It had been a hurried trip to the train station in Aomori from the hot springs spa in Sapporo, in Hokkaido, where my Japanese tutor Hega, had spirited me over the Christmas vacation from my private school in Tokyo, where my father, with the American embassy there, had been absent to Washington on diplomatic business. Hega had told him there was a school skiing trip to the northern island and he would include me and take good care of me. He did take good care of me. I traveled north with him, the only student on the sham trip, as a naïve young fourteen-year-old smitten with him and was returning to Tokyo much the wiser after spending four days under him.

Hega accompanied me to Aomori, across the strait from Hokkaido, on the northern end of the main, Honshu, island to meet the overnight train to Tokyo, a journey that would take six hours in the snowy conditions. But then he was returning to Sapporo. Without telling me, he had left the school in Tokyo and, having gotten what he wanted from me, he saw no reason to return there.

As this was to be our last parting after four days of intimate relations between us, our parting on the train platform in Aomori was indiscriminately passionate, at least in Hega’s embrace and kissing of me. It was 1940 and Japan was at war—then with China and soon with all of the West. The military was on the move. The platform at Aomori was swarming with military uniforms. A stern, commanding figure of a Japanese military officer was standing near us close enough to observe Hega’s embrace and kisses.

That perhaps was an unfortunate occurrence for a fourteen-year-old willowy blond American traveling alone on the night train to Tokyo. I had gotten quite an education from Hega at the Sapporo hot springs for four days. I was awash in the experience. My defenses were down to extending the experience. As Hega was kissing me, my eyes locked with those of the military officer watching us. I knew what he was thinking.

And my defenses were down. He smiled knowingly at me, and I instinctively smiled back.

I felt the military officer’s eyes boring into me an hour after departure throughout the meal in the train’s dining car. He was tall and muscular, his uniform elegantly cut to his powerful body. I found him both very attractive and arousing. Somehow my fresh naivete, willingness, and interest conveyed to him. He had already seen me in passionate embrace with an older man.

His bold eyes undressed me, caressed me, used me even as we assessed each other from across the dining car. He had the commanding presence that Hega had used to dominate me for four days. He had been accorded such subservience when he bordered the train in Aomori that told me he could do and have what he wanted on the journey in this isolated, war-footing, warlord-controlled country. He assessed me, openly, knowing he could have me, whether I agreed to that or not. I didn’t even consider that he wouldn’t have the right to have me. This was wartime Japan. Its military was arrogant and on the ascendant. I was a fourteen-year-old American boy traveling alone in his country.

When I got up to return to the sleeper car and its corridor running between banks of curtained bunk berths, he followed me at a distance.

In the coffin-like lower berth, my breathing jagged in anticipation, I stripped naked, lay on my back on top of the sheets, turned my head to the window, and followed the flashing lights of whatever snow-engulfed rice-paddy-world civilization was awake at night outside the lurching train. It had begun to snow again.

And, willing my breath to be shallow, I waited.

Then he was there, the military officer, pulling the curtain aside only long enough to join me in the confining space, coaxing my legs apart, and kneeling between them. His hands glided up my inner thighs, causing me to tremble and shimmer. I spread my legs farther, bent them, placed my feet flat on the mattress, and elevated my tail. With that, I was his. He gave a low laugh and cupped my balls in his hand.

“Watashi no dikku o toru—Take my cock,” he growled.

“Hai—Yes,” I acquiesced.

I groaned and began to pant as his fingers closed on my balls, lacing through them to part them, distending and squeezing them, rhythmically.

“Shit, fuck,” I murmured.

“Amai. Chīsai. Kōfuku—Sweet. Small. Yielding,” he whispered. “Watashi ni subete o kudasai—Give me everything.”

“Hai—Yes,” I answered in a whisper.

He lowered his face to my trembling belly and kissed me there. He was humming and I was panting and moaning low. His lips moved down into my groin and up and down the sides of my engorging shaft. He took the bulb in his mouth and sucked. I raised my arms over my head, grasping two leather loops sunk into the wall of the compartment above. Digging my heels into the mattress, I lifted my pelvis to his face as his lips descended on my cock and he gave me head. He hummed and I moaned and rocked against his face as his fingers let loose of my balls and went to the rim of my hole—and further. His other hand glided up my belly to my nipples, rolling and pinching them as he gave me suck.

“Hai, wa i, watashi o fakku—Yes, yes, fuck me,” I whispered.

He made an adventure of using his hands and mouth to get me worked up to begging for the cock even before he had managed to strip himself in a space where you couldn’t even raise your arm very far over your head without hitting the underside of the bunk above you.

I whimpered, “Yare. Ima yare. Watashi o fakku—Do it. Do it now. Fuck me,” as I heard his belt being released and his fly being unbuttoned. I arched my head and chest back, grasping the loops above my head, and did what I could to stifle my groans in a coach that wasn’t full but was occupied enough to worry about those in surrounding bunks knowing there was a fuck fest going on in their midst, as his finger entered my hole—and then another and another, almost up to the knuckles as he opened me up.

“Yoi. Amai. Chitchai ne. Kitsuku. Amai—Nice. Sweet. So small. Tight. Sweet,” he murmured as he worked me with his fingers. I panted and shimmered.

My legs still bent, I placed my feet flat against the underside of the bunk above me and pressed up each time the fingers invaded to the knuckles. I rocked my pelvis on his hand, whimpering and panting. The heel of his hand pressed into my perineum and he stroked my prostrate with the tip of a buried finger. I groaned my mounting arousal.

A second fingertip was rubbing the prostate. Was he going to fist me? He could if he wanted. I couldn’t stop him.

“Ima. Ima. Ima watashi o fakku!—Now. Now. Fuck me now!” I sobbed, needing the penetration of a man’s cock and worried that he would fist but not fuck me—that he would take his total pleasure in that exotic way and leave me wounded and unsatiated. I knew if that was what he wanted, that was what he could—and would—do.

And then he did fuck me—or at least he and the train did. He provided the cock. The moving train provided the friction. I had never imagined being fucked like that—by the combined efforts of a man’s cock and a train’s motion. I have never been fucked like that since.