Go back


by z119z


© 2012 by the author.

“How much?” Timothy asked, without much hope that he would be able to afford the place. His first year of graduate school started in three days and he needed to find somewhere to live soon. He had been searching for over a week, with no luck. The apartments he could afford to rent on his own were dumps, and most of them were in neighborhoods that he would not want to return to late at night after working in the lab or studying at the library. The rent on apartments that were barely acceptable would have left him without much money for food. A decent place was beyond his means. He had been looking forward to living by himself for the first time in his life, but in desperation he checked out several ads for roommates. Two of those apartments he rejected as health hazards and beyond even his admittedly lax standards of order and cleanliness. One place seemed all right—until the guy launched into a rant about a previous roommate and his failings. The other potential roommates were too straight. It wasn’t that Timothy contemplated being outrageously, over-the-top gay, but he didn’t want to pretend to be something he wasn’t.

Earlier that morning he had mentioned his problems in finding an apartment to his graduate advisor. Professor Lennimore stopped annotating the papers in Timothy’s folder and looked up and examined Timothy carefully. It was as if he were searching for any faults. “Are you generally a quiet and a neat person?”

Timothy nodded. “I think so. In any case, if I understood what you were telling me before, I won’t have much time for anything but studying, will I?”

A corner of Lennimore’s mouth twitched in a brief smile to acknowledge the truth of Timothy’s remark. “Then I think I may know of a place for you. Why don’t you take this form out to the hallway and fill it in while I make a phone call? Come back when you’re finished.”

Timothy sat on the bench outside Lennimore’s office. The form was short, and he completed it in a few minutes. The professor had closed the door behind him, and Timothy could hear his muffled voice speaking off and on for several more minutes. When a minute passed without further sound from the office, Timothy knocked on the door and entered when Lennimore called for him to come in.

“Here.” Lennimore held out a scrap of paper.

“H. Kubota,” Timothy read. “6745 Morton Lane.”

“Morton Lane is about three miles from campus. Just take Adams north to Beale Street and turn left. Morton’s five or six blocks down on the right. It’s a cul-de-sac and the house is at the end. He’s at home right now,” said Lennimore. “I told him you’d be over shortly. He’ll take you on if he likes you. Don’t be upset if he rejects you. He’s very particular about whom he rents to. I vouched for you. I told him you were quiet and neat and studious and that he would hardly know that you were there. If he decides to rent the place to you, don’t prove me wrong. He’ll kick you out if you displease him.”

Timothy’s hopes that the place would turn out to be both satisfactory and affordable diminished the farther he proceeded down Morton Lane. Satisfactory was not the problem. The houses at the intersection with Beale were large and set back from the street on what looked like half-acre lots. All of them were well kept up. But the houses and the lots quickly got bigger and bigger. Then the houses moved farther back from the street until they disappeared behind stone walls and extravagant plantings of trees and shrubberies.

As Timothy slowed to check the numbers on a gatepost, a police car coming from behind pulled up abreast of him. The policeman sitting in the passenger seat eyed him and then motioned at him. It’s my Honda, thought Timothy. It’s too old and cheap for this neighborhood. The policeman rolled down his window. Timothy did the same.

“Can I help you, Sir?” It was not really a question. The cop wore mirrored sunglasses that reflected a distorted version of Timothy’s face back at him, enlarging his nose and narrowing his head. The face behind the sunglasses was framed with a cap of dense black hair, cut short so that it looked like a helmet.

“Yeah, I’m looking for . . . ,” Timothy held up the slip of paper with the address as if that proved the truth of what he was saying, “6745 Morton Lane. A Mr. Kubota, H. Kubota.” Timothy hoped that the cop hadn’t heard the quiver in his voice. Jesus, he thought, I sound guilty. They’ll think I’m here to steal something.

The cop snapped his fingers and held out his right arm, motioning for Timothy to give him the piece of paper. His upper arm was so large that it stretched the fabric of his shirt and pushed the sleeve up to expose most of his bicep and triceps. Veins corded his forearm, and a particularly large vein snaked along the upper surface of the bicep. Intimidation through muscles, thought Timothy. The cop smirked to let Timothy know that he had seen Timothy checking him out. He showed the slip of paper to his partner and the two contemplated it far longer than needed to read it. Finally the cop handed it back to Timothy.

“Follow us. We’ll take you there.” The cops didn’t wait for Timothy to answer. The patrol car moved forward, slowly at first. When the cops saw that Timothy was following them, they speeded up. The road climbed steadily upward in a series of gentle curves. After a mile or so, the police car braked and stopped as the road ended in a wide circle. A tall stone wall surrounded the end of the road on all sides. On the right side was a heavy gate made of steel rods painted black. An intercom was set into the left-hand gatepost. Timothy had to get out of his car to push the call button. The response was quick.

“Yes?” The voice was surprisingly deep.

“Hi, erh, ah . . . this is Timothy O’Donnell. . . . Professor Lennimore called about me? . . . About the place you have to rent?” Timothy looked around uneasily. Both policemen were watching him, the sunlight glaring off their glasses. What would they do if the voice on the other end refused to admit him?

“Drive up to the house.”

The sound of a motor disturbed the silence as the gate opened. The cops took off as soon as the gate began to move back. Timothy waved his thanks, or at least he hoped that the macho creeps would interpret the motion of his hand as thanks and not notice the extended middle finger. It was a silly thing to do but it felt good. He hopped into his car and drove in as soon as the opening was wide enough. The driveway led through a hundred feet of thickly planted trees and undergrowth, which ended abruptly at a wide unbroken expanse of meticulous lawn, a rich dark green in color. The house at the top of the lawn rose upward in alternating panels of gleaming glass and dark wood.

As Timothy pulled up to the house, an Asian man emerged from the front door, followed by two dogs. He wore a dark blue polo shirt and white shorts. His skin was golden in the bright sunlight. He was several inches shorter than Timothy, but his arms and legs were finely muscled, each muscle sharply defined. Unlike the cop, however, he was compact. Timothy had a quick impression of condensed energy and a confident masculinity in the man.

“Mr. Kubota,” Timothy asked. “Hi, I’m Timothy O’Donnell.” He held out his hand.

Mr. Kubota’s grasp was firm and dry. “Come. The apartment is over the garage.” Kubota motioned for Timothy to walk back down the driveway and around the side of the house. It was then that Timothy took a closer look at the two dogs following Kubota. Neither of them paid him any attention. It was odd. There was none of the usual doggy attempts to smell a stranger, no wariness at the appearance of an unfamiliar person. Timothy was simply not part of their consciousness. Their eyes were riveted on Kubota. As Kubota walked past them, they fell in line behind him. Timothy did the same.

The area was so silent. There was no traffic noise, no indication that it was located in the midst of a large and busy city. There were no birdcalls and no sound of wind blowing through the trees. Neither the man nor the dogs made any sound as they walked.

The garage sat behind the house and separated from it. It was built of the same dark wood as the house. A patio made of black shale flagstones stretched along the back of the house. Steps led down to a large swimming pool, surrounded by the same stones as the patio. A grouping of a patio table surmounted by a black canvas sunshade and chairs, all made of wrought iron painted white and upholstered in black fabric, sat in the sunlight at the far end of the patio. Four chaise longues in the same style were placed around the pool, two on each side. Beyond the pool the lawn continued for two hundred feet or so. The entire property was surrounded by dense woods.

Timothy’s first impression was that everything was so neat. The chaise longues looked as if they had been placed with a tape measure equidistant around the pool. There were no leaves on the lawn, which appeared to be uniformly clipped. “It’s so peaceful,” he said. “You wouldn’t know you were in Los Angeles.”

Mr. Kubota turned around and looked at Timothy and then glanced at his property. “It suits my purposes,” he said. “The entrance is through the garage.” He opened a door in the side wall of the garage. “Stay,” he said to the dogs. Both of them promptly sat on their haunches and stared expectantly at Kubota as he walked into the garage.

Timothy had to step around the dogs. Neither moved to let him pass. It was as if he were invisible to them. The garage was cool and dark, smelling faintly of gasoline and metal. There were no windows, and Kubota had not turned on a light. A dark shape at the other end was Kubota’s car. “You can park your car in this space. The apartment is through here. Please close the door behind you. I don’t want any insects to get in.”

The dogs remained seated as Timothy closed the outside door. Only when the door was securely closed did Kubota open the door to the apartment and switch on a light. A staircase led upward. In front of it an open space of polished wood flooring held two pairs of carpet slippers with the toes facing the staircase, ready to step into. “While you are here, you will observe Japanese custom and remove your street shoes before entering the apartment. It is very important. Do not forget. You must remove your street shoes even if you are only going inside for a few seconds.” Kubota slipped out of the sandals he was wearing and placed them carefully so that they would be ready for him to step into when he left. He looked down at Timothy’s sneakers and then motioned to a bench attached to the far wall. “Sit there to remove your shoes.”

Timothy sat and unlaced his shoes, pushing them off his feet and letting them lie on the floor. Mr. Kubota stared at them for a second and then looked up at Timothy and then back at Timothy’s shoes and then at his. Timothy followed his gaze. Something was wrong, and that something was Timothy’s shoes. He bent over and arranged them neatly in front of the bench. Mr. Kubota nodded approval and then slid his feet into one pair of carpet slippers. Timothy did the same and followed him up the stairs.

The apartment consisted of a small kitchen, a bathroom with a stall shower, a living room, and a bedroom. The living room was the largest of the four rooms. The bedroom was not much larger than the full-size bed it held. The apartment was fully furnished, dishes, glasses, silverware, even sheets and towels. Everything gleamed. The furniture looked new and of good quality, not that Timothy was any judge of quality. But it was much better that the dorm furniture of his undergraduate years or of his bedroom at home.

A closet in the kitchen held a washer-dryer stack, several mops and brooms, and shelves filled with cleaning products. Timothy wasn’t even sure what some of them were used for, but it was clear that Kubota expected his tenant to use them.

The windows in the living room overlooked the pool. Timothy stared out them as he asked, “How much?”

“Four hundred. That includes utilities, the parking space, and use of the pool.”

“A week? Oh I can’t afford that.”

“No, $400 a month. You can afford that.”

Timothy looked at Kubota in surprise. “But that’s far less than anywhere else. I’ve looked at some dumps, and they cost more than that, much more.”

Kubota regarded him without expression. “I am interested more in finding a suitable tenant than in charging the market rate. My requirements and rules are simple. You will keep the place clean. You may not have guests. You will return by no later than 11:00 at night and you will be as quiet as possible. Here is the key and this is the code for the front gate. You will move in immediately. Everything you own is in your car, is it not?”

Timothy nodded.

“Then it is settled,” said Kubota. Timothy followed him down the steps. Kubota waited while Timothy put his shoes back on. “This is the opener for the garage door for your space.” Kubota clicked it and then handed it to Timothy.

The two men walked outside. The dogs’ heads swiveled to follow Kubota. He made a slight gesture with his fingers and the two dogs stood up and came over to him.

“What are their names?” asked Timothy. He knelt down and held out his hand for the dogs to sniff. They ignored it until Kubota signaled to them again. Both of them then approached Timothy and allowed him to pet their heads briefly. They kept their eyes on Kubota, however. The larger dog was a black lab; his coat glistened in the sunlight. The smaller one looked to be a terrier mix; his fur was mottled brown and gold and spun in tight springs. Both of them wore heavy leather collars around their necks. A tag hung from the front center of each collar. Timothy held the tag around the lab’s neck so that he could read it. It was stamped with the number 117. The tag around the terrier’s neck read 118.

“They have no names. Dogs do not need names.” Kubota seemed bored with the subject.

“Do they like to go running? I jog five miles every morning. Perhaps they could go with me.”

“They never leave the property.”

“They are very well trained.”

“They are dogs. They like to be well trained. They know their place. They could not live here if they did not behave.” Kubota appeared to be baffled that he would have to state something so obvious.

Even so, something in the way that Kubota spoke conveyed the message to Timothy that it wasn’t only the dogs that were expected to be well behaved if they wanted to live here.

“The front gate is a quarter mile from the house. You can run back and forth from the house to the gate twenty times to make your daily quota. I will instruct the dogs to accompany you. We get up at 6:00. They will be waiting outside for you by 6:15. Now if you will excuse me, Mr. O’Donnell, I have work to do. Later, after you have moved in, you will want to wash your car. The hose is around the side of the garage. The soap and wax are on that bench, and there are rags in a box under the bench. Then you will take a swim. If you do not have a bathing suit, do not worry. No one will see you here. But shower before you enter the pool.”

In the days to come, Timothy found that Mr. Kubota had the habit of issuing orders. Where someone else might ask, “Would you like a beer?” he would say, “You will have a beer.” Timothy wondered whether English was Mr. Kubota’s native language. He spoke without an accent, and he never made grammatical mistakes. Only the peremptory phrasing was odd. It was as if he had never learned to make suggestions. Or perhaps he simply preferred to give orders. Either way Timothy was not going to risk losing the best apartment in the city by going against Mr. Kubota’s wishes.

Mr. Kubota also had others ways of indicating how he wanted Timothy to behave. That first afternoon when Timothy went for a swim (he wore bathing trunks), he dropped his towel on one of the chaise longues. While he was swimming, Mr. Kubota emerged from his house. When he saw the towel, he picked it up and folded it neatly and then aligned it carefully on the cushion of the chaise.

Once when Timothy came back from classes, he found a box of cleaning supplies on the steps to his apartment, with a note printed in neat block letters: “You will have used up all of these that were stocked in the apartment when you arrived. Here are replacements.” In fact, Timothy hadn’t used any of the supplies yet, and he suspected that Mr. Kubota knew that. He made up for the lapse that night.

Almost unconsciously, Timothy fell into routines that accorded with Mr. Kubota’s preferences. As his new landlord had said, the dogs were outside the front door by 6:15 every morning, and Timothy was there to meet them, even though that meant getting up an hour before what had long been his customary rising time of 7:00. He returned after his classes finished. Most days he was back by 4:00. He swam for an hour and then joined Mr. Kubota on the patio for a beer after toweling off. The first few days he had offered to change into dry clothes but Mr. Kubota had said it wasn’t necessary. The cushions were water-proofed. So he sat in his swimming trunks. Mr. Kubota seemed pleased with this, and Timothy figured it cost him nothing to let the man see him.

Timothy began to look forward to their nightly chats over a beer. Mr. Kubota asked him a lot of questions about his studies and seemed interested in getting to know Timothy. He parried all of Timothy’s attempts to learn about him, however. When Timothy asked him how long he had owned the house, he simply said, “Oh, a long time.” That was typical of his answers to Timothy’s questions. Nor could Timothy discover his profession or how he occupied his time. Timothy quickly learned not to press Mr. Kubota. He loved his apartment, he loved the quiet that surrounded it, he loved having a pool to swim in, in fact he loved everything about the place. Every time he entered the gates and drove through the woods and encountered that sudden expanse of lawn, it was like he was arriving in a different world, one with its own rules. Acceding to Mr. Kubota’s requests and habits was a small price to pay. Everyone has his quirks, Timothy reasoned. It didn’t hurt him to follow Mr. Kubota’s rules.

Mr. Kubota’s one interest seemed to be to teach Timothy Japanese customs, as least those customs he wanted Timothy to follow. On the first afternoon as Timothy toweled off after his swim, Mr. Kubota emerged from the patio doors carrying a black lacquer tray holding a large bottle of beer and two glasses and set it on the patio table. “You will have a beer,” he called out and motioned for Timothy to join him. He pulled out one of the chairs and indicated that Timothy should sit in it. He arranged coasters and napkins on the table and set a glass on each coaster and a small bowl holding Japanese rice crackers on the table, positioning it so that it was closer to Timothy than to himself. He removed the cap from the bottle and poured beer into the glass in front of Timothy until it was two-thirds full. His right hand grasped the bottle near the base and his left hand lightly held the bottle by its neck and guided it over the glass.

“In Japan when friends drink, no one ever pours a drink for himself. We always pour for others, never for ourselves.” Mr. Kubota placed the bottle back on the table and took his seat.

It took Timothy a moment to realize what was expected of him. He stood up and copied Mr. Kubota’s actions as best he could. Mr. Kubota nodded his approval. “Good. You are a quick learner. That is good. Next time, however, do not fill the glass so full. You should not imply that the other person is so thirsty or such a drunk that he needs a full glass. And put the bottle to one side so that it is not between us.”

Timothy couldn’t decide how old Mr. Kubota was. At least forty, but he could well be sixty. He had no wrinkles. He was healthy and athletic. The first Saturday Timothy stayed at the apartment, he discovered that Kubota swam laps every morning for an hour beginning at 11:00. He had a strong, quiet stroke and made professional turns at the ends of the pool, pushing off the wall with his legs and not resuming his stroke until he surfaced. Mr. Kubota didn’t wear a suit when he swam, and Timothy had to hold himself back from staring out the window at his muscular torso and the strong legs and the deeply dimpled buttocks. On the mornings that Timothy was in his apartment at 11:00, Mr. Kubota would have caught Timothy enjoying the view if he had glanced up at the apartment over the garage. Timothy loved it when Kubota finished. He didn’t bother with the steps in one corner. He swam briskly throughout the final laps and at the end placed his hands on the edge and surged out of the pool in one fluid motion. With his back to Timothy, Mr. Kubota would then bend over, stretching his buttocks and picking up the towel before rubbing it vigorously over his body. Every time Timothy witnessed this, he indulged in a fantasy of putting his hands on Mr. Kubota’s buttocks as he bent over and feeling the muscles move firm, hard, warm, sensual, arousing.

Timothy’s concentration on the swimmer was exceeded only by that of the dogs. During the time Mr. Kubota swam, the dogs lay on the patio, their heads turning as their master swam back and forth. They followed Kubota everywhere, waiting patiently for him to give them commands. Their focus on him never wavered.

They were intelligent animals. It took them only a few circuits between the house and the gate to learn that this was to be their new morning routine. Thereafter they accompanied Timothy while he jogged every morning, but they seemed to have no interest in the exercise. It was more as if they were doing it because Kubota had told them to do it. Otherwise they ignored Timothy. They tolerated his attempts to pet them but clearly found no enjoyment in it. They never greeted him, never once wagged a tail when he approached.

“They are very loyal to you, aren’t they?” he once remarked to Mr. Kubota.

“Yes” was all he said.


“We will sit inside tonight. It is getting too cold to sit outside.” The days were growing shorter, and there was a chill in the air by the time that Timothy finished his daily swim.

Timothy had been in the apartment for two months before Mr. Kubota invited him inside his house. “I should change. My suit is still wet. I’ll get your furniture wet.”

“There is no need. You will take your suit off. Give it to me. I will throw it in the dryer. You will retrieve it when you leave. Use your towel to wipe yourself dry. I will throw that in the dryer as well.”

Mr. Kubota held out his hand. Timothy hesitated for a second and then hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his swimming trunks and pushed them down. He stepped out of them and then handed them to Mr. Kubota. He picked up his towel and dried his buttocks and groin, acutely conscious that his cock was bouncing around. Mr. Kubota waited impassively until Timothy had finished and handed him the towel.

“Wait in the kitchen. I will put these in the dryer.”

Timothy shivered, more from awkwardness than the temperature. He felt very naked and exposed. His skin goose-fleshed.

“Ah, you are cold. You will take a Japanese bath, the ofuro. You will enjoy it. It will heat you. Come.”

Mr. Kubota put a hand in the small of Timothy’s back and gently guided him to the stairs to the upper floor. Timothy’s body swayed and came into contact with Mr. Kubota from his shoulder down to his thigh. In response, Mr. Kubota moved his hand across Timothy’s back and down. His hand cupped itself around Timothy’s buttock and he pulled Timothy closer. His hand and arm held Timothy firmly. A shock ran throughout Timothy’s body and he gasped. He couldn’t help himself. His cock stirred and became half-erect. The thumb of Mr. Kubota’s hand on Timothy’s buttock slowly rubbed back and forth. The thought came to Timothy that Mr. Kubota was pleased with his reactions to his touch, and that thought in turn pleased Timothy. He wanted to please Mr. Kubota and he wanted Mr. Kubota to be pleased with him.

The Japanese bath was in a room off Mr. Kubota’s bedroom. The bath proper was a square tub about four feet on a side. The walls and ceiling of the room were lined with roughly finished cedar planks. In an alcove was a shower. Mr. Kubota turned on the taps and the tub quickly filled.

“We take a shower first to get clean. Then we soak in the tub,” Mr. Kubota explained as he undressed.

He turned on the water in the shower until it was steaming. “There, it is ready. Step in.” Mr. Kubota guided Timothy under the shower. The shower was directly overhead and the jets of water coursed over his scalp and down his body. Mr. Kubota put on a pair of sheer nylon gloves and then wrapped a bar of soap in a mesh cloth and began washing Timothy. The cloth was slightly abrasive and tugged at Timothy’s skin. It was pleasant. Mr. Kubota scrubbed Timothy’s arms and then his chest and back. Without pausing, he began washing Timothy’s buttocks and then his thighs and calves. He hunkered down and washed Timothy’s feet, making Timothy lift each foot in turn so that he could wash the soles of his feet and in between the toes. When he stood up, he stepped back and soaped up his hands. He set the washcloth aside and slid his soapy hands over Timothy’s groin and then his cock and balls, massaging the soap into them and gently pulling on them. He was very methodical and detached. He could have been washing vegetables for all the interest he showed. Timothy felt helpless. His cock was hard and fully erect. He was aroused by Mr. Kubota’s hands but he didn’t feel like moving. Mr. Kubota slid his hands between Timothy’s thighs and then up into the crack between the buttocks. His fingers slid against Timothy’s anus, sending an electric shock of pleasure up his body. Timothy’s arms hung limp at his sides, his head drooped.

“We must get this area very clean,” said Mr. Kubota. He soaped his hands up again and slid them back and forth between Timothy’s cheeks. Each time he brushed against the anus, Timothy whimpered. “Spread your legs a bit and lean forward. Rest your head against the wall.” Timothy did as he was told. Mr. Kubota guided the hot water down between Timothy’s buttocks, rinsing the last of the soap away. He lifted a tube from the niche in the wall that held the soaps and squirted a gel onto the tip of his left index finger. “Now just relax, Timothy.” Mr. Kubota slid his finger into Timothy, working the gel into him. “Good, Timothy. Good.” Timothy felt even weaker as Mr. Kubota’s finger slid in and out of him. The hot water cascaded over his body. His body felt as if it were dissolving in the steam.

“There you are finished. Now you will do the same for me.” Mr. Kubota pulled off the gloves and tossed them into a waste basket. Timothy picked up the scrub cloth with the bar of soap and began scrubbing Mr. Kubota’s body. Mr. Kubota’s flesh was harder that he had even imagined. He tried to mimic everything that Mr. Kubota had done to him. It felt very humbling to kneel down and scrub his feet. Timothy was very conscious of the short distance between his mouth and Mr. Kubota’s cock dangling in front of his lips. Unlike Timothy, Mr. Kubota was not visibly aroused.

“You are doing very well, Timothy. Now wash my groin and buttocks.”

Timothy did as he was told. When he reached for the tube of gel, Mr. Kubota shook his head and then turned off the shower. “Now we will sit in the tub. You will find it very hot at first. Move as little as possible. You will soon get used to the heat.” He helped Timothy into the tub. The hot water was agony on Timothy’s feet and calves. As he lowered himself a bit at a time into the water, a line of fire moved up his body. He had never felt so hot. It was a torture but a pleasant torture. Finally he could sit on the shelf in the tub, with his entire body immersed in the water and only his head protruding. Mr. Kubota sat opposite him. He lifted a small terry-cloth towel from a shelf by the tub and folded it into a neat rectangle, which he draped over Timothy’s forehead. “That will keep the sweat from getting into your eyes.” He did the same for himself. “Now relax, Timothy O’Donnell.”

Timothy did. His body was dissolving in the hot water. The steam rising from the tub became scented with cedar. The smell was medicinal and healing. Timothy closed his eyes and let himself drift into a reverie. Sometime later, Mr. Kubota stood up and toweled himself off. “Wait here. I will be back in a few minutes.” Timothy’s mind barely noted his departure. He found it easier not to think.

When Mr. Kubota returned, he was wearing a Japanese robe. He gestured for Timothy to stand up and then handed him a towel. Timothy tried to dry himself off, but the room was too steamy. The heavy towel wouldn’t absorb the water on his skin. Mr. Kubota took him by the arm and guided him into the outer room, which held the sink and the toilet. Timothy’s body was red, like a boiled lobster. It felt as if every pore on his body had been opened. Mr. Kubota took the towel from Timothy and gently dried him off.

“This is a yukata. We wear them after taking a bath.” Mr. Kubota held a robe like the one he was wearing. He threaded Timothy’s arms through the sleeves of the robe and then lifted it onto his shoulders.

The robe was heavily starched cotton, with a blue and white pattern on it. It felt cool after the ofuro. Timothy’s hands didn’t seem to be working. He tried to grasp the sides of the robe and close them around his body, but he couldn’t get his hands to hold the fabric. Mr. Kubota had to help him and then tie the belt that kept the robe closed. When the robe was secured, he supported Timothy by his arms and led him to a chair beside a low table in his bedroom. There was a large bottle of beer on the table and two glasses. Mr. Kubota slowly poured beer into Timothy’s glass. When the glass was two-thirds full, he sat the bottle down on the table. Timothy tried to pick it up and fill Mr. Kubota’s glass.

“I will help.” Mr. Kubota stepped behind Timothy and placed Timothy’s left hand near the base of the bottle and his right hand around the neck. He cupped his own hands over Timothy’s and then helped Timothy lift the bottle and pour the beer.

“Excellent, Timothy. The speed with which you are learning proper behavior has pleased me.” Mr. Kubota patted Timothy on the head. Timothy tried to smile. He was happy that he was pleasing Mr. Kubota. He wanted to be a quick learner.

Mr. Kubota sat back down opposite Timothy and picked his glass up. “Cheers.” He clinked it against Timothy’s glass and took a small sip.

Timothy’s body felt drained of energy. His muscles were so relaxed and heavy that he was reluctant to move them. In fact, he wasn’t sure that he could make them respond without effort, without more effort than he was willing to expend. He could move if he had to, but it took too much thought and effort. He had sat in the chair and poured Mr. Kubota a glass of beer, because that was what Mr. Kubota expected him to do. But once he had finished, his arms and his shoulders drooped and his head rolled forward on his neck. He was just so tired. It was almost as if the water in the bath had contained a drug that had soaked into his body and was now making him feel languid and fatigued. Even his mind seemed thick and his thoughts emerged slowly as if drifting to the surface of his consciousness through a viscous syrup.

The light drained from the room as the sun set. Mr. Kubota placed a large, squat candle on the table and lit it. The flame flickered as the wick caught and then grew steady. Timothy’s eyes were drawn to it—the way it shimmered and grew brighter. He felt so at peace, so relaxed, so good. There wasn’t anything else on the table but the candle. Mr. Kubota was murmuring something. His voice was so soothing. Mr. Kubota must have removed the beer bottle and the glasses, Timothy thought. He didn’t remember Mr. Kubota doing that but he must have done because they weren’t there anymore. Just the candle and now a black rectangle. The metal clasp and metal ring attached to the rectangle reflected the candlelight, tiny flames of light. Now there was another black rectangle, just like the first. And then another pair of black rectangles, longer than the first pair.

And now Mr. Kubota was helping him stand up. He felt so wobbly but Mr. Kubota said something and Timothy’s legs locked and held him upright. Mr. Kubota was unfastening the belt of Timothy’s bathrobe and taking it off. He carried it away and then returned. He said something in that soft voice of his. Timothy’s right arm rose, and Mr. Kubota fastened one of the black rectangles around his wrist. A cuff, thought Timothy. That’s what it’s called. A leather cuff. He felt good that he could remember the word. He held up his left arm and Mr. Kubota put a cuff around his left wrist. Then there were cuffs around Timothy’s ankles, too. They felt so good. It felt so right to have his wrists and ankles cuffed, the leather sensuous and firm, the metal rings and buckles heavy. It seemed that he had been waiting for this but hadn’t known that.

Mr. Kubota tested each of the cuffs to make sure they were tight but not cutting off the blood circulation. Then he drew Timothy over to the bed. In one smooth motion, he grasped Timothy’s wrists and pulled his arms behind his back and fastened the wrist cuffs together tightly. The action forced Timothy’s shoulders and head to bend forward.

“Lie face down on the bed.”

Timothy did. Mr. Kubota helped him lift his entire body onto the bed. It was hard with his hands secured behind his back, but it felt so good to be lying down. He was so tired and he wanted to sleep. His mind barely registered Mr. Kubota fastening the ankle cuffs together and then bending his feet and calves back at the knee and clipping the ankle cuffs to the wrist cuffs. Timothy knew in the back of his mind that he had been hogtied, but it didn’t seem important. He was safe, secure, happy, floating, feeling good, warm, comfortable. His face pressed into the quilt covering the bed. It was so cool and smooth and soft and silky. He turned his face to one side and rubbed his cheek against the quilt. Relax, rest, sleep. Just listen to Mr. Kubota’s voice and go down and down, further and further.

Consciousness came and went. Mr. Kubota was speaking. Sometimes Timothy listened, sometimes he didn’t. The words were entering his head whether he listened or not. Sometimes he was too tired to listen and he sank down and let the words drift through his mind. Sometimes he floated on the surface and the words played with his feelings and emotions, leading him this way and that, showing him beautiful things, filling him with pleasure.

The moments of consciousness were disjointed. Most of the time, he floated sightless and inert in grayness; at other times he became aware of what was happening for a minute.

. . . . . Mr. Kubota was stroking the back of his head, drawing his fingers slowly between the hair. “Your hair is so soft, Timothy-chan. It is like silk.” Timothy felt so good. He liked pleasing Mr. Kubota. Nothing made him feel better than pleasing Mr. Kubota. Nothing was more important than pleasing Mr. Kubota. He liked it when Mr. Kubota stroked and petted him.

. . . . . “The restraints are necessary for now so that you don’t hurt yourself. Later when the change is complete, they will be removed. Do not struggle against them. It will just make you even more tired. You understand, don’t you, Timothy! The changes you will undergo in the days ahead may be frightening and you may struggle for a time. But struggle will only make the process more painful. Just relax and let it happen.”

. . . . . “Pain is necessary. It is the way that you will learn. Pain, pleasure. You welcome them both because they teach you to change.”

. . . . . It was important that he answer. Mr. Kubota had asked him a question, but he didn’t know what. He said, “Yes, Mr. Kubota.”

. . . . . “You will not think of me as Mr. Kubota. From now on, I am Sensei. A sensei is a teacher, a master, a leader, the person you respect.”

. . . . . “Yes, Sensei.” They were the only words he could think now. He didn’t need other words. Soon he wouldn’t even need these two words. Soon his entire being would be these words.

. . . . . His place was on the floor. It was good to be on the floor. It was bad to be on the furniture.

. . . . . Obedience. Loyalty.

. . . . . Sensei

. . . . . He knelt on all fours before Sensei. Sensei untied the belt of the yukata and opened it. He took Sensei’s cock in his mouth. It felt good to have Sensei inside him.

. . . . . “Bad boy. Bad boy.” The pain shot through his body in waves. He was a bad boy. He must be a good boy. A good boy.

. . . . . He knelt on all fours before Sensei. Sensei untied the belt of the yukata and opened it. Sensei thrust his cock between his buttocks and into him. It felt good to have Sensei inside him.

. . . . . Service. Obedience. Loyalty.

. . . . . “Good boy. That’s a good boy.” He licked Sensei’s hand in gratitude and wagged his tail in happiness. He had pleased Sensei. He wanted to please Sensei always. Sensei would train him until all the bad boy was gone. He was so grateful to Sensei.

. . . . . Sensei fastened the heavy leather collar around his neck so that the tag was centered on the front of his neck. Until his skin warmed it, the metal was cold against his flesh.

. . . . . 119. 119 was stamped on the tag.


Mr. Kubota removed the last of Timothy’s possessions from the apartment above the garage and stowed them in the trunk of Timothy’s car. He had donated everything to a charity resale shop. The tow truck would arrive soon and take the car and its contents away. Later he would clean the apartment so that it would be ready the next time he needed a tenant.

The three dogs sat in a row on the lawn beside the garage. A black lab, a terrier mix, and an Irish setter with silky hair. All three watched the Sensei intently, waiting for his next command.


Re: Sensei - sleepme

Nice story.

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