associate with marathon runners. But he did have a cock that was worthy of his bride's size. It was like looking at a pink beercan as Margie took it in her hand and guided him to his position. In one of those weird

non sequiturs

that happen sometimes, I wondered how it would feel to hold a cock that big, especially if you had short, pudgy fingers like Margie's.

But I said nothing, of course.

During the

nyukai

ceremony, a woman is not allowed to speak.

So I watched her hand and his beautiful cock, anxious. The semen that sheeted my face and dripped onto my breasts felt comforting and welcoming. But I wanted Fred's finish, his completion, to seal my membership into this glorious group. I watched each stroke and realized that I was drooling in my excitement but I made no move to wipe my chin. It seemed natural.

For all of his size, when he came it was a single squirt of a thin, watery ejaculate that barely made it to my chin, most of it ending up on my breasts.

"Stand, Arlene, and take your place in the

Karuto

.

I stood.

"Offer your

Omiyage

to your husband," he said.

I turned then, and looked down at my Husband who was on his knees now. In the

Daikokuten Karuto

, the

Nyukai

is done by the man first. He looked like someone had poured a quart of the hair conditioner I use over his head to run down his hair and face. He had already drawn

Omiyage

from each of the fifteen women. He smelled, to be perfectly crude about it, like pussy.

I entwined my fingers into his hair and pulled him to me, somehow the thought that he was already wearing the love honey of fifteen women made it even more exciting than usual.

But I was too keyed up to hold back. My control had been broken about ten men into my

Nyukai

and I came after about thirty seconds.

And it was GLORIOUS. Christ, I came like a fountain. I felt my damn uterus contract I came so hard. And it went on, not in waves like my Husband could sometimes coax from me, but in a long flowing orgasm that left me weak-kneed when I finally collapsed.

My Husband supported me, strong hands on my ass until I could stand on my own again and then he stood and kissed me before laying his hands on my shoulders and, with gentle pressure, directed me to my knees to complete the ceremony. I bent forward and kissed the tip of his beautiful erection. The very core of his manhood was right there as my hand encircled it and on my knees, before my Husband I began stroking him in the ultimate act of surrender any woman can offer.

As I stroked him, slowly, making it last, I didn't look away. My focus was complete, watching his beautiful cock, the way the glans seemed slightly distended as my fingers moved down his shaft toward his belly, that single eye of his urethra seeming to wink at me with each stroke. God, it was so beautiful I almost missed the tell as his hip joints started trembling as his point of no return approached.

But I didn't.

So I slowed my strokes, making it linger.

The first watery drop of his pre-ejaculatory fluid, his "precum" to be crude about it, tasted delightfully oily when I touched it with the tip of my tongue. He started to drip, to dribble actually, and I pinched the base of his cock with my thumb and forefinger hard enough to prevent his ejaculation. I wanted his Gift to be the best of my initiation.

I kept stroking him and touching the tip of his erection, capturing those precious drops, and pinching when he got too close until he was trembling. The others in the circle watching were starting to encourage me as I took him along until he was trembling and his breath was coming in harsh little gasps.

When I finished him it was even better than I hoped. The first hard jet of his gift blinded me when it hit right between my eyes and I reflexively shut them. But it was worth it. I got to watch in that instant before my eyes slammed shut, as his urethra opened and his beautiful white gift came to me. I felt a second jet hit my forehead and my hair and a third, weaker, hit my breasts. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing myself right there in front of the group.

I waited until I was sure he was finished and then stood, smiling, proud, and took his hand as we turned to face the other fifteen couples of what was now our

Karuto

, our family that is closer than any ties of blood and genetics can ever make a group.

We moved to stand before Fred and Margie, the

Sensei

of our

Karuto

, and bowed deeply, our necks bent to keep meeting their eyes in the Japanese fashion.

"

Kazoku e yōkoso

," Fred said, "Welcome to the Family," and stepped forward and kissed me.

"

Kazoku e yōkoso

," Margie said, "Welcome to the Family," and stepped forward and kissed my Husband.

We were greeted by each couple in turn.

As the new initiates, we served at the welcoming banquet. It was done in the Japanese fashion, with

tatami

mats to sit on, the short-legged

chabudai

tables,

Kiirin

beer in those oversized brown bottles, hot

sake

drank from tiny cups to toasts of

omdetou gozaimasu

, "congratulations," and about a dozen courses of food, brought to the

shoji

, the thin sliding door that separated our room from the rest of the inn and left after a polite knock.

My Husband and I spent the next hour moving from the

shoji

to the

chabudai

, laying dishes on the table, filling beer glasses and tiny cups of

sake

, and taking drinks when toasts of welcome were offered. In Japanese culture, it is considered an insult to refuse a toast and in a culture where until pretty deep into the 19th Century an insult often ended in a blood feud, insults are not given lightly.

We got, not to put too fine a point on it, rip-roaring, falling-down, puke-on-your-shoes drunk before Fred, who seemed to have a limitless capacity, draped loose robes over us, walked us to the door, and loaded us into a taxi.

"Remember," he said, "no shower for two days and I WILL be by to check."

I giggled, kissed him, and said, "I promise and we'll be waiting," although, after as much as I had been drinking, it came out more like "Ah pomsh n ll buh wayin."

I got the giggles again when I looked up and met the taxi driver's eyes in the mirror. I couldn't resist licking my lips theatrically.

He giggled.

At home, we walk/staggered into the bedroom, dropped the robes, and started to crawl into bed.

I got up and ran to the bathroom, my stomach rebelling from all that drinking.

I would not have been surprised to see my toenails in the water by the time I was down to dry heaves.

I rinsed my mouth and staggered back to bed.

My Husband was snoring loudly.

I giggled, kissed his forehead, and slept before my head was fully settled onto the pillow.