Tokyo Ink (Gay SF Erotica)

Tokyo Ink
    A bank of monitors lined the wall of Tetsu Hogosha’s office, offering him views of the skyscraper's guts and exterior. The helipad was empty. A bum staggered alone through the back alley before one of the ground security team came and chased him back onto the street. No one moved in the stairwells, their doors all locked at the late hour. One elevator served the lobby, while a service elevator shuffled the three janitorial teams between floors.
    Only one screen caught and held his attention. The executive tea room was occupied by three Iyashii directors and a male entertainer they had hired for their meeting. Looking at the executives made Tetsu’s skin crawl -- corporate vampires dressed in black silk with their pampered asses cushioned by red leather couches.
    As much as he wanted to take a torch to them and have Iyashii’s first bona fide executive barbecue, he ignored them and watched the entertainer. Most of the dancer remained hidden beneath the voluminous robes of a traditional geisha. He was gaijin -- Canadian based on the background check -- and a consummate professional. He moved flawlessly from the tea ceremony into a fan dance.
    Tetsu knew the dancer’s routine. The robes would come off soon, revealing his body and a network of temporary, yet highly intricate tattoos against the pale skin. The tattoos were the reason Tetsu watched, straining impatiently for that first glance of naked flesh. His right hand rested alongside a mobile interface, his stylus poised to begin writing. With his free hand, he fiddled with his gun holster, first adjusting it, then patting the gun resting against his side.
    These meetings always made him nervous. Information that people would kill for was being exchanged. Only the exchange wasn’t between the company directors. It was between Tetsu and the dancer.
    And the dancer didn’t know it.
    That was the beauty of the Code. It turned ordinary people, slaves to the machine, into unwitting billboards for resistance. Like one of its original inspirations, Nü Shu, or “women’s writing,” the Code was openly displayed as a design element -- painted on fans, embroidered on scarves, and tattooed on human flesh. The young man’s body was covered with the secret language, but all he knew was that he’d found an inexpensive and talented tattooist who always found time to fit him in on a regular basis for fresh artwork.
    Tetsu leaned forward, his grip on the stylus tightening as the dancer snapped his fans shut. He flipped the fans in the air, catching them so that he held only their fragile tips and the short handles were pointed out. One of the directors, Mikio-san, shot an arm out in what looked like an attempt to catch the dancer’s sash. The young man deflected him, smiled, and sidled out of arm’s reach.
    Youran -- Western Orchid.
    The dancer’s stage name was a strange fit. Lean, but muscular and hovering around six feet, Youran was decidedly larger than the average male geisha. Nor was anything about his face particularly small or fine-boned as the name might suggest. The eyes were a peculiar slate blue, like the afternoon sky before a thunderstorm, and large. The dark ring of kohl around them and the peacock swirl of reds and purples that fanned out from their outer corners made them look larger still. The nose and jaw were full -- too big for a geisha -- but the cheekbones were set high and the mouth… Tetsu couldn’t be sure about the mouth. It looked tight yet full-lipped, but the make-up made the lip area seem smaller. Tight for sure, though. The dancer’s wicked tongue and lips were the reason behind Mikio-san’s frequent patronage.
    It should have been the dance that made Mikio-san call Youran again and again. Tetsu had watched the dancer perform over a dozen times. It was a slow magic, the way Youran moved. Especially when he was undressing like he was now. First the sash, all eleven feet of it. A turn. A twist. It set the sound of taiko drums playing in Tetsu’s mind -- the fat hammer head of the drumstick hitting the tight skin of the drum head as the dancer froze and sweat glistened along his pale skin.
    Sometimes, Tetsu forgot why he watched, forgot the Code and the stylus and the mobile. Forgot the almost countless years of his life wasted to gain his own high level post at Iyashii. Wanting something could do that to a man, could make him put aside purpose and reach for all the benefits of privilege.
    When he felt it creeping up on