Muscle Men, page 12
As Bobby cleaned himself up after his session of self-admiration, he considered what he should wear to Sakata’s demonstration that afternoon. It had to be something casual enough that he could participate in the demonstration if he got a chance but not so casual as to seem disrespectful. These old Japanese masters could be so damn demanding and were sometimes a little peculiar in their demands. Hard to read. Inscrutable, actually. He laughed as the cliché passed through his head.
He pulled on a nice T-shirt, not a muscle shirt, and sweats that were baggy but still tight enough across the seat to show off his legs and his fine ass. Never hurts to look good was one of Bobby’s mottos.
He drove south down the Hollywood Freeway, to Little Tokyo, and then across the tracks into the old warehouse district, where his friend Smith leased the building he had turned into his dojo. When Bobby got there, Smith was greeting his guests as they stepped up onto the loading dock, which had been converted into a porch shaded by bamboo and decorated with flowering plants. It was lovely and only highlighted something Bobby noticed immediately. He hadn’t seen Smith for a while and he was struck by the fact that his friend looked tired and pale, as though he wasn’t sleeping well or was recovering from the flu. Drained.
When he asked Smith if he was okay, Smith smiled and said he was fine and to just go on in. A dozen or so other guests had already arrived. Bobby recognized most of them, drawn from the cream of Smith’s classes. There were greetings, some social chitchat. A few minutes passed, a few more guests arrived and then Smith came in, closing the door behind him and going to the center of the large workout mat that was the chief feature of the room.
As everyone seated himself around the perimeter of the mat, conversation ceased and expectations rose. And then, so gracefully that he almost seemed to glide, Sakata appeared from a small side room, joining Smith on the mat.
Bobby was impressed. Sakata was old all right, maybe in his seventies, as dark and hard as carved teak, but when he smiled and bowed in greeting, he seemed to radiate strength and friendly warmth. Smith made a few introductory remarks and then Sakata spoke, in English with little accent. Surprising. How many skills did this old master posses?
Sakata explained that the real secret to his attack technique lay in striking in ways his opponent would never expect.
Explanation was about to become demonstration. The master quickly scanned the guests, looked at Bobby for a second… but then, to Bobby’s disappointment, passed on and gestured to another man, a hulking 250-pound Polynesian known to everyone simply as “Tut.”
As Tut got to the center of the mat, Sakata asked him to take his fighting stance, then pointed out that Tut had his arms up and slightly forward, a pose common to almost all fighters, whatever their style. “Now watch,” said Sakata, and made a quick feint toward Tut, who automatically blocked with his arms at the same time that he moved his body out of the way of Sakata’s strike.
“You see,” said the old master, “he assumes I’m trying to hit his body or his head, but my target really is…” and quick as a flash he reached out and gave a sharp tap to points on the lower parts of one of Tut’s arms. The big man collapsed to the mat as though a great weight had been dropped on him.
Sakata did a quick revival technique on the fallen man, rubbing the back of his neck and shoulders. When Tut was able to get back on his feet, Sakata spent some time explaining just what points he had hit and what the correct striking techniques were for each. Then he sent the big Polynesian back to his seat and said, “Of course, there are other routes for surprise attack.” This time, he nodded to Bobby to come on to the mat.
“Ready to fight?” asked the old man.
“Always, Sensei,” Bobby replied.
Sakata smiled approvingly, bowed and attacked. As Bobby expected, the old man darted in as though to strike at his arms and he was ready to dodge this. But Bobby’s arms were not the target. Instead, moving so quickly that he was almost a blur, the old man swept behind Bobby and hit a spot he hadn’t shown the class—just below the base of Bobby’s spine, at the very edge of his asscrack.
Bobby’s legs buckled, opening the crack nice and wide so that Sakata could make his second strike—a point right on the rim of Bobby’s asshole—and the instant he did, a stunning shock like lightning sweep through Bobby, leaving him completely helpless and unable to protect himself from Sakata’s deadly finishing move. The old master wrapped his arms around Bobby’s torso, torquing his spine from the base of his neck to the small of his back, which he could have easily snapped. He didn’t, of course; this was only a demonstration. But before he let go, he gave Bobby a compliment, whispering in his ear, “You did well. At least you stayed on your feet.” Then he blew into Bobby’s ear. His breath was strangely warm and stimulating.
Bobby steadied himself, the strength slowly coming back into him. Then he realized there was one problem—his dick was ramrod stiff. It was a good thing his sweats were baggy. Maybe Master Sakata wouldn’t notice. But the old man smiled and gave his dick a solid whack with his palm, at about midpoint, and down it went. Bobby turned red as he made his way back to the edge of the mat. No one said anything about it. These things happened sometimes.
Later, as everyone was leaving and saying good-bye to the master, Sakata looked Bobby in the eye and gave him an order, “I will see you again. Tonight, here. Ten o’clock.”
Although Bobby usually resisted any kind of order, he found himself bowing and saying, “Yes. Thank you.” He was intensely curious about what the old man had in store for him. What secret teaching would be revealed?
Because this was a warehouse district, there were few streetlights. When Bobby returned that night, the streets were dark, deserted and silent. Just as he stepped onto the porch, the door flew open and Smith appeared. “Go on in,” he said, quickly, nervously. “He’s waiting for you.” He continued to his car, got in and disappeared into the night. Bobby wondered what was going on.
The lights were off in the warehouse, the only illumination coming from a few flickering candles. A faint scent of incense tinted the air. Bobby didn’t know what it was, but he thought it smelled a lot like cum. This was beginning to look like it wasn’t going to be about martial arts.
“Good evening,” said Sakata, stepping out of the shadows. He offered a thin smile but no bow, none of the usual courtesies. He had changed from the judo outfit he had been wearing earlier to a silk kimono, wrapped tightly, as though he was cold.
“Is everything all right?” asked Bobby. “Should I come some other time? Tomorrow?”
“No!” said Sakata, suddenly animated by urgency. He led Bobby to the mat. A thick silk carpet now lay in the middle of it, marked with Chinese characters that Bobby recognized as very old and abstract signs for earth, air, water and fire—the four elements, the pillars of the Universe.
Sakata seemed concerned with positioning himself and Bobby at the very center of the carpet. That done, he put a hand on one of Bobby’s biceps, like a connoisseur appraising a fine statue. “Ah,” he said quietly, “such strength.”
Bobby didn’t usually go for old men, but Sakata was in shape and probably had a fine sexual technique. Maybe he could learn something from him in that department as well as about martial arts.
“The young have so much energy,” said Sakata, moving his hand to Bobby’s powerful chest. His touch was gentle but there was nothing tentative about it. He was a master, after all. Rhythmically, he alternated sweeping passes along Bobby’s chest with a vibrating finger-squeeze of his nipples. With his other hand, he stroked Bobby’s abs, and then brought both hands to the area just below Bobby’s navel, where he did a slow, deep, circulating massage.
Bobby’s dick strained hard against his sweats but still Sakata didn’t touch him there. The old man lifted his hands from Bobby and told him to take off his shirt. Bobby did and, without being asked, also dropped his sweats. He stood naked and hard before the great Sakata, who dropped suddenly to his knees.
With the tip of his tongue, Sakata began working magic on the tip of Bobby’s dick, creating a kind of dancing tingling so stimulating that despite himself, Bobby, whose control was superb and who wanted nothing more than to prolong this exquisite sensation, soon felt precum seeping from him.
The old man moved on, taking in all of Bobby’s thick, throbbing cock, closing his mouth over him, capturing him completely. Then, the rhythmic wet sliding sucking began. Bobby really was being worked over by a master.
Soon Bobby was shaking and groaning with ecstasy and soon after that, Sakata went for his finishing move, suddenly striking with an iron finger at the same point he had used on Bobby in combat that afternoon, right at the edge of his hole, a blow which again sent lightning flashing through Bobby and this time made him shoot a full, hot load down the willing throat of the old man. Then the master struck again and Bobby shot, and again, and again.
When Bobby finally had nothing left for him, Sakata sat back on his haunches and smiled. A thick string of Bobby’s cum dribbled from the side of his mouth. He caught it with a finger, licked it up, and smiled again. Then he closed his eyes and seemed to fold in upon himself in some intense form of meditation. His lips were moving slightly but there was no sound. Instead, Bobby could feel a low vibration emanating from the man. Then to Bobby’s growing astonishment, his features softened, his skin getting smoother until it was free of the lines and crevices of age, until he seemed a much younger version of the old man who had just been there, almost boyish.
Bobby stepped forward for a closer look at this extraordinary transformation, but as he did so, he was suddenly dizzy, completely exhausted—drained. He sat down, then lay back on the mat. He would rest. For just a moment. So he thought.
When he woke, Sakata was gone. The candles had burned out; there was a soft light coming from somewhere outside. It was dawn. He had been asleep for hours but when he got to his feet he felt heavy and tired.
Late that afternoon, he was napping at home when Smith woke him with his call. “How you doing?” he asked as soon as Bobby said hello.
“A little knocked out, to tell you the truth. It was a long night. A little strange.”
“I know.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do,” said Bobby.
“We have to talk,” said Smith. “I’m coming over.”
When Smith arrived he told Bobby a lot about Sakata, much of which Bobby had already begun to suspect. Old as the old man appeared to be, Smith believed him to in fact be a great deal older. Of all the many secret techniques he had mastered over the—well, maybe it was centuries—there were ones that enable a man to prolong his vitality forever. Sakata was a kind of vampire, but it wasn’t blood that he needed.
“You know,” said Bobby, “there’s a lot of bull crap that goes around about Asian secrets. A lot of stuff just to frighten people and all that, but not true.”
“Yeah,” said Smith, “but you know a lot of it is true. We’ve both seen some strange stuff. And think about what happened to you last night. And look what he’s been doing to me.”
“You do look a little fucked up,” said Bobby. “Sick, sort of.”
Smith nodded wearily. “Not to give blow jobs a bad name, but he’s sucking me dry. I’ll admit it was pretty hot at first, but now he’s killing me.”
Suddenly Bobby was angry. “Did you know all this when you invited me and the others? You must have.”
Smith admitted he had.
“I’m not sure how I feel about you setting me up,” said Bobby.
“Would you have believed me if you hadn’t gone through all that last night?” asked Smith.
Bobby had to admit that his friend had a point, and then he asked, “How did you find out about him? Did you know when he came here? How did he wind up at your place, anyway?”
Smith explained that Sakata had contacted him via email from a small dojo in Osaka, flattering him with talk about how Smith was famous, known even in Japan. When the master said that he would be visiting Los Angeles, Smith was quick to offer his hospitality.
“The first night he was here I began to get the picture,” said Smith. “Now I’m stuck with him. He doesn’t seem to have any plans for going back. I think maybe something went wrong for him in Japan and he has to stay away for a while. I don’t know how to get rid of him.”
Bobby respected Smith and liked him. They had tricked a few times and then moved on to a fine friendship, and he was always willing to help a friend, but what was he supposed to do?
“To tell you the truth,” said Smith, “I think he’s shopping. Looking for someone to replace me.”
“Well, so there’s no problem,” said Bobby. “He’ll just move on to someone else.”
“No, you see, he really likes the dojo. Wants to use it to recruit new guys to suck. That’s what yesterday’s demonstration was really about. He wants to take the place over completely. Without me. That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Now, how is he going to do that?”
“I don’t like the way he’s been looking at me the past few days,” said Smith.
“Are you serious? You don’t really think…?”
Smith nodded. “He could do it in an instant, and make it look like a heart attack or a stroke or something.”
Bobby had to admit that was true. This was serious. They talked further and Bobby finally promised that he would try to come up with a plan for getting rid of Sakata. “It’s got to be pretty good,” said Bobby “Sakata’s no one to fool around with. If we’re gonna get him, we gotta get him good.”
“Okay, but soon, okay?” said Smith.
Bobby suggested that in the meantime Smith should drink a lot of ginseng. “Get the kind that restores your semen,” he advised. Then, just as his friend was leaving, Bobby, being Bobby, asked a question he couldn’t resist. “Did the old guy say anything about last night?”
“Oh, yes,” said Smith. “It seems you gave him plenty of what he needs. He was quite disappointed when I told him you weren’t a student of mine.”
Bobby nodded. He was pleased but not surprised.
Immediately after Smith left, Bobby Googled for information about how cum eating might prolong vitality. He didn’t find much. There was a long entry on Wikipedia but he wasn’t sure it was reliable. He turned to his collection of old books, and was soon deep in tales about flesh-eating goblins and spirit thieves. There were only a few allusions to men who did what Sakata seemed to be doing.
Days passed. Smith called a number of times, once half-seriously suggesting they ought to just kill the old man. “Out of the question,” said Bobby. “For one thing, I’m not sure how to do it. Some of the stuff I’ve read suggests he may have the power to ward off bullets and knives. Also, suppose we’re wrong. We’re not, I’m sure, but if we are…well, killing someone is kind of a mistake you can’t fix.”
“Okay,” said Smith, “but you’d better come up with something. One of these days I’m not going to be able to cum anymore and that could be the end for me. Besides, he’s giving some classes and he’s managed to recruit some guys from them so he’s pretty well set up to get what he needs to keep going.”
“Has he asked about me?” said Bobby.
“A few times but not for a while now.”
“Huh,” said Bobby, not at all sure how he felt about that.
Finally, Bobby did the one thing he hadn’t done for a while, the thing that was really the most difficult for him. He sat quietly and did some meditation, some thinking. Stillness, an emptiness into which something might come.
The old technique worked. He remembered something he had read once, maybe years ago. It was in a book he had but hadn’t bothered to check, since it wasn’t about witchcraft and monsters. It was a collection of very romantic stories about what the old Japanese sometimes called “comrade love.” There was a reference in it, something he had barely noticed, only half remembered—yes, there it was. The passage described evil men who prolonged their lives for centuries by draining the cum from strong young men. It also said these evil ones could themselves be rendered helpless—at least temporarily—by having the cum drained from them. Now Bobby knew what he had to do. Surely Sakata would resist but if anyone could make this plan work, it was Bobby Lo.
He needed to get a few things done. First, he went to the hardware store and bought some yards of clothesline. The clerk who helped him was a cute boy who flirted with a few teasing questions about what Bobby was planning to do with the cord. Bobby was friendly and made a mental note to come back soon and see if this guy was really interested in learning about hojojitsu, the Japanese art of tying people up. Bobby had spent a long time practicing this and he had gotten very good at it.
Next, he went to a shipping company, where he got information on overseas delivery, and bought a nice, solid, wooden crate.
He had pretty much recovered from his session with Sakata, but before dealing with the strange old master again, he had to be in the best possible condition. Lots of cardio, alternated with his systematic weight program. After a series of intense sessions, when he felt he was at his peak, mouth-watering and brimming with energy, he got Smith to come over again and explained his plan. “Tell Sakata I want to see him again.”
Smith was a little doubtful about Bobby’s plan but Bobby was confident.
“You always are,” said Smith, “but if this doesn’t work…”
“I don’t like to let things drag on,” said Bobby as he gave Smith the rope. “Let’s do this now. Just don’t lose your nerve, okay?”
Later, Smith called from the dojo. Sakata was delighted that Bobby wanted to return. He was expecting him that very evening.
“I’ll be there,” said Bobby. “You better be, too.”
As Bobby approached the dojo this time, he was struck by the sense of dreariness that seemed to hang over the building. It had been little more than a week since he’d been there last and the weather hadn’t been particularly hot, but the bamboo plants on the porch looked withered and the blossoming plants were shriveling.
