NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and
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 paid, in any format whether existing now or to be
 invented in the future, so long as a copy of this note
 and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no
 alteration is made to the body of the work. Copyright
 2002, theGreatxIam

 Subway series #4:
 Who's Sorry Now?
 By theGreatxIam

 This story should give you a clear understanding of
 how I experienced Japan. I'm sorry about that.

 But that's the Japan I saw. I make no claims that it's
 a complete picture. Quite the opposite, in fact. Japan
 is a wonderful land full of picturesque vistas,
 fascinating history and friendly people. All the
 guidebooks say so.

 You won't be reading about that Japan today. Sorry
 about that.

 Almost all that I saw of Japan, aside from the lights
 of Tokyo as I arrived (I had an aisle seat on the way
 back) was the inside of the offices of a company we'll
 call Ekasa (that's X to you). We'll call it that not
 because I'm afraid they'd sue -- everything I have to
 say is true -- but because I work in electronics and I
 like my job. If I tick off the boys at Ekasa, the
 closest I could get to a job in electronics would be
 flying a kite in a thunderstorm.

 I was in Japan because I'd helped invent -- well,
 stumble across, to be honest -- a tough, clear plastic
 that was guaranteed to start warping in four or five
 years and disintegrate completely into powder inside
 of 10, no matter what you did -- no light, no heat, no
 cold, no difference. This stuff would be useless
 inside of a decade after you'd shaped it.

 You still don't get it, do you? Ekasa made electronics
 and everything that goes into them. Including CD's and
 CD-ROM's.

 Penny drop yet?

 OK, then think about this. Ekasa and a couple of other
 companies basically have the entire world's consumer
 electronics carved up. Except for computers, but even
 there the computer makers outsource the speakers and
 CD-ROM drives and such. And all that stuff in the
 hi-fi mags about subtle differences in tone from one
 brand to another, or the excellence of the newest
 Ekasa subsonic recovery system gathering in harmonics
 unheard by human ears but richly contributing to the
 total aural experience for the true connoisseur -- all
 that stuff is crap.

 The technology's so down pat by now that comparing the
 output from any two components in the same price range
 is like sniffing two piles of shit from the same dog.
 Only difference in what comes out depends on what you
 put in.

 If everybody's got the same electronics, the only way
 to compete would be to lower prices -- which is the
 last thing these guys want to do. So, instead, they're
 all scrambling for something new to offer their
 customers.

 No, not the next Walkman. Wake up and smell the sake,
 kid. I'm talking about pleasing their real customers:
 the music companies.

 A few companies have a lock on music the way a few
 others -- well, there is some overlap -- have a lock
 on electronics. So they speak the same language -- not
 Japanese, not English. Cash.

 And the electronics companies know the music companies
 are running scared right now. They dodged the bullet
 on that whole Napster mess, but they don't know if
 that was the biggest roach in the pantry. As long as
 anyone can pull their songs off a CD onto a PC,
 someone'll figure out a way to send them out.

 That brings us to all those encryption schemes and
 unrippable CD's and even that scheme to slip secret
 static into songs so your regular CD player will jump
 over it but it'll tear the guts out of your computer
 if you try to rip it.

 Mean shit, to be sure. And that last one's a sure sign
 that the music companies don't give a damn about the
 consumers any more.

 Which is why Ekasa pays people to sniff around polymer
 labs, even picayune operation like the one my college
 buddies and I had. We'd been Chem majors and Chem E's
 and a couple of misfit physicists, all drinking
 together and playing cards together and skipping
 early-morning humanities classes together -- which all
 amount to the same thing. Me and another of the
 chemists were lab assistants for this prof whose big
 dream was to invent a plastic that could hold up to
 the same pressure of as a beer can and degrade
 gracefully in landfills, to boot. I know, I know,
 you're saying don't they call that a bottle? Look,
 this was a whole different set of problems, but I'm
 not going to go into all that now because it doesn't
 really have anything to do with this story. Sorry.

 And just what does any of this have to do with Japan?
 Relax, we'll get there.

 Anyway, the prof thought he was on to something. More
 important, he convinced some angels -- which just
 means guys with spare millions -- that he was. So next
 thing you know, me and my buddy aren't lab assistants,
 we're vice presidents -- the prof handed out titles in
 lieu of real pay. We hire a few of our other buddies
 to do the scut work and we're in business.

 Only the prof's big idea turns out to be a flop
 because the stuff he cooks up actually begins
 degrading a bit faster than he thought, spewing
 various stuff that's bad for you into whatever liquid
 is put in it.

 One of our scut crew thought he had a way to make a
 few changes and get something useful. But that would
 take more of our cash, and the prof would rather
 pocket his share and let the project die. My buddies
 elect me to inform our angels of this little plan.
 Next thing you know I'm a CEO, the prof is gone, and
 all the rest of our clan have signed up to help out.

 We work our butts off, with the added stimulus that
 the prof has had us blackballed by his peers so our
 asses are grass as far as any return to the halls of
 academe is concerned. All that stands between us and
 "You want fries with that?" is what pours out of our
 beakers.

 Which is, basically, shit.

 The angels started flapping their wings all over me,
 Mr. CEO, and making noises about flying off. So I head
 over to our conference area -- i.e., the foosball
 table we stuck in one corner of the lab -- and proceed
 to confer. Our little group breaks down into two
 camps, which are:

 1. We are on the verge of the greatest scientific
 discovery since air, so we must redouble our efforts
 even if it means going without food or sleep for weeks
 on end until we accomplish our goal.

 2. Just how much beer could we buy with the money we
 have left?

 I'm arguing for the first camp when one of the guys
 yells "Foos Rule!" Which, of course, means each side
 has to pick a champion for a game that will decide
 which camp wins, with the opponents bound by sacred
 duty to accept the outcome. Sort of a Knights of the
 Roundtable thing, but without the horses.

 I naturally represent my side, being the two-time King
 Foos of my dorm. It won't be easy, though, because my
 worthy foe is the only man to ever have defeated me
 two games in a row.

 The game starts with the usual ceremonial tip-off and
 it's a close thing. My foe is playing the angles well,
 and I get trapped into playing his game for awhile.
 But I launch a dramatic comeback with raw power up the
 middle to tie it all up.

 Hey, it's taking longer to get to Japan than I
 thought. Sorry. Let me give you the low bandwidth
 version of the rest of the story:

 I fire a foos shot that ricochets off the goalie and
 into a stack of test tubes. Faster than you can say
 Teflon and Post-It Notes, we check out the resulting
 goop. The stuff's a bitch to mold -- we can only do
 some thin flat sheets -- but it cures hard and clear.
 Our tests show it'll turn to an ecologically inert
 powder, but not as fast as we wanted.

 We patent the goop anyway, just to have something to
 show the angels. Which is when Ekasa's folks show up,
 and Mr. CEO is on the big white bird to Japan.

 But I still haven't explained why our stuff attracted
 them. My bad.

 Here's the 411. What would make a music exec happier
 than a CD that can't be ripped or copied? A CD that
 can't be ripped, can't be copied, and self-destructs
 in a few years. Planned obsolescence: every marketer's
 wet dream.

 The Ekasa gurus figured the music boys would love 'em
 to death for the idea. Sure, the public would get
 screwed, but they'd sell the new discs as much harder
 and scratch-resistant. When the CD's started warping
 years later? Oh, so sorry. But good news is they will
 disappear completely in few years -- good for
 environment, no?

 Some of our bunch were a little ticked about helping
 them pull off a scam like that, and it took a lot of
 talking around the lab before we finally hammered out
 a compromise and I was shipped off to Japan.

 So we're finally there. Only, well, be honest: if
 you're reading this, you're probably looking for the
 sex. And we haven't gotten to that bit yet. Sorry.

 Look, it'll save us all a lot of trouble if I kick it
 into high gear. I get to Japan; chauffeured limo picks
 me up; five-star hotel; the works. But then I spend
 three days being bounced around offices at HQ, never
 seeing anything but low-level flunkies who give me
 gap-toothed Letterman smiles as interpreters drone on
 about the power and the glory of Ekasa. Finally on the
 fourth day they deliver the offer, which is laughable.
 When I balk, they apologize -- for wasting my time,
 not for the feeble offer -- and send me off to their
 labs, where it's broadly hinted that they're cooking
 up their own polymer.

 All of which might have been more convincing if I
 didn't already know that their top two polymer
 chemists had said sayonara four months ago and
 defected to a Dutch firm. Don't these guys know
 everybody's secrets are on the Internet? So I squeezed
 their toes, threatening to go back home, though I was
 all smiley-smiley as I said it. Next morning we cut
 the deal in a few minutes and they apologized again
 for wasting my time. Sightseeing now, they smile as
 they shove me out the door.

 So I'm finally free to see the sights. Only no driver,
 no limo -- so sorry; unavailable -- and no one to go
 with me.

 Fine; I'll get my own guide. But the hotel has turned
 cold too. Gee, what a shock: It's also owned by Ekasa.

 I've only got a few hours anyway, so I head off after
 snatching an English-language guidebook from the stash
 I brought with me. I hit a few high points near the
 hotel and decide to take a subway to a few others --
 hell, for all I know the cabbies are Ekasa's, too.

 Now, all of Tokyo is crowded. But the subways -- Think
 of the biggest crowd you've ever been in. Now squeeze
 it into half the space. Then make them all jam through
 a dozen or so doors into an even smaller space.

 OK, you're getting close.

 I mean, these trains are so crowded that they actually
 have pushers whose job is simply to stand outside the
 open doors of each car, wait until there are so many
 people crammed on that the doors can barely close and
 not one single extra rider could be forced in -- and
 then shove in another couple dozen. And I do mean
 shove. Push. Cram. Smash. Smush. Crush. And did I say
 shove?

 But it's all right, of course, because as they're
 squashing everyone in, they're wearing white gloves.
 Wouldn't want to get anyone dirty.

 All this is, I assure you, very relevant.

 Because I was standing on the platform, watching this
 performance, when I got swept up. Next thing I know,
 I'm almost lifted off my feet, I'm getting elbowed and
 kneed, and some wacko in white gloves is forcing me
 further into the maelstrom.

 The guy in the gloves is screeching and I think I hear
 a whistle and all of a sudden there's a whoosh and the
 subway doors close and I'm flattened against the glass
 and metal by a wave of sushi-breathed humanity. I'm
 not a tall guy, but in this crowd I stand a good four
 inches above average, so my head bobs out of the pile.
 I'm looking across a sea of straight black shiny hair.
 It feels like I'm drowning in panthers.

 Squirming panthers. These people have absolutely no
 sense of personal space. The guy next to me doesn't
 even give me a glance as he digs an elbow into my side
 reaching down into his briefcase. He pulls out one of
 those weird bondage-and-battery comic books filled
 with hot-bodied Kewpie dolls and sticks it in front of
 his face, the pages tickling my chin. He ignores me
 even when I brush it away.

 A bunch of other guys have their comic books out. With
 the elbows and arms and the normal shakes and bounces
 of the train, it's like going a round with some boxer
 who believes in working the body.

 Then I realize I'm getting hit below the belt. I look
 down through the wall-to-wall bodies and somebody's
 briefcase is jabbing me right in the cojones. I can't
 pull away because my ass is already plastered against
 the door. Yeah, that's right. I got my rocks between a
 hard place and a hard place.

 So I get a hand on the briefcase and push. It pushes
 back. I push harder. It bangs back, and if my hand
 hadn't been there to take the shot I'd be telling you
 this in a reeeally squeeeaky voice.

 I set myself and shove. Only the train jerks and the
 briefcase flies out of my reach and my momentum
 carries my hand forward, smack onto -- and I do mean
 smack -- a very round and very smooth butt.

 The butt belongs to this petite package standing in
 front of me. This woman is all curves. Black hair in a
 pixie cut, pale skin on a long neck, fire-engine red
 jacket and skirt molded to her body and ending barely
 down her thighs, long -- for a Japanese -- lithe legs
 encased in sheer black stockings that lead down to red
 fuck-me pumps. Not that I'd been ogling her or
 anything.

 Woman turns around and glares -- but not at me, at Mr.
 Salaryman with the Kewpie-cunt comic book. My
 guidebook had told me groping on the subway wasn't
 unusual. I guess Pixie assumed it had to be one of her
 countrymen. In fact, she even gave me a shy smile, as
 if a foreigner like me would have to be a gentleman.

 Which, of course, I am. A butt-grabbing, slack-jawed
 gentleman, but a gentleman nonetheless.

 Slack-jawed? Yeah, because I am looking into the face
 of an Asian angel. I'm talking cupid's-bow mouth in
 lipstick as fiery as her suit, big, big brown eyes,
 button nose. And this angel has heaven on her chest.
 You don't see a lot of stacked Japanese, but this
 woman's got a pair on her would make Buddha bark.

 I manage to get my jaw off the floor, but she sees my
 expression first and gives me one of those
 high-pitched giggles as she bats her eyes and turns
 away from me.

 I'm figuring that's it. But something bumps me in the
 crotch again. Now I'm ticked, not only because all
 this is getting old real fast but also because
 checking out Pixie has given me a modest boner. I
 reach down to grab hold of the briefcase. There is no
 case.

 What's doing the bump and grind is Pixie's ass. My
 hand freezes on it and Pixie twists her head around
 again. Only she's got a big smile on. It gets bigger
 as my boner does; her ass is on me so tight she could
 count all the clasps on my zipper.

 Which is under no small amount of strain now, because
 my cock is starting to put the bone in boner. Pixie
 gives me another giggle and turns away.

 But she keeps her butt right up against me, jiggling
 up and down, side to side. Dry humping is not my thing
 but I start to get into it a little. Kind of cool. My
 pecker's so sensitive by now that I can feel the
 zipper in the back of her skirt, even through all
 those layers. Gets a bit easier when our humping
 pushes up her jacket so I'm right on her tight, short
 skirt. My rod is rolling all over her ass, up hill and
 down.

 I'm so enthusiastic, in fact, that it starts to get a
 mite painful. My cock's flattened inside my jeans,
 ramming against the waist and scraping over my briefs.

 So I slow down before I rub it raw. Pixie, though, is
 moving faster. I grab her waist to slow her.

 She squinches away. Ah, I figure, it was fun while it
 lasted.

 Only she's not done. Her hand snakes between us and
 undoes my belt. Before I know what's happening she's
 inside my pants giving me one hell of a handjob.

 Holy geisha, Batman. I scope out the other passengers;
 no one's paying us any attention. The guys are too
 into their inky porn to notice the real thing right in
 front of them.

 Their loss. Pixie seems to know what she's doing. Her
 hand is small and soft, kneading my cockhead with the
 lubricant of my precum. She's rolling over the rim at
 the bottom of the rubbery knob again and again. Then
 she slides all the way to the root and back. My
 eyelids flutter and my breath's coming faster.

 My folks raised me to obey the Golden Rule, so I slide
 my hands around Pixie's narrow waist. She gets the
 idea and guides my right underneath the top of her
 skirt.

 There's a strip of lace -- whoa, a garter belt. This
 chick comes loaded for bear.

 I slide past, across a stomach flat as a board, tight
 as a drum. There are a few curly hairs even before I
 get to a wisp of cloth held in place by a tiny string.
 Definitely not some demure prude here.

 I keep going through a trimmed forest to the Promised
 Land. She was already wet and waiting.

 My middle finger slides over the puffy slit of her
 cunt and her petals blossom. I stroke her pussy lips,
 matching the tempo of her hand on my cock. One by one
 her defenses give way as my finger slips deeper
 inside. She rests her head on my shoulder and I feel
 her sigh more than heard it when my fingertip brushes
 her clit.

 Meanwhile she's let go of my right hand and is pulling
 my left upward. Two buttons pop open and I'm groping a
 lace-encased tit. Nice, but I want more. I try to get
 underneath; this chick is bursting out of her bra and
 I can't squeeze in. She yanks my hand to the spot
 between the two cups: a front-side snap! Oh, those
 clever Japanese. A little fumbling and her tits bounce
 free, lush and ripe in my hand. I can smell jasmine in
 her hair as my fingertips trace all her delicious
 contours. One hand on her engorged nipple, the other
 on her tiny clit: this is heaven.

 And my cock, of course, is getting its own shiatsu
 massage. My jeans have slipped down and they'd be
 puddled on the floor if I weren't pressed up against
 the train door. With my briefs tugged down she's got
 my rod completely free and she's stroking like a
 Mustang piston.

 She ups the ante, pulling her skirt up and fitting my
 cock into the crack of her ass. Now I'm humping in
 earnest while I'm still diddling her with my right
 hand. Even through the stench of a hundred
 half-digested noodle lunches making an encore
 appearance, I can smell the hot funk we're creating
 with our subway samba. Sweat is trickling down my
 neck, tickling the insides of my ears, steaming up my
 glasses.

 As I sink my fingers -- two, now -- deep into her, my
 hand is coated with her juices. It's like diving into
 a pool of oysters.

 She rips off her flimsy panties and now we're off to
 the races. I'm sliding up and down the crack of her
 ass, skin on skin now, but she wants more. Her hand
 takes my cock in a firm grasp and shoves it lower,
 lower until it slides between her legs. Her hands,
 both of them, join mine at her crotch. I'm frantically
 plunging my fingers into her cunt and she's got my
 cock pressed tight to her, poking back and forth
 between her legs. Inch by agonizingly slow inch she's
 levering her upper body down, bringing my hungry rod
 closer and closer to her hot and ready opening. My
 legs are almost giving out. I have to press back even
 harder against the door for support and my
 sweat-soaked back slides down a bit. The angle's
 almost right. Her fingers are circled around the head
 of my cock now, guiding it nearer. I've got my hands
 on her waist, bringing her into position. Closer,
 closer...

 The explosion of bodies when we got to the station was
 like some physics class demonstration of molecules
 under pressure. I was halfway across the platform, cum
 splurting out of my cock, before I even knew what was
 happening. By then it was too late. The crowd waiting
 to get on had already started stuffing themselves into
 the train and Pixie was buried somewhere in the mess.
 I caught just a glimpse of her face, lips pursed,
 eyebrows raised. I stumbled and got spun around by
 people swirling past me as I tried to pull up my pants
 and stuff my cock back in. I just got zipped up before
 a cop showed up in my face, apparently checking to see
 if the white guy was drunk. I gave him a sloppy smile,
 waved him and walked into one of the people-pushers
 who was backing up for a run at the next train. He
 stood there bowing to me in apology. I took it as a
 comment on the whole damn experience.

 So now you know how my entire trip to Japan went: I
 almost got fucked and they said they were sorry and
 then I almost got fucked and they said they were sorry.