1.03 Bubbles

I flip through the pages of the Regulations and Morals to find out what kind of punishment I can expect if I break any rules.

The same thing has been niggling me since I was first brought in and processed last night. Every command that had been barked at me so far had come with a warning, like a leather knot at the end of a whip.

"Speak any Japanese?" the guard asked with a gruff, condescending tone as he removed the handcuffs from my wrists.

I nodded.

“Sit then,” he said, pointing at a seat. It was bolted to the floor and faced a steel desk cluttered with papers.

The guard sat across from me, and taking a sheet of paper, started going through a list of questions.

"Tattoos?"

"Huh?"

"Tattoos? Got any tattoos?" he said testily, keeping his acne-scarred face down, the visor of his hat concealing his eyes.

"Tattoos? No. No, I haven't got any tattoos." I've met more effervescent undertakers than this somber prick.

Bubbles, the guard that is, made a notation on the form. He was left-handed, and wrote in that tortured way that southpaws write, the pen strangled between tense white fingers.

Raising his head slightly, the eyes still hidden, Bubbles warned that I’ be severely punished if any tattoos were found on me later.

He rattled off the next question, so quickly I couldn't catch it.

"Pardon me?"

"Are you being naughty?"

"Naughty? I'm sorry, but I don't understand."

"Are you being naughty with your genitalia?"

"Huh?" Did Bubbles want to know if I jerked off? I did, but, Christ, it certainly wasn't any of his or anyone else's business but mine whether I gave the monkey a good slap now and again.

"Your genitalia," he said, raising his acne scarred face enough for our eyes to finally meet. "You got any pearls or beads . . . "

Jesus. Now I knew what he was getting at.

Listen, I once lived next to a man in his fifties who had been a member of the yakuza most of his life. He even had a lapel pin from the Yamaguchi Gumi crime syndicate, just like any upstanding salaryman would.

Perhaps it was mutual curiosity, but we really hit it off, that gangster and me, and during the year or so that we were neighbors, we would often drink together. On one these drinking sessions in the cluttered rabbit hutch he was living in, the old yakuza said there was something he wanted to show me.

He was always playing Show and Tell.

"This is the knife I cut my pinky off with," he said on one occasion, and, opening a small wooden box, pulled out a shriveled little brown digit. “And this here’s my pinky.”

I'd expected more of the same, memorabilia of his life in the yakuza, only this time, the crazy old man, hopped up off the tatami floor and, pulling his pants down, showed me his dingdong. It was as bumpy as a crook-necked squash. He fingered one of the bumps and moving it around explained that he'd had pearls implanted just under the skin.

“Women loved it,” he assured me.

"I'm sure they do," I replied.

I told Bubbles that I didn't.

"Later, if we find that you do, you'll be punished."

Good grief! Give it a break already.

Once the paperwork had been completed, signed and affixed with my fingerprint, I was lead out of the room, down a hall and a flight of stairs. Passing through several sets of locked doors we came at last to a room cluttered with boxes, stacked floor to ceiling and several rows thick. In the middle of the room was a utilitarian table, and on top of the table a yellow laundry basket.

Bubbles ordered me to strip.

So this is where I'm going to be buggered with a nightstick, I thought. I pretended not to hear.

"I said 'Strip!'"

I took my time, neatly folding each piece and placing it in the yellow basket, until I was standing back against the wall in my white skivvies. Had I known I was going to perform sexual favors, I might have worn a more alluring pair of shorts with, say, a cupid motif, or kiss marks.

"Everything," Bubbles said coming within an inch of my face. He raised his gaunt, acne-scarred face and glared at me. There was little love in those (steely) eyes of his.

I might have had a good six inches and thirty pounds on him, but he had the law and the authority of a nightstick. I kicked my shorts off and tossed them onto the tidy pile in the yellow basket.

Bubbles told me to pull on the tip of my cock, to make it taut. I did. He then told me to yank it to the right, the left, and finally upward to prove that I had neither pearls, nor piercing, nor spare change in there.

I was then ordered to turn around, bend over and spread my cheeks. Ah, what I would have given to squeeze out a sparrow's egg right then and there as he peered winsomely up my virgin derrière.

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. (wink, wink)

The first installment of No.6 can be found here.

No. 6 is now available on Kindle.