My Yakuza

began to paint, Keizo took his face away and replaced it with his cock. He entered Shiro from the side, looking over Shiro’s shoulder, fucking him with an incredible rhythm. Shiro painted. And painted. Keizo reached down, stroking Shiro’s cock. He was not only hard, but also desperate to come again.
He kept painting at Keizo’s urging as he came in the man’s hand as Keizo filled his ass.
“Oh…” Shiro stared at the painting. How had he done it? Two male forms collided. It was a painting of passion. Primal lust. It was a painting of them.
“I wonder what colour you’ll see the next time I fuck you,” Keizo said, kissing him again. “What did you do before you came here to Tokyo?” Keizo suddenly asked.
“I’m a student, doing my Master’s degree in Hawaiian literature and philosophy.”
“Next time I see you, tell me a story as I’m fucking you.”
Keizo reached out a thumb, touching Shiro’s bottom lip. It was heartbreaking to tear himself away from Keizo, but the artist promised to call him. Shiro was in orbit over their lovemaking and couldn’t wait to see him again. But as he let himself out of the building again, he saw he had three late-night collections to make, more deliveries. He worked through the night, falling asleep on the tiny sofa at the office, dreaming of Keizo fucking him with his brushes.
He had about two hours of sleep when his cell phone rang.
Disoriented, he grabbed the phone, staring out the window at the grey sky.
“You forgot about me.”
“I didn’t forget you,” he assured Miki. “I’m sorry. I had to work. You know how it is. I even fell asleep here in the office.”
“Yes, you forgot about me.”
He offered to make it up to her by taking her to breakfast at her favourite place. Lauderdale, a nice little café in Roppongi Hills, was one of the few decent breakfast places in Tokyo. It was a cool place Siono would have loved. One wall was decorated with hats. Siono loved hats. Shiro started to ache for his mom. Another wall was covered in empty picture frames, which he felt, was the story of his life. It seemed odd but comforting that this very un-Japanese place would be the hot breakfast place in town. But then, there was a lot about Japanese life he was still learning.
Miki sat opposite him, smiling. She looked ecstatic. He guessed she didn’t have too many dates that didn’t involve her being on her knees or flat on her back. He, on the other hand, could not wait to get this date over with.
She ordered buttermilk pancakes and tea. Shiro ordered a gruyere and fresh basil omelette. Good sex always made him hungry. Great sex made him ravenous. He ordered an apple cinnamon soufflé right after it. Miki ate a few spoonfuls, but he was pretty much on his own with the light and airy concoction.
“I want my date now, please,” Miki said.
He cringed inwardly. He thought this was the date. He hadn’t even had a chance to process his night with Keizo. He wanted to hold it to himself like a soft, warm blanket. He’d never had such a wonderful night with any man. He’d needed it. He needed to feel alive, the comfort of skin-on-skin.
“Okay,” he said, aware that he owed Miki a debt of gratitude.
“I want to go to MPM.”
“To what?”
“It’s a special museum,” she said. “It is the hottest place you can take a girl on a date, Shiro-san.” She giggled.
“Okay, I’ll take your word for it.”
He helped her with her helmet. She wore a pink dress and matching panties, giving him a healthy flash of those as her long, lean legs straddled the bike. He slid to his seat in front of her. Her machinations and her close-hugging thighs were lost on him. All he saw in his mind was a naked Keizo, beckoning him. He followed her shouted directions. All morning he’d waited for an assignment and it worried him that he hadn’t received one. He was hoping more than anything that Keizo would require more brushes and pencils.
Miki tapped his shoulder as they took a corner. “That’s it, right there.”
He parked outside a building called the Meguro Parasitological Museum.
“What is this place?” he asked her.
She giggled. Of course.
“You’ll see,” she said.
He noticed a lot of young couples, arm in arm walking into the museum. Admission was free. No wonder the place was packed. She gripped his arm. They shuffled around the first floor, which was filled with printed information on parasites. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Walls and walls of bottled parasites taken from animals. Graphs, maps…pictures of the worst-known parasite infestations in the world.
“Are you ready for the second floor?” a guide asked them.
“Yes!” Miki said, clapping her hands together. She immediately resumed her sumo-like hold on Shiro’s arm. He could hear moans, groans, a couple of screams, muted laughter and a few gasps from upstairs as they took the stairs to the second floor and he almost lost his breakfast.
Parasites.
As far as the eye could see there were parasites. An eight-point-eight metre long tapeworm extracted from some poor guy’s stomach got the most interest. It was coiled on a blue velvet board and framed in glass. Over four thousand parasites were displayed, most of them huge, a few of them tiny.
It was a fucking horror show.
Miki kept giggling. He kept gagging. He tried not to look but it was hard to avoid some of the real monstrosities such a severed turtle’s head with a gigantic spider-like parasite growing out of its ear.
Shiro and several other men clustered around an alarming photo of some guy with elephantiasis of the scrotum. It hurt just to look at the unbelievable growth that went from the guy’s balls to his knees.
He couldn’t wait to get out of here.
“Come on,” Shiro said, feeling sick to his stomach.
Miki wanted a souvenir of their visit. He kept his mouth shut, allowing her to drag him to the museum store.
“I