The music from behind the door is like the static of an untuned radio. It barely qualifies as music to a man like Saejima, who was imprisoned through the burst of new wave, through the development of house music, and the birth of whatever sleazy beat is throbbing through the speakers of the strip club. In fact, he’s never even been in a strip club before. A yakuza at fourteen, imprisoned for a bulk of his life, and then ushered back into the Tojo with a patriarchal delineation on his lapel. There was never really time for luxury like this, even whenever he thought he was hot shit as a foot soldier. Majima and himself made little cash to blow on the entertainment district when they were just eighteen, nineteen, twenty.
Still, he pictured himself at clubs like this. He was always curious.
He just hadn’t expected to be in a men’s club.
The Kitakata Family is hosting him tonight, and while Saejima certainly expected being loosened up—the Tojo Clan is often treated to cabaret clubs and exorbitant rooftop bars in exchange for their compliance—he didn’t expect the sons of bitches in Hokkaido to buy him a prostitute.
“First time with a man?” the guy says as he enters the room. Saejima looks up from his hands which are clutching his thighs hard enough that the skin beneath blooms white. It’s the stripper from earlier, the one that they purposefully brought him to see, nudging him towards the center of the stage to get the best views of his crotch and ass. He’s beautiful, yes, but Saejima can’t help but feel nervous.
“Um, first time in general.”
“You’re kidding,” he says. But he doesn’t look judgmental. In the purplish neon light, his eyes betray no humor at his expense. They’re like these dewy marbles that wobble slightly. Maybe he’s nervous too.
Saejima knows how he looks. A beast of a man, sitting with a group of yakuza, with that perpetually stern, gruff frown. The stripper probably thinks he’s going to get roughed up. Saejima scans his body. Beneath a latex crop top and shorts is firm, white skin, tight with muscle. It looks like he doesn’t get much sun if the night job and the dismal climate are anything to go by. But he’s unbruised and unscarred. On closer inspection, as he drifts beneath the neon gleam, Saejima sees that he’s more muscular than he initially intuited. He looked so slender on the pole. Surely, that can’t all be from dancing. He can probably hold his own.
As he sits down on the vinyl couch beside him, he gives him a close-lipped, calm smile.
“You don’t seem like a virgin to me.”
“This kind of thing isn’t my usual joint,” Saejima murmurs. The room is small, tacky: a sauna heater in the corner gleams red with fresh coals, and the LED strips lining the ceiling above needle into Saejima’s corneas with their harsh, artificial glow. Saejima is so used to natural Okinawan light spilling in from the tiny prison windows, and even in Kamurocho, the electronic shine from the city didn’t make its way into the sewers that he traveled in.
A canvas of two cherubs is plastered on the wall, Korean text covering it. A miniature Jizo statue sits across the couch, watching them, probably not blessing them, with its round, stone head. Yellow Kirin crates that line the wall are filled with various bottles of sake—none of which belong to the Kirin brand. There are potted, plastic monstera plants with bleached leaves in each corner of the room, and two lamps on either side of the couch that are fitted with those god-awful LED light bulbs, casting the tables beneath them in blue. The tables have a variety of sex toys and lube placed on them, as if it’s modern décor. A framed movie poster for something called In the Mood for Love is framed behind them. Saejima doesn’t want to touch any of it.
“Not very romantic, is it?” the stripper says softly as he watches Saejima survey the room, eyes on everything but him. The stripper busies himself with toying with the zipper crossing the middle of his crop top. It hugs his tits, emphasizing the size of his pecs. The plasticky faux leather looks like oil with how liquidated the fabric seems. It can’t be comfortable, but he moved with the fluidity of an eel on the stage, wrapping those endlessly long colt legs around the pole. Saejima won’t say he isn’t chubbed up in his slacks.
“You like working here?”
The guy shrugs, leaning back and resting his hands on his own thighs, copying Saejima’s posture. “It’s alright,” he says, tilting his head. He has a smattering of flat moles all over his face. Saejima thinks of a flour tortilla. For some reason, that calms him down a little, “Like everyone else here, it’s filler for the next step.”
Saejima nods. The kid has a shaved head. He can kind of intuit where he’s fresh out of. Abashiri is only a few miles north, after all. A place like this would offer him quick cash to get him on his feet. But those strong thighs weren’t covered in tattoos, his sloped spine didn’t have a trace of ink as he arched it, going down on the pole. But he knows that irezumi is less and less popular among younger yakuza, so there’s a possibility that the yakuza employ their own soldiers as sex workers, too.
“The Family owns this place, doesn’t it?”
“The strippers and the owners are not yakuza,” he laughs, “But we’re protected by them, yes. Don’t ask me for any details, now… I don’t have any information. I’m just here for pleasure. Which you probably need, after dealing with them.”
“I like your haircut.”
The stripper gives him a cheeky squint as he rubs his palm over his head. It makes a sound like a woven basket being rubbed.
“Does it make me look tough?”
“Offsets the outfit. I don’t like men looking too girly.”
“Me too,” he grins, and throws a thigh over his, spreading his legs and slouching. It isn’t the practiced type of sexuality with perfect posture and gentle touches that Saejima imagined from sex workers. It’s a lewd, bratty display that gets him a whole new shade of hard.
“What’s your name?” he asks, conversationally, like he doesn’t have a stripper throwing his limbs into his lap.
“Baba-chan,” he says, “And yeah—that’s my real name. I can’t come up with something really fucking gay like Candie or Rudy Red or something.”
“Good,” Saejima laughs, “I wouldn’t be able to say, ‘fuck yeah, Rudy Red,’ without shooting myself afterwards.”
Baba grins. He has nice teeth—clearly a smoker from the stains, but it looks like he’s recently stopped. Probably from prison.
“Well, Saejima-san,” Baba purrs, crawling onto his lap and fitting himself into a straddle. Saejima’s shocked by the warmth. Never before has he had someone this close and intimate on him that wasn’t trying to punch his face in. It’s a foreign, strange feeling, having someone in your space, feeling the heat of another body, their fingers trailing in tender, spidery movements up the back of your head. His fingers tangle through Saejima’s long hair. All Saejima can do is stare, wide-eyed, at the neck of his top which encases his throat slightly, the corded, milky skin above it so taut and kissable, “I’ve never had a virgin before.”
Saejima’s lips go dry but when he parts them, he finds his words easily. They come out surprisingly smooth, “You look like an angel.”
Baba-chan’s fingers pause on his neck and he grinds forward a little. Outside, there’s an uproar of whistles and shouts—he supposes some dancer has removed their clothes. Baba seems to follow the cue as he grabs his zipper and works it down the teeth of his top.
“Why don’t we start with something easy, Saejima-san,” Baba says, leaning in close so his upper body is in his face. The warmth of his neck smells like the glitzy, cheap perfume Saejima’s sister always turned her nose up at in department stores. Beneath that, there’s something like iron and snow.
“You can play with my chest for a little.”
Saejima’s hands are stiller than he expected them to be as he reaches up and undoes the zipper fully, sliding the top down Baba’s sizable shoulders. He isn’t nearly as broad as the dudes Saejima’s usually around, but he’s got the stature of someone like Kido. His chest is probably his most impressive feat.
His pectoral muscles are impressive, and Saejima watches with some amusement as they softly bounce while he rids himself of the tight upper garment. He brushes his thumbs over each rusty nipple. His skin is smooth, hairless—whether it’s natural or waxed, Saejima doesn’t know—and the dip of his sternum looks deeply plum-red in the mixture of the lights. Saejima kind of understands why everything is so luminous and polychromatic. Baba’s skin seems to almost shimmer. All pores are hidden in this flat light, and he looks strangely smooth, doll-like.
“That’s it,” Baba encourages, eyes fluttering softly, “Play with my tits a little. Let my body teach you.”
Saejima bites his tongue to keep from saying anything too embarrassing as he pushes them together, watching the skin bunch up in a facsimile of cleavage, before he lets go and tweaks each nipple, a little too roughly. Baba winces but doesn’t stop him. He’s definitely inexperienced, but there’s something arousing about the clumsy movements of it, of the unsureness in Saejima’s touches.
“Ah…” he exhales, sitting back on Saejima’s knees as he leans slightly out of his touch. Saejima follows the movement, like he’s attached by an invisible string, and Baba giggles whenever Saejima’s hands grope plainly at his chest. He looks mesmerized, like one of those enchanted dudes in an AV about MILFs, like they’ve never seen tits before.
“Go ahead,” Baba moans, playing it up just a little. Saejima’s eyes are so eager, all the sternness of his expression having melted away in exchange for a strangely adorable curiosity. “You can suck them. Get them nice and sloppy…”
Saejima has never even kissed someone before. He feels wary. Like one of the Kitakata Family members is going to fuck with him halfway through, like they’re going to use this as leverage against the Tojo Clan. But then he remembers how homoerotic one of the best patriarchs in the clan is—his own sworn brother—and he remembers the fourth chairman’s predilections towards him. And the anxiety softens in him. The Tojo Clan could care less about sexuality.
His nipple is cute, he thinks strangely, as he wraps his lip around it. It’s smallish, copper-colored, but it doesn’t taste like the grape-flavored glow over his skin. For some reason, Saejima was expecting the intense saltiness of piss or cum on a stripper’s skin, but he tastes mild. These thoughts fade, though, as he quickly begins to suckle and chew, and his focus shifts less on his own new experience to making Baba-chan feel good. The kid is groaning on his lap, shifting and tossing his head back, and Saejima is too naïve to think any of it is theatrical.
He grabs Baba’s ass. The pleather of his shorts—or latex, or whatever it is—feels rubbery and slippery in his palms, but he can feel the heft and firmness of his ass through it anyway. He wonders if it hurts Baba’s junk.
He lazily circles his hands, pushing Baba’s cheeks together and pulling them apart, wondering how cute his hole looks, as his lips suction his chest needily. Baba squeals softly and pets at his head, fitting those long fingers through the greasy strands, holding him tight.
“That’s it. Not so scary, is it? You don’t have to worry, Saejima-san,” he breathes, and that voice is all comfort. Saejima’s jaw drops and he goes to the other tit, laving it with spit, “A man like you… Will impress me—ah—no matter what he does.”
“You’re just saying that,” Saejima mumbles as he presses kisses against his chest, “Because you know I’ve got a big dick.”
“Am I that predictable?”
Saejima looks up at him with creased, pleasured eyes, and pulls away from his chest.
“You want to suck it?”
Baba grins and slinks off of his lap, getting down on his knees.
“You know,” he says, feeling his own chest throb from the attention as he undoes Saejima’s belt, “I’ve never kissed a virgin cock before.”
Saejima’s cheeks flare with heat. His stomach gives a hot swoop with how slutty he feels like this, getting felt up by some thirty-year-old with a shaved head and pleather shorts on, his chest all wet. He can see his erection tenting the constrictive fabric between his legs, and Saejima’s own cock gives a throb as he feels those long, elegant fingers gauging the size of his bulge in the fabric of his underwear.
“Your dick’s fucking hot,” Baba laughs, gently stroking it, “Like, burning up. Bet it’s as needy and feverish as the rest of you.”
Saejima nods in the direction of the heater that steadily turns the room’s air thick and soupy with humidity. Probably to keep the strippers warm in their skimpy clothes. It’s freezing outside. “Not my fault.”
“Oh? You’re not overwhelmed at all, huh?” he says playfully as he thumbs a wet patch at the front of his head.
He wrenches the hefty dick out of his briefs and leans forward to inhale the cloying, masculine scent of his wet glans.
Saejima’s taken aback by his boldness, but it doesn’t seem to be for show. Even though he’s getting paid—not on Saejima’s dime, but still—Baba looks genuinely blissed out at the sight of his fat, dark cock, hefty and aromatic with cum and sweat.
“It kind of reeks,” Baba says, “But don’t worry. I’m into that. I’m a gross little freak, you know?”
“I can tell.”
“I like it. Bet it tastes as good as it smells.” He palms at himself between his legs and then sticks his tongue out—soft and pink.
The first lick is foreign. He doesn’t know why he always expected a tongue to be cooler on his skin, like his lotion-slick hand or the onahole that Majima got for him. But it’s nothing like the smooth silicone or his palm. It’s almost searing, the first contact, and he jumps a little as Baba laves over his cock like he’s trying out a popsicle flavor. His cute, upturned lips smirk up further, and he takes the head into his mouth, nursing it like Saejima did to his tits.
“Oh, fuck,” Saejima groans as Baba opens his mouth wider and goes down on him, taking the thickness of his shaft into his mouth, watching as his cheeks hollow out expertly, “Oh—fuck. Get it in there…”
Baba hums around his shaft, and Saejima feels his balls clench up as Baba goes down further and further, until his pert, straight nose is buried in his pubes, until his cock is fully sheathed in the tight muscles of his throat that struggle around the width.
“Holy shit. Look at you, stuffed with my dick…” Saejima’s eyes are wide, mesmerized. He feels like he could let off any second inside of him.
And Baba doesn’t move. He stays still, on his knees, swallowing around his dick, eyes on his like it’s a challenge. His jaw aches and he licks around whatever he can get—mainly the base—shaking his ass slightly like he’s an excited puppy or something.
As he continues to nurse and swallow around his cock, Saejima realizes that he’s cockwarming him. Must be a regional thing—the need to keep everyone warm.
Either way, Saejima puts his hand on the back of Baba’s shaved head and strokes, before placing it at the nape of his neck in an attempt to get him to move. Almost reluctantly, Baba does, and he begins to deepthroat him expertly.
As one hand continues to work at his own (much less impressive) cock over his shorts, the other comes up and tugs at Saejima’s heavy sac, thumbing softly at his balls, pressing down hard every once in a while to giggle around his mouthful at Saejima’s winces and groans. He pets them afterwards, fingers twisting back behind his scrotum to press hard up against his perineum—
And Saejima cums, throwing his head back, the tightness in his abdomen coming undone like knots, his hands on Baba’s cropped head as he pulls him down fully. Baba barely gags, but the drool that spills down his chin in rivulets is evidence of the effort it takes for him to worship this monster cock like he does.
He takes every shot of hot cum, thinking deliriously about how his mouth is getting creamed up just like a pussy, and he cums in his own pants at the thought of being able to take this spit-slicked, virgin dick inside him one day. He swallows and swallows, waiting until Saejima’s spent, and even then, with the taste of semen lingering on his tongue, he still gives his cock a lazy deepthroat.
“Shittt—too sensitive,” Saejima breathes, gently batting at his head.
Baba pulls off, gasping in breaths of the humid air, drool and cum dripping openly out of his swollen mouth. His shorts are dripping as much as his lips are, his eyes are glazed and milky, reflecting the lights of the room.
He looks like the most beautiful thing Saejima’s ever seen.
When he croaks in that broken, throat-fucked voice, “When will I see you again?” Saejima thinks he’s in love.
“I’ll—I’ll come by. I’m here for a few days.”
“Good,” Baba says, and gives him an intense stare, lazily toying with the foreskin of Saejima’s cock. “Can I ask you for a favor?”
“Can you slap me?”
“Please? It gets me off. Slap me,” he says, rearing up on his knees and presenting the soft, mole-dotted skin of his cheek, as smooth as the Jizo statue’s round head. “Hit me if you think you love me.”
Saejima’s palm makes a cracking sound against his skin.