We_Always_Do_It_For_Real.02 THE MEGUMI STORIES BY MEGUMI KATO AND FRIENDS VOLUME 01: WE ALWAYS DO IT FOR REAL BY MEGUMI KATO AND BOB WILLIAMS PART 02 CHAPTER II A Tour of the Marucho Film Company The next morning I messed around in the apartment as I had promised myself, fixed something for lunch and then got ready for the studio. I put on my guide uniform and as it was a blustery May day wore a short coat over the top. I wouldn't need it once I got to the studio as the heating is always kept fairly high throughout the building: our actors and actresses risk catching colds otherwise, and if they can't work it costs the company money! I decided not to bother with a handbag as I could get anything I needed in the way of make-up at the studio, and the official shoulder-bag was kept at the office - it contained copies of the company brochure, which I didn't need at home, and things like swipe-cards for the doors which we weren't allowed to take home anyway. I slipped a discreet battery-powered egg-shaped vibrator into my cunt to give myself something to enjoy during the journey, put a little pad over it to absorb the love-juices which would soon start flowing, rearranged my clothes and was ready. It was a short walk to the subway. It was warm inside the station and I unbuttoned my coat. I knew the short, clinging skirt and the slender high heels of my gold sandals made my legs look especially long and shapely. I love to make the most of my legs, and always wear the shortest possible skirts - I can never understand those girls who don't. Today I could feel the few office-workers, out on their companies' business and sharing the platform with me, caressing me with their eyes, but I innocently pretended not to notice. The train was nearly empty in the early afternoon and I spent the 25-minute journey sitting with my knees and thighs neatly together, my hands in their little gold gloves folded over my lap and my eyes modestly lowered. Lots of Japanese girls like to wear vibrators to while away their tedious commuting journeys; and of course they learn to look modest and unemotional in public, regardless of the waves of pleasure flooding through them or the thrilling sexual fantasies occupying their minds. When I am needed for an all-day session at the studio I have to travel in the rush-hour, part of a solid mass of people hanging on as best they can. Even so, I often seem to find myself standing by a _chikan_, as we call them: men who like to stroke and grope young women in the subway crush. Given the difficulty of moving at all, it's astonishing how skilful some of them are. Much as I enjoy wearing a secret vibrator, I find being stroked and petted by an experienced _chikan_ is even nicer. Nowadays Japanese women are encouraged to resist that sort of treatment, and even complain when it happens. Since no one used to talk about it before there wasn't even a word to describe it, but now it is called _sekuhara_, from the American expression "sexual harassment". I'm glad to be an independent Japanese girl with her own career, but I can't see what the fuss is about. I suppose being stroked and petted by a strange man must be tiresome when you aren't in the mood for it, or he is clumsy, but I nearly always find it a delightful way to start the day and get into the right mood for work. The Gods made girls' bodies attractive to men, and made girls enjoy being attractive; and personally I get as much pleasure from the secret attentions of the _chikan_ as I do from the frank lust of an appreciative audience for whom I am stripping or posing nude. More, perhaps, as a _chikan_ can show his appreciation by direct contact. There are bars with straps to hold on to all along the carriage, of course, but there are also straps hanging from transverse bars near the doors - much higher, so that people don't bang their heads on them. If I can manage it, I stand by one of those, because I have discovered some of the most skilful gropers do the same. They know a girl really has to stretch when she reaches that high, and naturally that pulls one side of my tight, short skirt up a long way. Then my _chikan_ and I have a lovely time together. At first I pretend to ignore him, but soon I find my breath coming faster and my heart beating more quickly, letting him know how much I am enjoying his attentions. He delicately fondles my thighs and bottom, while I respond very discreetly, giving him the tiniest hints of how much I am enjoying it and of what else I want him to do to me. I move my feet, braced against the movement of the train, very slightly further apart so that his wonderfully teasing fingers can find their way between my legs. I daydream about how lovely it would be if he could secretly fuck me without anyone in the crush noticing, and I expect he does the same. What fun it would be, I think, to whisper to him under the noise of the train, "I'm getting out next stop ... please ..." I know exactly which stop that would be. Just after Shibuya, where the studio is, comes a station serving a district called Gaienmae where there is a big public park. There won't be many people there at that time of day. He follows me out of the train and stands close behind me as we go up the escalator together. Without looking back for a moment I lead the way into the park and to an empty bench. I slip off my jacket and sit down, pulling up my short skirt as far as possible - but discreetly, making it look as if it rode up my thighs naturally as I sat. I lean back and close my eyes, my lips parted. I still haven't looked at his face. I feel his hands gently stroke my breasts and open the buttons of my blouse. How delighted he is when he realises I am wearing no bra! Am I ... am I perhaps wearing no panties either? He will soon find out, he thinks excitedly. But I want him to wait. I lean forward and begin to slide my unbuttoned blouse back over my shoulders. "Help me ..." I murmur. His hands caress my upper body, and soon I am fully naked above the waist in the fresh spring sunshine. My nipples are already erect and hard. I feel him stroke them, pinch them, suck them, nibble them gently ... Now he is free to explore the rest of me. His fingers stroke the inside of my thighs, making the delicate skin tremble and quiver with pleasure. Gradually his fingertips move up towards my crotch. Yes! I am naked under my miniskirt, just as he had hoped. My skirt is the wrap-round type, fastened by a row of buttons down my left hip. He undoes them slowly, and at last opens the skirt. He spreads it out on the bench and now I am fully naked, just sitting on the little strip of cloth which was once a skirt. He is kneeling in front of me now, his hands resting on my thighs which I am willingly holding wide open for him. I feel his mouth kissing my cunt-lips and sucking up the flow of love-juice. His tongue is now deep inside my cunt, but then withdraws so that the tip can move up my labia and play deliciously with my erect clitoris. The muscles in my calves and thighs are tense with desire; even in my high heels I feel my feet lifting involuntarily off the ground so that I am touching it only with the tips of my toes.[1] My fingers are entangled in his thick hair as I press his mouth ever more intimately against my pussy. How clever he is, and how lucky I am to be pleasured by such a man! I am past caring about discretion now. I am panting and moaning as I approach my first orgasm. What does it matter if I attract the attention of passers-by? They are welcome to watch - to join in if they like. My eyes are still closed so I do not see him pull away from me and lower or remove his trousers. But I know what is about to happen, so I take the opportunity to slide forward on the bench so that both my lower love-holes are available to him to take as he wishes. At last I feel the head of his thick cock press against my cunt. It is so well lubricated with my love-juice and his saliva that the whole wonderful tube of solid flesh enters me smoothly, as I moan and squeal with pleasure. For long moments we are locked together, a single being consumed with shared delight. Then he begins to rock gently out and in, out and in, the friction driving me helplessly to another climax. His cannot be far away, and I do not want him to pull out and come over my face and breasts. I am sure that is what he is planning to do; but I choose that he shall stay where he belongs and fill my cunt to the brim with his creamy cum. My hands, which had earlier imprisoned his head between my thighs, now reach out again and seize his bare, muscular buttocks. I relish the feeling of the powerful flesh under my fingers. Daringly I explore the crack of his arse and tickle the entrance to his anus. With the extra pleasure he loses all control, and I feel the swelling of his cock as the cum explodes along it. I climax again and he with me. I have no idea how much longer he remains inside me. At last he pulls out and I hear him wiping himself, putting on his clothes. "Thank you ... thank you!" I say at last. He does not reply. "When I take that train, I'll always stand there ..." I continue. "In case you want to use me again." Or in case _any man_ does, I nearly add - but do not want him to think me immodest. "I'll remember," he says. It is the first time I have heard him speak. I feel his hand stroke my hair, then caress my cheek. I try to catch his fingers in my mouth, but he withdraws them. After a moment I hear footsteps going up the gravel path. For the first time since I sat down on the bench, I open my eyes - just in time to glimpse his back as he turns the corner out of sight. I am alone, slumped on the bench in the sunshine, completely nude except for my high heels, his cum dripping slowly from my cunt onto the grass ... One day I shall summon up the courage to make my fantasy come true. That is a promise I make to myself. One day ... But for the time being I content myself with the pleasures of being fondled on the train. Outwardly of course I seem to do what nearly all other women do: pretend nothing is happening. Other passengers who can see that I have fallen victim to a _chikan_ pretend the same, and probably admire me for putting up with it without complaining. It seems strange in a way that they probably assume _he_ is molesting _me_, while in fact _I_ am using _him_, and silently guiding him to pleasure me according to my requirements. Of course I never let my molester know that. Inside me, laughter is bubbling up at the thought of how astonished he would be if he could only guess how this apparently virginal little office girl, at his mercy for a few stops and blushing to find herself timidly aroused at his unaccustomed touch, will in fact be spending her working day. Well, my job is giving pleasure and satisfaction to the men - and girls too, I guess - who buy or rent the videos I act in. Quite often I play the part of a young innocent girl only just beginning to discover her sexuality. And the _chikan_ sees himself as a gentle older man, tenderly leading young girls into the joys of sensual experience. So we are both acting as we stand together in the crowded train. The two realities we are creating are far more true than the mundane facts that I am an eager young slut who happily earns her living joyfully fucking before an audience, and that he is a male predator who gets his kicks sexually exploiting young women who are in no position to resist. My Western friends and lovers often have a hard time grasping that for us Japanese reality is what we mutually decide it shall be, not some sort of absolute. I am beginning to see that one of the reasons I am writing this book is to help you, my reader, to understand. The Marucho Film Company occupies a six-storey building in a side-street in, as I mentioned, a part of Tokyo called Shibuya. It is not far from the main studios of the Japan Broadcasting Corporation, NHK, which would probably despise us and our work if they ever condescended to think about us - but I wonder which of us gives more pleasure to our audiences. The building was put up as a block of apartments, one each side of the elevator on each floor. The first floor now has the boss's suite on the right, where I had my first introduction to the company, and a preview theatre and warehouse on the left. On the second are the reception area and offices. Studios, make-up rooms, the costume department etc are on the third and fourth: one studio is a great big barn of a place, but the other has mostly stayed the way it was as an apartment because our productions, if they have plots at all, are often set in domestic interiors. In fact the company never really managed to get approval for changing the use of the building from residential to film production. Every now and then we organise a special private visit to the company for local government officials who, if they really insisted, could make us pull the building down and start again from the beginning. After they have been shown round the studios and watched a scene of a video being shot, we girls shyly and prettily invite them to join us on the set so that we can get to know each other better. Then they depart, discreetly wrapped souvenir videos in their briefcases, content to leave us in peace to do our jobs for a few months longer. Publicity, marketing and personnel are all on the fifth floor and this is where Mr Niijima has his office. As I told you, the building is kept well heated, so I hung my coat in my narrow steel locker, the two characters of my surname on a paper label tucked into a little slot in the door, in the hallway on the first floor. I picked up my guide's shoulder-bag from my locker and quickly checked that it contained the material I would need. Then I visited the ladies' room, slipped the vibrator out of my cunt, and checked that I was looking my best in my guide's uniform. At last I was ready to receive Mr Niijima's instructions. On the fifth floor I knocked on the door politely and bowed low when he told me to come in. "Ah, Kato-kun," he said, and then added after a pause, "So you are here today." That sort of thing is Mr Niijima's idea of sympathetic staff management. He is a weedy, thin-faced man of fifty or so who always wears an ill-fitting suit in the office. He lives with his wife in Yokohama and has a long commute each day, carrying a briefcase containing a newspaper and his lunch. Mr Niijima has never been known to take a holiday. None of us can understand why he works in this industry. He doesn't seem to get any obvious pleasure out of it, though you'd think if a man didn't actually _enjoy_ working in close contact with a group of sexy and frequently naked girls he'd go and work for an insurance company or something instead. But I have come to think he does get his quiet kicks after all, especially from me: he has never touched me, but he always seems to be there when I'm being fucked on set, or waiting around in costume - or out of it - till I'm wanted. I said how glad I was to be able to do what the company required, and waited for him to tell me what the special visitor was all about. He didn't. Suddenly the phone rang and I could just hear Reiko, the receptionist on the second floor, say that a Mr Williams had arrived for his appointment. Mr Niijima hadn't told me that the visitor I had to look after was a _gaijin_ or Westerner. I guess it was his little meanness towards me to let me find out only when I met him on his arrival. Mr Niijima doesn't like _gaijin_ and he doesn't have enough imagination to think that other people's tastes could be different. He probably thinks that no proper Japanese girl would want to have anything to do with foreigners with their hairy bodies, sweaty hands and insatiable appetites. I expect his mother had it off with American soldiers during the Occupation. Fortunately I'm not a proper Japanese girl. Proper Japanese girls don't have much fun in my opinion, and end up married to proper Japanese men like Mr Niijima. Ugh. "Hurry up, he's waiting," said the proper Japanese man. I took the elevator down to the second floor. In reception there was only one visitor waiting. He seemed to be about six feet when he stood up for me - something no Japanese would have done - solidly built but not fat. (I hope I'm getting this right: I’m still not used to foreigners who don't understand metres like everyone else.) I bowed politely. So did he, in a clumsy way. I felt his eyes rapidly appraising me: he lingered a moment over my legs, which was a good start, and I guessed he was hoping for a peep at my breasts if I bowed again. So I welcomed him shyly, with another low bow, in an English sentence I had hastily prepared in the elevator. He replied in Japanese as clumsy as his bow. Not what I had expected. FOOTNOTE [1] Just in case you didn't know - some men are very ignorant! - when a girl comes she often has a muscular contraction in her calves which makes her lift her heels and point her toes. That's one of the reasons we girls like wearing high heels: not just because they make our legs look long and slender, but because they hold our feet in a position that subtly suggests we are sexually aroused or even on the verge of coming. [Next in Part 03: Chapter II concluded]