____________________________
| |
/)| KRISTEN'S BOOKSHELF |(\
/ )| DIRECTORIES |( \
__( (|____________________________|) )__
((( \ \ > /_) ( \ < / / )))
(\\\ \ \_/ / \ \_/ / ///)
\ / \ /
\ _/ \_ /
/ / \ \
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o This part of my collection offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. Kristen Becker o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Journey to the East - Part 4 [MF, Mf, asian]
by Richard Rivers (r_rivers@cryogen.com)
(c) 1997
*
This story contains graphic descriptions of sex and should not
be read by anyone under 18, or anyone offended by such
material. Blah Blah Blah...
The story is divided into seven parts, of which this is the
fourth, describing a week-long stay in Japan. Readers only
interested in graphic descriptions of sex acts should probably
wait for some of the later parts, or better yet, skip this story
entirely.
The author does not mind constructive comments. I suppose:
"This is a piece of crap!" is constructive on some level, but
what I have in mind would be more along the lines of
technical pointers or anything that might help future offerings
attain a higher level of craft. Of course compliments are
always welcome.
Richard Rivers
12/97
A JOURNEY TO THE EAST
Day 4, Wednesday:
I stumbled through the garden in darkness, scarcely aware of
how I found my way back to the house and into my room.
Satomi had left me with scarcely a word. "I must go," is all
she said, leaving me alone as she disappeared like a shadow
merging back into the dark.
As I crouched outside Megumi's window I held myself rigid
in mind and body: I dared not move, and I dared not even
think about what I was seeing. Finding myself alone, as I lay
on my futon unable to sleep, my thoughts at last began to
slowly sort themselves out. Seeing Megumi make love
aroused me; I could not take in enough of her beauty in those
few minutes, but to see her with another man aroused my
jealousy also. Only a day ago I had still hoped in the back of
my mind that I might become her lover somehow, but now all
my hope vanished. That her lover was Caucasian made me
wonder about the things she had said to me, about my being a
foreigner, an American, un-Japanese and all of her words
suddenly seemed turned on their heads, her meanings double
entendres. I went over and over our conversations together.
If her lover had been Japanese I would not have become as
upset, but a Japanese woman with a Caucasian lover brought
back too many bitter memories.
Despite my own background I had never made love to a
woman of Japanese descent. All my girlfriends through
college and my adult years were Caucasian. I loved a
beautiful Japanese girl once but I lost her and never recovered
from the pain of it.
Her name was Jill Tomita, and from the moment I saw her I
fell in love. She studied cello with my father and came to our
house every week for lessons. All through high school I
remember sneaking into the balcony that overlooked my
father's study to watch her, creeping up to the balustrade on
my belly and peering down at her sitting below me. I thought
she was the most beautiful girl in the world, and a shiver
went through me every time she took her cello out of its case
and held it between her thighs. I wanted so much to be that
cello and I imagined myself alone with her in her room as she
held me that way. In time we would reverse our positions, I
would turn around to face her, already between those softly
gripping legs.
Our families were close. The Tomitas invited us over to
dinner occasionally or to various Japanese-American social
functions. At their house, while the adults talked, I went
down to the basement to hang out with Jill and her two older
brothers, talking or watching TV. A few times Jill and I
ended up doing things together. I suppose one could call
them dates: we were both so shy our parents had set
everything up for us. Although I had become completely
infatuated with her our friendship remained more like brother
and sister.
We both ended up going to UC Berkeley together as
freshmen. We stayed close, but still more like siblings to
each other than I would have liked. I started tutoring her,
helping her with some of her mathematics courses, and she
would come over to my dorm room every now and then to
study. I had no idea that she developed a crush on my
roommate Dave during that time and came over mainly in
order to catch a glimpse of him until she confided it to me
one day. The news crushed me but I tried to act bravely, and
with the lover's sense of unreason convinced myself that if I
stayed loyal to her she would eventually find it in her heart to
want me instead of him. My hopes were completely dashed
when coming home late one evening I stumbled into the room
to find them both under the covers in Dave's bed.
>From then on, throughout college and afterward, I became
infatuated with a string of Japanese girls, one after another,
but the memory of Jill Tomita and the pain I felt because of
what had happened never faded and I loved them all from
afar, suffering in silence as I watched them go off with other
men. It was as if they were delicate prizes, too fine for me to
ever deserve or even hope for. I found other girls to go out
with, but my relationships were always unsatisfying;
somewhere deep in the back of my mind I felt a restless,
unfulfilled desire that ate away at me, never allowing me to
enjoy what I had. Roommates and later coworkers often
asked me if I could help fix them up with Japanese girls--as
if I had a secret formula for success--and I obliged whenever
I could, causing me to suffer many more broken hearts. And
so discovering Megumi with a Caucasian lover fell into an all
too familiar pattern, almost inevitable, and the pangs of
jealousy I felt were nothing new at all.
***
Megumi leaned over my shoulder. "Mr Sato," she said, "is
there a problem? You seem tired today."
Her sweet perfume descended on me as she reached over to
hit the tab key. I couldn't bring myself to look her in the eye
that morning, and every time she spoke I heard echoes of the
words she had said to her lover in the heat of passion.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "Yes I am tired. Yesterday was a
long day. I hoped I might see you sooner than I did...sooner
than today...to get some feedback. It is hard doing all this
work knowing that Mr Ogawa will probably undo most of it."
She withdrew her hand from the keyboard and let it rest on
my shoulder; the long tapered fingers I had seen grasping and
stroking another man grazed the skin at the back of my neck,
soft and warm against my skin. "I know," she said. "He
generates a lot of stress. You have to find a way to let it
dissipate or it can overwhelm you: it happens to me all of the
time."
She brought a chair next to mine and sat down, pulling the
fold of her robe across her knees. How far apart they had
been last night, hooked around her lover's elbows as he
pushed them up and over her shoulders I remembered. I
fixed my eyes on the screen in front of us and tried to clear
my mind. Every move she made, every word she said made
me think of some image from the night before. As she
pointed out a number of things for me to incorporate in my
work my fingers stumbled across the keys. My frequent
mistakes frustrated her and she reached across me several
times to enter certain things herself, each time she did so she
brought her soft thigh against mine, her soft warm flesh
giving against me. I grew fearful that my robe would no
longer hide my state of arousal but everything I wildly tried to
turn my mind to contained some point of reference to the
night before. Megumi's soft words of instruction and
encouragement only added to my torture as she gently,
insistently urged me onward to the finish; the hushed
excitement of her "yes, yes!" in response to something I
entered, or her soft "Oh!" as I surprised her with some clever
subtlety: how like the exhortations of a lover coaxing her
partner onward, deeper into bliss.
When I had finished I wiped the sweat from my forehead.
"You should take more frequent breaks if you need to Mr
Sato," she said, giving me a pat. "You are ahead of schedule
anyway. I will take this to Mr Ogawa now. When he has
reviewed it I will come for you. Just wait for me, and get
some rest."
She slid her hand off my shoulder and rose to go. The soft
robe clung to her hips and swished gently about her legs as
she walked to the door. I did not dare stand to see her out in
my state, and again my mind went back to the night before:
the rhythmic sound of her slippers slapping against the floor:
how like the lovers' bodies slapping together, and as her robe
rustled about her: how like their heavy breathing. I closed my
eyes to try and rid my mind of her image before me but the
memories only flooded back more strongly, filling the void.
Her soft full hips, swaying; how she had held them rigidly the
night before, her body a willing, open vessel which her lover
had filled.
***
Later that afternoon I found myself again in the garden
waiting for her to return. After walking strenuously to and
fro for a while I seated myself on a bench overlooking the
large pond. Closing my eyes I rested, listening to the chirps
of birds and the wind in the trees. I did not become aware of
Satomi's approach until I felt her weight on the bench beside
me.
"Mr Sato," she said softly, her voice barely above the wind.
"Satomi," I answered, sighing her name as I opened my eyes.
Her approach had not entirely surprised me. After what we
had seen together the night before I knew we had to meet and
discuss it at some point. But as an outsider here I also knew
better than to actively seek out either of the two women in the
garden. Knowing the ways as they both did it would be their
decision to show themselves to me or not as they chose. My
place was simply to wait.
"The garden is beautiful in the afternoon," Satomi said. The
palms of her pale white hands rested on her lap and it was
there her eyes lay fixed. "It is also beautiful at night,
although what one sees is different then." She blushed, her
head and eyes unwavering.
She is waiting for me to talk about what we saw, I thought,
waiting for me to take the initiative. Her bashfulness
reminded me of some women I had known, who after making
love seemed to withdraw back into themselves, almost
embarrassed by the passion they had shown, letting the part
of themselves they had displayed retract, as if to say: "follow
me, draw me out again if you can, I want you to."
What Satomi and I shared was in a sense a sexual experience
I realized. In our own way; as twin voyeurs, we had each
watched another couple make love, but there had also been a
more important, dynamic connection between the two of us,
an energy that flowed from her to me and back again carrying
with it a potent undercurrent of sensuality. I remembered the
uncomfortable realization which had come over me the night
before: that the innocent young Satomi, who saw exactly what
I saw, must feel at least some of the same arousal I did.
Without touching me she had seduced me, finding a way to
move me physically, and without my touching her she had
allowed me access to her own emerging sexuality. We had
both shared feelings, a kind of parallel experience, each
focusing on the same images before us, feeling the same
feelings. Our bodies had never touched yet here we were, like
two new lovers: the young girl beside me blushing in her
modesty, waiting for me to open her up to those feelings
again.
I heard the sound of her breath close to me and it seemed as if
time had ceased to move. Our shared experience formed a
cusp: two parallel lines which in our memory and in
imagination conjoined, while running their separate,
unreconcilable courses through the physical world.
"Satomi, why did you take me to Megumi's window last
night," I asked.
She sat for a long time, so long that I wondered if I had
shattered the moment, said exactly the wrong thing to her. "I
don't know," she said at last. "I go there often. I find
it...exciting. It never occurred to me to let anyone else know
about it: it is such a secret thing. I just decided, in an
instant."
She brushed her hair back over her shoulder and turned
towards me. "When I heard you walking down the path last
night I hid. I knew you were searching for Megumi, and I
knew that you would not find her. She had slipped away,
down to the gate, to let him in. Then it occurred to me that
we were both waiting, watching for her, only I knew where to
find her and you didn't. That is when I decided to show you."
"But why?" I asked.
"Because you seem different."
"Different from whom?"
"You seem different from all the men who...want Megumi,
who chase after her. I have seen so many men come to work
for my father. Not so many here, but in Tokyo all the time. It
is as if she has a magical power over them. They lose their
self control, they act foolish, or aggressive, or sly, but never
thoughtful. I never saw any of them act thoughtfully, until I
saw you. I watched and listened to the two of you together
before you ever saw me, for the last two nights. Then
yesterday, talking over tea, when you mentioned your
mother...you just seem so gentle...That is why I think you are
different. You act differently around Megumi than the others.
You want her, but something about you, the way you act
is...appealing to me."
"Who is he, the man we saw?" I asked, trying to change the
subject ever so slightly.
"I don't know his name. Megumi has many lovers. I
discovered the window two years ago, by accident. Since then
she has had a different man each time, all westerners." Her
voice trailed off to a whisper.
"But where do they come from?"
"I don't know. I never see them except...there. They stay
down in the village, I think, and she makes arrangements to
meet them at the gate on certain days, when she sneaks them
in. I keep a watch in the garden in the evenings, so I know
when she slips away to meet them. She must get to know
them during her travels for my father's business. But I don't
care who they are, they are just men."
She looked away, out over the pond. "Mr Sato, you think she
is beautiful, you want her, don't you?" she asked softly.
"Satomi!" I whispered. "I don't know what to say...I..."
"Mr Sato, this is important to me. I know you want her. I
can see that much, anyone could. You think that I am too
young to talk about these things with you, or you are afraid of
my father, what he might do." She drew a deep breath. "Let
me tell you: I know the result of a man's desire for a woman.
I have seen how it...ends up. Maybe I have seen too much, or
more than I should for my age, but that cannot be undone, not
now, not ever. I feel as if I have jumped from the start to
after the end of the game. I know what is supposed to
happen...and all of the ways in which it might happen...but
none of the rules. I feel as if something is missing."
Again she paused, letting the sounds of the garden softly
wash away her words. "I have to know why you want her,
what makes a woman desirable," she said.
"Satomi, I don't think I can," I said. "Not because I don't
want to, but because I don't know myself. To me desire is
simply something that happens, a feeling I get, not something
I can control. And the explanations of it that come afterward
--and they always have to come after, never before--the
explanations cannot do it justice. In fact they deaden it, make
it sterile." I searched for a better explanation of something I
felt I knew nothing about. I am the last person this young girl
should turn to for advice, I thought.
"Maybe that is a good definition of it," I continued. "It is
something external to oneself, something which inspires one
to action. Certain...types of actions. Something that has to be
lived, not explained. You are still young Satomi, whatever
things you may have seen; all I can say to you is what I have
already said. Don't rob yourself of your life by worrying
about it, why it happens, just live, let it happen when it is
natural."
We sat for several minutes without speaking. "You are right,
Mr Sato," she said very softly. Without looking over at me
she twisted her body, in one fluid motion slipping the robe
down over her shoulders, exposing her tiny breasts, capped by
pink nipples as fine and delicate as the tips of newly budded
roses.
"Touch me," she whispered, but no sooner than she had
spoken we became aware of soft footsteps approaching from
around the bend in the path. Satomi quickly pulled the robe
back over her shoulders.
"It's Megumi!" she whispered and was gone.
***
Fin, Part 4 of 7
Richard Rivers 12/97