Trapped

Iwao was holding my head to the hollow of his neck with a hand under my chin, holding my face steady and facing the silhouetted takings in the other chamber. He was whispering and half-way singing in soothening tones into my ear, occasionally kissing me behind the ear or taking the lobe of my ear between his lips, or slowly slipping his tongue into my ear chamber—while his other hand was roaming over my body. He was stroking and gripping my chest muscles, tweaking my nipples, running his hands along my biceps and down my chest to my belly. And lower.

As the lovers silhouetted behind the screen began their rhythmic, equally undulating coupling, Iwao was possessing my cock with his pressuring fist and slowly pumping me—just as I had done myself the previous night as I watched the dance of the fuck in the other chambers.

I was close, but he held me fast, not letting me ejaculate as Goro and Jun and their partners completed their coupling and the rooms cleared briefly. When the silhouettes were back in place and their mating was beginning with Goro and Jun working on their new client's cocks with their mouths, Iowa had me up out of the pool, my buttocks resting on the edge and me propped on my elbows on the border stones, watching the cock sucking in silhouette and stereo beyond the papered walls, as Iwao, still sitting in the pool crouched over my pelvis, held me there with his elbows and worked my cock with his mouth.

I did come then, in great gobs of ejaculate and cries of release and then of something else, something more primeval and fearful, as, almost incapacitated with inebriation to the point of being helpless against any invasion Iwao fancied, I realized that while Iwao was pumping my throbbing cock with his soft, sensual mouth, he had worked three of his beefy fingers, lubricated with something greasy, deep into my anus.

The current clients of Goro and Jun, both hulking men of substance, were quickly getting down to business beyond the screens. They had already fully skewered their prey, and the two young men were writhing in ecstasy and agony under full, vigorous fuck. No sensitive lovemaking here. Just full and furious rut.

I cried out weakly as the chujen grasped me by the waist with both hands and pulled me back down into the pool, and into his lap, and onto his thick and long cock. Taking only a moment to center his bulb at my puckered and now-stretched—but not nearly wide enough—channel and slowly, relentlessly pulling me down on his invading pole. Having eventually, with great effort and thrashing and moaning on my part, bottomed inside me, he held me firmly to him with one hand on my belly and the other cupping and squeezing my balls until, with a groan of pain subsiding into a moan of possession from me, he moved his hands to my waist and repeatedly, with increasing intensity and rapidity, lifted and settled me on his probing cock as I watched the taking in the other room.

He visited me nightly for two weeks after that. And then came the night when the sliding screen opened and he was not alone. There was another man with him.

Iwao briefly—and almost apologetically—explained that this client had discovered I was here and would only remain silent if I serviced him. The chujen wanted me to know also that the army unit—and its captain who had visited Goro—was still in the area, barely a breathed whisper from taking me into their possession.

What could I do? I was trapped. No where I could go other than here and be even as safe as I was here. The visitor untied his sash and dropped his yukata and joined me in the pool in the hidden garden. He wasn't nearly as expert as Iwao had been, but I was no less fucked—and felt no less the prostitute.

In succeeding weeks, there have been other men. And I have been led out to the larger pool on the cliffside edge of the pavilion, and while there, I have been with more than one man at a time. So many of the village men wanted their taste of the gaijen, the foreigner. It was as if, in these last months, when their whole world was collapsing and they could see it happening—and finally believed it would happen—they wanted to experience as much of what to them was the exotic as possible. Fucking a young gaijen became the ultimate in experiences in Aki.

But I'm trapped. The daily waves of bombers overhead have stopped. I want to believe that this means that there is nothing else left to bomb in Osaka, that the path is clear for more safely increasing the bombing of Tokyo now. At least that was the plan. My hope is that one day I will awaken and the hot springs pools of Iwao are deserted and I will hear the sounds of steel ramps reaching out to the sands of Aki's lower village and American troops coming to save me from what I have, by necessity, become.

Meanwhile I feel so trapped—trapped between exposure and death and service—which is another kind of death—but at least a fingerhold on life.