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When he cries his face reddens like it's been slapped. An excess of tears, snot, spit. He gets so wet for you. For you because you are the thing that makes him cry most often, whether or not he knows it.
You don't want to hurt Satomi—but the lonely thing inside you, the wrong-bit you always knew was poised to pop off its hinges, too tight, ready to snap— it needs to see him like this. Pink, gasping. Eyes like a martyr's, voice in tatters and torn between worlds: boy, man. Yakuza, middleschooler. Stuck, pinned, stretched to translucency between these extremes, a body tortured on the rack.
When he cries he becomes smashed to pulp under a fist. A formerly white blossom stepped on, mashed into a smear of shit brown on the pavement beneath your imported leather wingtips.
What's worse (better?) is that you know he needs it, too. Neither of you have ever been in this thing alone, no matter what you let him think.
—
He doesn't know you know.
You remain aloof, armored in smiles. You laugh at him and brush him off and hide your arousal behind a carelessly crossed leg. He's easy to trick because he's a child. He thinks he's crazy, he thinks he's imagining it. You let him think this.
You make him cry. It's almost like making him come: a steady build, a dam overflowing. His open mouth choking around sounds you could fuck out of him if you ever let yourself crack.
But you won't. That's the thing about the white blossoms—they really are more beautiful on the tree, unpicked.
—
This time he's sobbing because he is lying to his parents, and the guilt caught up to him. He is lying to his parents because of you. You have made the sobs happen. Making them happen has made you hard.
You sit with your arm resting atop the back of the vinyl karaoke booth while he paces and wails and drips on the floor between his shuffling sneakers. You watch him bluster, you listen to his voice climb and crack, thinking I did that, I did that. Satomi is a quiet boy until he's not: then he's shrill and furious and you're reminded of how young he is. A hormonal, out of control teenager who doesn't know what he's feeling, what you're doing to him, or, most of all, what he's doing to you.
His confusion makes you drunk. You want to swim in it, choke on it. You wish you didn't know what you were feeling, too. You wish you didn't know terrible it was.
—
Finally he wears himself out, collapses on the booth next to you. It sighs under his scant and growing weight. As he sags, your body is there to catch him. So suddenly, your arm is around his limp back and he's leaning against you. Warm, tear sticky. His cheek on your chest right over your heart, his silk-soft hair slipping through your fingers because your hand found his skull so naturally. "Now now," you tut, pretending this is something an uncle or father or friend does even though you've never pretended to be his uncle or father or friend. Arm around a narrow shaky shoulder, gently pulling him closer. "Maybe they wouldn't mind you were at a karaoke bar. Maybe they'd be be proud to know you were such a good voice teacher."
He says nothing. He doesn't even hear you—he's gone peculiarly still. Realized what he's doing, that he's letting you touch him instead of canting away in terror the way he usually does when you box him in against the booth, just to see his eyes go prey-wide. You thumb the shell of his ear, then fold it over. Put him under water, make the world quiet and thrumming with his blood. You tell yourself, I'll stop before this crosses a line, knowing full well there is no line, and if there was, you already crossed it long ago.
"Ummm," he says. "Kyouji—"
"Shhh," you interrupt, palm over the ear, like conch. You are giving him the roar of the ocean since you can't give him your tongue. "It's fine."
He squirms, then slackens into something molten. The menu music on the karaoke machine starts over for the hundredth time as you adjust your cock with your free hand, wondering if he notices, and what it might make him feel to know how hard you are, just from this: his head on your chest, the smell of his tears brine-salty and thick on the air.
Time creeps on. You throb, you close your eyes and imagine him on his back, his narrow legs tossed over your shoulders as you hollow him out, make him moan. You keep wondering if he's fallen asleep lounging on you, but then he'll twitch, a post-tantrum tremor rocking his ribcage against yours. Finally he moves intentionally—a subtle shift, rolling his face into the ditch between your pecs, nose pressed to your shirt buttons, glasses fogged up from his own, suddenly labored breath.
Then, he freezes there. Goes still with his face dug into you, like he's testing whether or not he's gotten away with something.
Idly, you hum the song you were practicing and look at the wall to tell him, go on. Try your luck. Take what it is you want, whatever it is you want, if you by some unlikely miracle know what you want.
Then, after a few seconds passes, it happens: he inhales deeply. Sniffs your shirt. Sniffs you. Strained against the zipper of your trousers, your cock throbs.
Fingers carding casually through his hair, a low murmur of encouragement. "Kitowa brand," you announce. "Not cheap, not expensive, a little generic as far as fragrances go… good enough, though. "
"What?" he says, sniffling to disguise the sniffing.
You scratch at his scalp. "My cologne," you say, telegraphing his pupils, his blush. Your cock flexes again at how obviously horrified he is at having gotten caught in the act. Little pervert, filling his lungs up with the scent of a man's sweat. Who knew your choirboy had it in him.
"Do you like it? Kid like you could probably even afford a bottle, if he saved his allowance."
The blush deepens and he tries to pull him away. "I wasn't—"
"It's fine," you tell him, hand spreading to pin him against your chest. Things are unraveling, you're licking the line that doesn't exist, worrying it with the tip of your tongue until it smears. Or would smear if it was real. You don't want to overplay your hand, but you are as bad at poker as you are at karaoke. "Why don't you stay. I know you need this— consider it payment for the lessons, fried rice and lemonade and sniffing a man, unencumbered, no questions asked. It's the least I can do."
So red at that, eyes darting before they fill up with tears. You want to reach for your cock but instead you reach for a cigarette. Light up, ask "if it's not the cologne, maybe it's the smokes? I get it, you crave the smell of rebellion. It goes along so well with lying to your folks about what you get up to after school."
Then you lift your arm above your head, expose your pit. You have been sweating ever since you've been touching him, you can't help it, Satomi makes you so hot. The fabric of your shirt is damp with perspiration, semi-translucent and you know he can see the black parts of your tattoos and your dark hair through it. He stares, mouth open, eyes wet, mouth wetter. You take a long drag and blow it out at him, so he's encapsulated in a billow of white. "Go on," you say. "Told you—no questions asked."
You think he'll launch from the booth and start pacing and bawling again for a second—his face flickering, so conflicted, you might have broken him. But instead he loses the battle. Makes a little wordless sound in his throat and surges into you, strings cut. He puts his face right in your underarm and inhales so deep. You stroke his hair, cuff his neck, hold him there. "That's it," you say, getting your fingers in there long enough to extract his knocked askew glasses from between his face and your body. He falls back into place with them gone, and you don't stop it from happening.
It's not hurting him. It's not forcing him. All it is is letting him breathe his fill.
In your pit he whimpers, breathes, exhales so hard it makes you shiver. Your bodies fit together so naturally—your underarm made to smother him, his head the perfect span of your spread palm. He relaxes into the ritual of breathing until his hips start to rock. The best thing you have ever seen: Satomi subtly, unconsciously humping the booth like a puppy. Movements unpracticed, not a show for your benefit but because he can't fucking help it. He's that turned on, just from the smell of you, ripe from wanting him.
Without meaning to you groan, shove your hand down the collar of his shirt to dig your nails into his spine. "See I knew, I knew you needed it," you murmur, letting him, letting him.
—
That's all that happens, that day: you allow Satomi to huff your underarm and rut against the booth until he shudders, peels back, blushing at his own finish. It is not sex, you have not ruined him. The blossom is still white.
When he escapes to clean up in the bathroom you take your cock out and jack off, the hand that was in his hair clapped over your face so you can smell him, too. Puberty, shampoo, oil, terror. You finish quickly, un-dim the lights, and light up another cigarette out before he comes back. Both of you put together, twin pictures of mocking decorum. "I'll give you a ride home," you tell him, smiling as if nothing has happened, as if you both have not changed. He won't look at you as you drive, but you look at him. You commit Satomi to memory, in case this time he chooses to bolt in shame out the door you strategically keep cracked open, so your jaw does not feel like a trap.
—
It becomes as much of a habit as deliberately singing off key just to hear him correct your pitch. After the lesson and his two, sometimes three meals, you dim the lights and shift to the corner joint of the booth. Then he watches with those stricken rabbit eyes as you slowly, deliberately remove your suit jacket to signal it's time. It's not obscene, not even when you extend your arm, and pat the vacancy. "Come and get it," you sometimes tell him while he stands frozen, gaze fixed on the damp ditch. Other times he is too desperate for dignity, squirming through your songs and distracted away from eating. You love that—giving him something he's gagging for. It's easier to convince yourself you're being charitable, rather than selfish.
Both of you pretend like this ritual is normal: a thing two people do, as likely as a yakuza taking singing lessons from a choir leader. You know it's not normal, but you cannot be sure of what Satomi knows or does not know. You take his lead, let him call the shots, set the tone. He is your teacher, after all. You're only his student.
—-
The third or fourth time it happens you feel his tongue darting out, trying to suck your sweat from the fibers of your button up. You almost come untouched when you realize he's licking you, mad with it, delirious. "Up," you say, peeling his body off yours, palm on his forehead to push him out of your pit where he's blissed out, lost to worship. Panic flickers across his gaze until he sees what you're doing—unbuttoning your shirt, shrugging out of it to give him your skin. Unencumbered, for real this time.
He sits on his heels, spots of color spreading across his his cheeks as he stares at your chest. "Your tattoos," he finally mumbles, plucking his glasses from the table and putting them back on so he can study the motifs in more detail. "I've only seen little bits of them—the dark parts through the white of your shirt."
"Oh—right," you say, extending both arms to show him. "See, they're very well done. Which is why it would be a shame to have to let the boss ruin it all." You point to the crane on your arm. "The wings flutter when I flex." Then, you demonstrate, tensing your bicep so it hardens. Satomi licks his lips, dumb with want, so you reach out and make a fist in his hair, pull his face to your underarm and his hand to your chest. "You can touch them," you breathe, moving his fingers so they stutter over your sternum, your ribs, nipple drawing tight beneath his thumb. "Girls always want to touch my tattoos."
He makes a sound into into skin. It could be a stifled laugh, a cough, or a devastated little moan. You don't know, but what matters is that his mouth is open, hot breath before the hotter slip of his tongue. Then he flickers back, face crumpled. "I'm sorry—-I just really want—"
"For what? Don't be sorry, Satomi. You're curious, I'm not offended. Anyway, you look good down there, very studious. You don't have to stop, " you hiss, pulling him back by that black cornsilk hair. "You can taste, If that's what you want to do."
He starts crying at that. Little hiccups and jerks of his shoulders, not in panic this time, but in gratitude, you suspect. Satomi is so grateful to mat your pit-hair down with his tongue, to clean you, to get the spice of you all over his teeth. Pathetic, perfect boy. You watch him, panting, so hard it hurts.
You mess with him—tugging him down to cut off his air before releasing him to gasp. He is so gorgeous, so fucked. Dragging his tongue over your arm pit, humping your leg. You want to tell him so, you want to tell him that having his mouth here makes it so easy to imagine his mouth elsewhere, to imagine fucking it, putting him on his knees, feeding him inch after inch until drool dripped down his chin. He'd be desperate for that, too. Licking your balls, huffing from your pubes. He can't get enough of the way you smell, you know this. You're creating a monster, you are ruining him for life. He'll spend his adulthood chasing this high—that time a grown man hunted him down for his voice. That time a man unbuttoned his shirt, showed him his tattoos, and let him lick his sweaty pit. It's not sex, but it will be the best sex Satomi has ever had. You'll make sure of it. You want to mark him forever, without destroying him. The most delicate balance, perhaps already tipped against you.
—
You can't help it. You reach down, you start to stroke yourself through your trousers, elbow knocking into him, giving you away. He turns his head to watch, eyes glued to the motion of your flexing forearm, the fluttering crane etched into your skin. Then, with his tongue still lapping the black hair, swirling it, flattening it out, he slides his palm down from your pecs to your gut, over the divots of bone and muscle. He pets the trail of black hair beneath your navel gently, almost reverently. A moment of wavering stillness before he curiously reaches for your cock.
Before the blossom is ruined, you grab his wrist. "Ah, Satomi," you scold, crushing the bones in your fist. "What are you doing, being so naughty? You know you're too little for that. For sex. You're only fourteen. What would your parents say?"
His face falls, a mask of shock and horror. "I—? I thought—"
You move his hand back to your nipple, rub his palm roughly over the gathered peak of it, cut him off mid sentence by pressing his face back into your pit. "This is it," you say. "This is what you need." Meaning: this is all I can give you.
He still cries, licks, comes. You hold him for a long time afterward, running your hands all over his body, lips in his hair, on his brow, his sticky salty cheeks. But never his mouth, even though he keeps it parted so prettily: a silent, eternal beg.
—
You think you've figured it out. This magical between-space, where you have him but don't have him. A purgatory, a limbo. Nothing too overt, nothing too untoward. Until, of course, he's sucking your underarm hair and fucking your thigh and you're gripping the working, lanky muscles of his ass with one hand, furiously fisting your cock with the other until you both come in unison. It happened, though you did not mean for it to happen. He is always doing that to you.
You shoved him off afterward, made a joke before screamed at you, sobbed. How is this not—? Why are you doing this to me—? Am I so stupid I— voice shattering while you smoked and checked your watch and pretended you didn't care. Mutual masturbation isn't sex, you told him. Then, don't you have to get back to do your homework? Dismissive, condescending. Because he is the child, and you are the man. Outside of voice training he knows nothing, you know everything.
As you drove him home he wept shotgun, shoulders shaking. You reached out, clapped one, watched him jump out of his skin. "Don't take it so hard, kid", you told him with an easy smile. "It should be fun. You'll understand one day, when you're older."
Understand that I wanted to, so badly, but I couldn't. Doing it for real means losing you for good. And I can't lose you, Satomi. I want you like a tattoo. Under my skin, permanent. Ink, and pain.
—
You think you have it figured out, but he is smarter and sharper and braver than you give him credit for. Sitting in the booth, rumpled as he watches you stand and put your shirt back on, his spit wet under your arm, smeary like the inside of your briefs where they cling to your still hard cockhead. You feel his eyes bore into your tattooed back, and you let him look. There is no harm in birdwatching. He's heartbroken, but most boys survive heartbreak. Men do too—you think so, anyway. You hope so.
"How far does it go down?" he asks, reaching out and brushing fingers featherlight against the muscles that frame your spine. "The tattoo, I mean."
"All the way to my thighs," you tell him, reaching back to your hamstrings to indicate the cut-off point of your partial body suit. "So this—" you say, palming your ass through your trousers, just to give him a sharper picture to finger his little hole to later tonight—"is all covered in ink. The butt hurts more than you might think, even with all that padding. Not half as bad as the ribs, though. The ribs are the worst."
He doesn't say anything, but you feel him shifting, the heat of his body rocking closer. "Can I see?" he eventually murmurs, like he has never hated himself more.
You look over your shoulder at him. Pathetic, pigeon toed, smudged glasses, the most beautiful thing you have ever had the pleasure of hurting. Even though never, in all of this, did you want to hurt him.
"Cheeky Satomi," you say gently, reaching around to pat his head. "If you promise just to look."
"I'll sit on my hands," he says, narrowing his eyes at you. Always a streak of barely concealed rage surging beneath his surface—he is a bomb, perpetually wobbling on the edge of volatility. It makes you want to give him everything, it makes you fucking crazy.
So, you unbuckle your pants. Turn around to face him, take your time shucking them down the power of your thighs, very aware of how much he wants you. Your body smolders under his heavy gaze, which is fixed unwaveringly on your tented briefs. You kick your trousers away, then turn your back to him again. Hook your thumbs into the elastic of your briefs and roll them down your ass. Inch by inch, like someone might unwrap a present. Or a bomb.
You hear Satomi's breath catch. The air crackles, your cock twitches, bare and exposed to the air, bobbing in front of you as you step out of your underwear, wad them up, and toss them aside. "Tah dah," you say.
It should stop here. you should let him drink his fill for a few seconds before pulling your briefs up again and changing the subject to the weather, karaoke. Easy, effortless. To disarm him, the way one mightdisarm a bomb.
But instead you stay put. Your skin tingling as he looks at you and looks at you, the warmth of his hunger too goddamned good to give up just yet. You want to see his sad needy face, but you don't dare show him your cock. You know you won't be able to resist how bad his mouth will want it, how pretty he'll look silently pleading for it. Instead you reach back to carelessly palm yourself. Pull the cheeks apart slightly, show him the dark, furred valley. Tease him. Patronize him. Disarm his bomb.
—
But Satomi won't be disarmed.
You've made a mistake, overplayed your hand, you were always shit at poker. His breath is there, against you. Damp and scalding before his lips brush your skin, and just like that: Satomi's hot, sweet face is pressed right into your ass. Nose slotting, mouth open around a desperate inhalation. Just like your pits, it's a perfect fit. He inhales shakily, he huffs, he whines.
He's still sitting on his hands, clever boy. The promise left unbroken, but you are so caught off guard you pitch forward anyway, hands splayed, arms locked on the table. It opens you up more, he falls in deeper. Groans and breaks and then, he's fucking licking you. Making out with your asshole, so good and wet because he's crying because of course, that's all you do. Make him cry.
—
You don't stop him, even though you should. It feels like heaven and you're not a strong man. This child is eating you out. So wet, so hungry, his moans reverberating through your skeleton as you rock against his desperate, inexperienced tongue. God. This is Satomi's first kiss. Not a girl from school but your grown up asshole, your tattooed skin, your cologne, your cigarettes. You push against his wet wet mouth. "Fuck," you choke out, fingers tangling in his hair. "Put your tongue inside, Satomi," you grind out. He whines, reaches for you, pries the muscles apart to expose the rim and really fuck it, not just licking your hole but licking your hole out. "You needed this, too, didn't you?," you marvel. "You needed it so badly."
He nods, drools. You stroke your cock, you are so close. But you don't want to come here, on the Formica karaoke bar table between his cleaned plates of food, streaked in hoisin sauce. So you pull him off, spin him around, knock his body backwards onto the booth. "You should have listened to me," you tell him, looming over him before laying him out. "I told you you were too little."
"Fuck you," he spits out, enunciating each word, even with his eyes swimming. "You did this to me! You made me want it. You made me think—"
"You want to play ball? With the yakuza? With a grown man?" you hiss, bending him in half like you're always dreaming of. Knees to his narrow chest, spine curling like a pill bug. He goes so easy. Pliable in his school uniform, mouth shiny with his spit, your ass. "You sure?"
Rabbit eyes. Terror flickering through them, a brief glint of clarity cutting through the haze of desire. You want to put your tongue in it, you want to lick his fear, swallow it whole. You don't want to hurt him, but you are going to. You already have. "You're frightened," you tell him, voice very calm and even as you rut your cock between his spread thighs, your two erections rubbing together, his clothes the only barrier. "You should be."
"I'm not," he lies. "You're the one whose frightened. You—you pretend I'm nothing to you!" His voice cracks, tears welling up again, only serving to make you harder against him. "You pretend we're not— that this isn't—but you won't let me touch you because you're afraid you'll snap and do something, you're terrified of—of raping me, of losing control, you're the coward! But I want—"
"You want me to rape you? Is that it, Satomi? Sensei? Choirboy? You want me to hold you down and rip off your uniform and shove this cock inside your body? Take you? Make you bleed? I told you," you grit out, punctuating each new word with a thrust of your hips. "You're. Too. Little."
"I—no. Yes," he groans, voice thick with shame, with tears. "I mean—yes, I want. I want you to take me."
He blows a snot bubble, and you lick it up. He's so salty, he's perfect, so you steal his second kiss, this time from his mouth. You lick into him, tongue fuck his changing throat, and god, he kisses back like he's never kissed anything but your pits, your asshole, because he hasn’t. So hungry, so animal. Starved and clumsy, kissing in that same ravenous, adolescent way he annihilates the three dishes you buy for him every time you meet.
You lick up his raspiness, his puberty. You chew his soft lips until he's shaking under you, soaked in sweat, wordlessly begging in ragged sobs.
The worst part is that it is not rape—it's love making. You are making love to Satomi because you love him, you made him, he made you, he made you love him. An ouroboros of loving and making. It's not your fault you can taste your ass on his tongue, he did that. You didn't ruin him, he made you ruin him. He's begging you for it, because he loves you, too.
Your hands rove all over his body. Shove past his waistband to cup his perfect little ass. Soft tender crack, sucking you in. You rub at the sticky furrow, massage the ring of muscle, bring your musky fingers up to your mouth to smell them, taste them, drag them back down to smooth the fine, pubescent hair away from his hole and rub it. Not penetrating him, just touching. Dirtying the blossom, stealing it's white. You wait for him to become un-beautiful as you corrupt him, but it's the damnedest thing: he just keeps getting lovelier and lovelier. His voice hoarser as he moans and rocks against you, his cheeks pinker, his thighs spread wider.
You shove his shirt up to his chin and tug his uniform pants off—long bandy legs, a body that's shot up several inches over the last year. Stretched, young. His thighs wrap around your shoulders as you drop to your knees between them. You pry him apart, you get him all wet with your mouth. He tastes like locker room, like childhood. He takes one finger, and that's enough—you won't fuck him, not today. You just want him stretched for your tip, enough to empty yourself inside him. Your quads lever you up, his body small under yours as you work him open, crack his sweet, tacky rim open over your fat cockhead. You study his face as you do it, lick up the tears he squeezes out as he gasps, unable to breathe. "That's just a little bit," you tell him almost conversationally. "Imagine the whole thing, filling you up. It would break you, right Satomi? Make you sick?"
His head lolls. "No, no it wouldn't. Please, Kyouji, please, please."
"Please what? Please rape me, Kyouji? Make the decision for me so I don't have to ask nicely for your cock myself? Force me, like a criminal? So I don't have to admit how dirty I am?"
He says nothing, he's crying too hard. You thumb up the wetness, you drink from his eyes, you jack yourself off, stroking what can't fit inside him. He's so tight, he's so scared, he's so hard. Pretty cock leaking all over himself, a shining filament connecting the tip to his heaving stomach. You cover it with your palm, you squeeze, you push a little deeper. He cries out, and you cannot tell if it is in pleasure or pain. But you don't hurt him—you have never wanted to hurt him. He wants you to hurt him, because he's fourteen and you are thirty nine and a yakuza, and he thinks that's how it goes. You a bad man, him an innocent choirboy, even though he leaned in and licked your ass. You'll show him, though. You'll show him how sweet you are. How good you are at making love.
Exerting all the control in the world you keep yourself sunk into him only shallowly, you play with his cock, you pleasure him. You are not a monster. You love Satomi. You especially love his his innocence, so you won't take it harshly, or all at once. You'll make him feel good. Suck his neck but never hard enough to leave a mark, mouth on his nipples like he's a girl. Voice against his ear, telling him you have never seen something so pretty, never fucked something so warm. He's special, he's different, he's perfect.
Eventually you can't take it anymore and you come in him, like you've spent the last few weeks promising you wouldn't. Your head drops to his chest, and his heart tries to escape from his ribs, find your mouth, hide inside of it. You fondle his cock until he finishes seconds after you, vice of his body forcing you and your come out and onto the vinyl in a slickhot mess.
"You really are a brat," you murmur, standing up, slicking your hair back, leaving him there, wrecked in the booth, to get a cigarette. "What happened to sitting on your hands?"
He doesn't say anything, only pants, leaking your come. You stare. I did that. I did that.
—-
It takes you three times to light your cigarette because your hands are shaking so badly. The menu music plays again, the nicotine buzzes in your blood. You turn your back to him so he doesn't see what he's done to you. Luckily, he's easy to trick him, because he's a child.
You realize the lonely thing inside you, the wrong-bit you always knew was poised to pop off its hinges, too tight—it's finally snapped.