My Sire by TeshinJapan
Dive into “My Sire” by TeshinJapan, a captivating gay sex story that explores passion, desire, and the complexities of love. Join the journey of two captivating characters as they navigate a world filled with steamy encounters and emotional depth. Discover the allure of their connection and indulge in a tale that promises to ignite your imagination and awaken your senses. Read now!
Here’s my setup: my name is Kay. I’m 23 years old and I just got a job last year in Japan, straight out of university. I’m of medium height but I’ve got a very svelte, athletic, and lithe body because of all the running I do. On my days off, I take short motorcycle trips around Japan for fun.
And today was the first day of a special trip. I was taking a multi-day motorcycle touring trip around Hokkaido, Japan’s northernmost island. I lived near Osaka, so I reserved a bunk in a multi-person bunk room and space to transport my motorcycle on one of the huge transport ships that ply the waters between Maizuru, near Kyoto, to Otaru, in western Hokkaido. The trip by sea takes more than a full day.
But the trip didn’t have a propitious start. I only reserved a bunk, which meant that I would have to use the communal baths inside the ship. I was already used to public bathing in Japan, so that wasn’t a big deal. In fact, after a few hours of riding in my motorcycle gear from Osaka to Maizuru in the humid and hot summer weather of central Japan, I was looking forward to a bath, with many people or not.
I flung my motorcycle gear on my bunk and got ready to take a bath, but as soon as I found the door to the communal baths, I saw the sign.
故障の為、使用不可
In English, it meant “Can’t be used due to malfunction.”
Just fucking great. No bath for me. I was already a sweaty mess and I was going to stay a sweaty fucking mess until I checked in to my first hotel in Hokkaido in two days.
I pouted my way to the cafeteria at the front of the ship, already imagining the smells that would permeate my multi-person cabin that night. I was going to smell like someone who needed to take a shower; everyone else was also going to smell like someone who needed to take a shower.
I got a ticket for my lunch from the vending machine near the cafeteria entrance and joined the line to the window at which the tickets were exchanged for the actual food. Everyone paid for their food on the way out of the cafeteria.
There was another tall Caucasian man in front of me in the line had the same leather motorcycle jacket that I did! (This actually isn’t all that rare. There aren’t millions of motorcycle gear manufacturers, and in Japan there are even fewer.)
“Hey, nice jacket!” I just announced in English to the back of this man whom I had never met.
A handsome, tall, and big middle aged man turned around to face me. Silver flecks peppered his neatly trimmed brown hair. This avuncular good looks shone on his shaven face. His frame looked enhanced because motorcycle jackets do that, but even without the jacket on, he would probably still be very muscular and built.
I grabbed the collar ends on both sides of my jacket and yanked on them each once to indicate to him that I had the same jacket, smiling widely as I did so.
He took one look at me and my matching jacket, and then smiled a radiant friendly white smile.
“Wow, I hope that’s not the only thing we have in common,” he said in English, grinning happily. He spoke with an easy American accent. He might even be from the American west coast like me.
I laughed a little, suddenly unsure of how to traverse out of my opening gambit. Jacket-talk wasn’t the conversational jumping board that I thought it was.
“You’re touring Hokkaido too?” he asked, throwing me a metaphorical rope from which to save myself from my lack of conversational skills.
“Yeah, first time for me,” I retorted, still grinning.
“Ah, the first time is always the most memorable!” he rejoined with alacrity, continuing to smile widely. Wow, he had a great smile. It really set me at ease.
He stuck his right hand out to me.
“My name is ‘Sire’,” he said as I took his hand to shake.
“Wait. What? Your name is ‘Sire’? Like ‘My sire’ ‘My master’ that kind of thing?” I asked quizzically, my head tilting to the left slightly, giggling because I thought it was a joke.
“Yeah, that’s it. And I like it when you call me ‘My Sire’,” he replied, continuing to shake my hand, smirking to himself.
“Wow, cool name, my Sire,” I said, elongating the vowels in “my sire” as a joke. I even curtsied once. I smiled and giggled a little at my own stupid joke.
This interaction was off to a weird but good start, I thought to myself. He giggled with me and held my hand a little longer than normal. He had big hands. He kept smiling at me. He was very tall. He kept shaking my hand.
I smiled up at him, letting him shake my hand for longer than normal, and I was suddenly shy. This guy was big. He had a presence about him.
“And your name?” he said, encouraging me to identify myself, continuing to hold my hand.
“Oh sorry. It’s just, wow. Yeah, my name is ‘Kay’,” I said, suddenly flustered. My face flushed slightly red all of a sudden. I really was acting like a dunce.
“‘Kay?’ Like ‘okay’? I like that name! Very approving!” he said, laughing at his own joke.
I laughed again. Why was I laughing? It wasn’t even a very good joke. But he seemed to be able to draw the funny right out of me.
“Thanks for the compliment, my Sire,” I replied, again elongating the vowels in “my sire” for no reason other than I thought his name was kind of cool.
He finally let go of my hand and his fingers slowly sidled along mine as he broke contact.
“Care to join me for lunch, Kay?” he asked, one of his hands stretching to the empty table at which he intended to eat.
“Sure, Sire,” I responded.
“Okay ‘Kay’,” he replied instantly, playing homophony games with my name, and then winked once at me before picking up his lunch tray from the window counter and walking over to his table.
I watched him walk away from the pick up window, his nice tight butt cycling up and down in his tight riding jeans as he stepped away from me.
Why was I looking at his ass? I wondered this to myself after I realized that I was doing it.
I picked up my lunch at the window counter and took the corresponding bill with me to Sire’s table.
While we ate lunch, after I complained about the communal baths being closed for maintenance, we talked about motorcycles. At least, that’s what I thought we were talking about at first. But I wasn’t very cognizant of innuendo. Or metaphors. Or synecdoche. Or whatever they are called.
“You were the guy who came in on the trident 660, right?” Sire asked while ineptly fumbling his chopsticks through the noodles in his udon bowel. I deduced that he was either new to Japan or chopsticks or both.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I replied, smiling widely as I split apart my wooden chopsticks into two. Wow, he remembered me even when I had a full motorcycle helmet on. Our matching jackets must have turned his eye too.
“Oh that’s a great bike. I love riding tridents,” he said.