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Her Name Was Yuki
Richard Rivers (r_rivers@cryogen.com)

***

Leaving her home, her school and her team to come to 
America had been difficult for her. The few friends she 
had were all still there, and she knew that by coming to 
America her volleyball skills could do nothing but get 
worse. She also told me that she had never been to a 
coed school before. Her girlfriends back home had teased 
and scared her with their stories about America, and in 
particular, American boys.  (MF-teens, M-teen/F-adult, 
asian, volleyball, rom)

***

September. A ray of the late afternoon sun pierced the 
drawn curtains, illuminating a shaft of dust particles 
suspended in air. Swirling gently in the stillness, they 
crossed and re crossed the light, disappearing back into 
darkness. I sat on my bed lost in a fantasy world, as I 
often did that unhappy year of my life. 

I remember the day with unnatural clarity even now: 
September's white light had replaced the yellow glow of 
late summer; a hint of coolness in the still afternoon 
air foreshadowed the bitter winter to come. The earth 
had already shifted imperceptibly on its axis. What I 
remember most about that September day though is that it 
was the first time I ever saw my beautiful Yuki. 

It was the third week of school, a Monday. I sat in home 
room that morning, already bored and distracted when Mr. 
Forbes, our principal, came into the class. 

"Listen up people!" He said clapping his hands. A few 
bored heads lifted to look at him and several whispered 
conversations continued uninterrupted at the back of the 
room. "This home room is getting a new student," he said 
even more loudly. "I want you all to meet her. Her name 
is Yuki. This is Yuki, Yuki Tanaka. She is from Japan." 

There was no response. "She speaks good English, 
probably better than some of you I'll bet! Ha, ha." He 
laughed, alone, at his little joke. "She was a star 
volleyball player in her home prefecture in Japan and we 
hope that she will join up with our girl's team here." 

There was another awkward silence during which Mr. 
Forbes cleared his throat. "You might also like know 
that her mother, a psychologist, will be our new school 
counselor this year. Your home room teacher will advise 
you on the counselor's office hours and so forth. I'd 
like you all to make both of them feel welcome and at 
home here at Adams High." 

He stepped aside revealing the most beautiful girl I had 
ever seen. Her tall slender body had a fragile, delicate 
kind of beauty, a subtle beauty one could easily over 
look for its simplicity. Her shiny black hair hung in 
feathered bangs, grazing a thick pair of eyebrows that 
arched over a pair of dazzling eyes. One look into her 
eyes and I was lost. 

Clearly humiliated by Mr. Forbes' loud and obnoxious 
introduction, she hugged her notebook tightly to her 
chest, staring at the floor. Someone yelled out, 
"Speech! Speech!" getting a laugh. 

Her cheeks reddened and she hugged her notebook more 
tightly, pursing her lips as she took a deep breath. One 
of my friends leaned forward from the seat behind me. "I 
know, man, we'll call her Yucky!" He snickered. "Yucky, 
get it?" I pretended to laugh as he turned to tell his 
joke to someone else, immediately (and I hoped not too 
obviously) returning my gaze to Yuki, still standing 
with eyes downcast in front of the class. 

Her blushing face, her down-turned eyes made me feel 
pity for her, adding fuel to my already aching desire. 
That afternoon, as the autumn sun waned outside, its 
last rays sneaking between my closed curtains, I sat 
alone in my room as I often did, and I could think only 
of her.

She received her seat assignment the next day, one row 
over and two seats ahead of mine. All I had to do was 
lift my head slightly and she filled my vision. She wore 
a similar outfit to the day before, what was to become 
her normal way of dressing, almost a uniform: plain 
white pants or a dark skirt and a simple blouse or 
sweater on top. She dressed in a conservative, almost 
'bookish' fashion yet the clothes she wore always made 
her appeared very soft and feminine. Like me, I could 
tell she was painfully shy. When her name was called at 
roll call she winced, and I winced with her.

In time, each day, I studied her from my desk, choosing 
a different feature to concentrate on for the entire 
half hour period: the soft curve of her thigh hanging 
over the side of her chair; the flare of her slender 
waist widening into her hips; the three-quarter profile 
of her small breast peeking out under her arm; her hair, 
splashed across her shoulders in different patterns, 
rearranged each time she moved her head, like sea 
grasses swept by gentle waves. All these images came 
back to me when I was in my room alone after school and 
I spun them into an elaborate, on-going fantasy, whiling 
away the bleak days as fall turned to winter.

Home room, it turned out, was our only class together so 
I seldom saw her after first period. She took advanced 
courses for most subjects while I distinguished myself 
at nothing. My eyes couldn't get enough of her in just 
half an hour, and as the days went by I began 
obsessively scanning the hallways, the cafeteria, the 
courtyard, searching, always searching for her. 
Occasionally I was rewarded with a glimpse of her, 
always alone, hugging her books to her chest, running 
from class to class with hurried little steps.

The September weather grew harsher and the light began 
to fail earlier. October arrived, gray and unseasonably 
cold. I spent more and more afternoons in my curtained 
room, my mother's footsteps reassuringly distant 
upstairs as I whiled away hour after hour, lost in my 
fantasy. It is difficult now to think I was ever so 
naive, that the mere sight of her eyebrows, the corner 
of her mouth, the small wisp of hair next to her ear, 
the tiniest details of her body could preoccupy and 
torment me the way they did. 

My preoccupation with Yuki came as welcome relief from a 
very bad situation at home. My father, a cold 
emotionless man throughout my childhood, had suddenly 
discovered his lost feelings that summer. Unfortunately, 
they consisted of the desire to slap my mother around 
and to yell at me whenever I ventured into his sight. I 
don't know what happened to him. He never explained 
anything. 

Maybe he went crazy. Maybe he found another woman and 
just put on an act to cover his exit from the family. 
I'll never know. We put up with his unexplained and 
abusive behavior for a couple of months and then he 
suddenly left one day, in the middle of a shouting match 
with mom. He slammed the door behind him and I've not 
seen or heard from him in all the years since.

Before school started that fall I began to have horrible 
nightmares. My father would come back in those dreams, 
sometimes looking like a rotten drunk, sometimes looking 
like his old self, but always committing some terrible 
atrocity against my mother and me in the end. I woke up 
almost every night at three or four o'clock in the 
morning and couldn't get back to sleep. The problem 
persisted into the beginning of the school year. 

My poor mom had enough to worry about herself, but there 
wasn't much she could do for me anyway: We didn't have 
the money to pay for therapy right then. When I brought 
home the October school bulletin she read with interest 
about our new school counselor, Mrs. Tanaka, Yuki's 
mother. 

In a few days mom had arranged it with the school that 
Mrs. Tanaka would see me privately once a week after 
classes. In exchange I would help out Mr. Roberts, the 
Phys. Ed. teacher a couple of afternoons a week cleaning 
up the gym, doing laundry, or whatever he needed. The 
prospect of having intimate conversations with Yuki's 
mother was both thrilling and scary. I couldn't wait for 
the day of our first appointment to arrive but as it 
drew closer I also began to dread it. The thought that 
she might be able to see right through me, right through 
to my infatuation with her daughter, began to haunt me. 

When I went in to see Mrs. Tanaka after school it was a 
fine early October day. The bright sunshine reflected 
off the fall colored leaves but did not warm the bitter 
cold air. When Mrs. Tanaka first opened the door to her 
office I half expected her to be a carbon copy of her 
daughter. To my relief her mother looked quite 
different, a petite woman of maybe thirty five, where 
Yuki had a long, lean, athletic body, her mother was 
shorter and had rounder features. Her short hair framed 
a broad oval, friendly looking face. 

She ushered me to a seat on the couch beside her saying: 

"Hello Richard. I've spoken with your mother a few times 
about the problems you've been having with sleep. She 
told me something of your recent family troubles, but I 
would like to hear what you have to say about it, 
yourself."

Her tone was warm and friendly; she spoke with what I 
could identify as only the slightest of accents, more a 
lilt to the inflections of the voice rather than 
different pronunciations of the words. I felt 
comfortable and at ease, enough that I lost my fear that 
she would see through me right away, exposing my 
obsession with her daughter. 

I began telling her all about what had happened at home 
and immediately felt a strong sense of relief from 
talking about my problems with someone. My mother and I 
went through a lot; neither of us had yet been willing 
to broach the subject of the recent, painful past with 
each other. Before I knew it the hour was over and Mrs. 
Tanaka was offering me a ride home. 

Walking out to the parking lot, and as she drove me 
home, Mrs. Tanaka told me a few things about herself. 
Her soft lilting voice hummed in my ears, soothing me. 
I'm not sure I heard everything she told me, I was just 
trying to soak up the sound of her voice and prolong the 
sweet mellow feeling it produced. Her name was Kozue: It 
sounded like 'causeway' she knew, but she spelled it for 
me, laughing softly. She had studied extensively in the 
US, first in High School when her father had been 
stationed here on business, later at New York University 
on her own initiative. 

She loved America, she said. The freedom here was a 
welcome change from life in Japan, especially for a 
woman. Both she and her husband had wanted the same 
experiences for their daughter Yuki, and they had each 
taken lesser paying jobs just to live in the US long 
enough for her to finish High School and start College. 
She added that, unfortunately, her husband had left 
suddenly for the Philippines so that she and Yuki now 
lived here alone together.

Yuki's name caught my interest and I shyly asked Mrs. 
Tanaka why her daughter wasn't riding home with her. I 
was afraid to say the name Yuki aloud, as if the way I 
pronounced it would betray my infatuation; but Mrs. 
Tanaka showed no sign that she had noticed anything as 
she told me that Yuki was on the Girl's volleyball team, 
which was having practice that afternoon. She went on to 
explain how Yuki was a star volleyball player back in 
Japan and that she might have made the National team if 
she had stayed. 

"She's a bright girl," Mrs. Tanaka said, proudly, "but 
the only thing that really motivates her is Volleyball. 
She's a totally different person when she steps on the 
court. All her shyness, her uncertainty, they all seem 
to just drop away. She's a fierce competitor. I hope you 
can see her play some time." 

I assured her that I would like that very much, 
tempering my enthusiasm as best I could. As she pulled 
in front of my house her tone became serious:

"I know you understand the agreement your mother made 
with the school. I've spoken to Mr. Roberts and he would 
like to see you after school this Friday. At that time 
you can arrange the exact details of your work schedule 
with him all right?" She gave me a pat on the knee.

"Can I count on you to go and see him?" 

I assured her that I would and thanked her for the ride. 
That night, for the first time in weeks, my father did 
not invade my dreams to terrorize me. I had a much more 
pleasant dream: I dreamed about Kozue Tanaka.

***

Two days later my Friday afternoon class let out early 
but I had to stay at school and head over to the gym. 
The warm excitement I had gotten from my meeting with 
Mrs. Tanaka had faded somewhat and now it hardly seemed 
worth the price I was going to have to pay. All the 
other students were heading home, happy to be free for 
the weekend but I was trudging off to see Mr. Roberts 
and work in the gym. I just knew he was going to have me 
down on my hands and knees scrubbing floors or doing 
something equally back breaking. 

Mr. Roberts the Phys. Ed. teacher was a young man, not 
long out of college. He had long blonde hair, a body 
builder's physique, and wasn't too bright; most of my 
friends and I couldn't stand him. He was infamous for 
his sadistic treatment of students, especially those of 
us that he considered to be 'nerds'. Quick to assign 
numerous pushups to anyone who broke one of his 
arbitrary rules, he always had an eye out for the weak 
and inept students, singling them out the for ridicule 
or punishment. As the only Phys. Ed. teacher at our 
small school he ran his office in the gym like a tiny, 
independent dictatorship. 

As I walked down the hallway to Mr. Robert's office the 
door to the gym opened suddenly and I found myself 
surrounded by a group of sweaty girls, laughing and 
talking as they ran towards the locker room: 

Last period gym class had just gotten out. They swarmed 
past on both sides, paying no attention to me. The 
closeness of all of those female bodies in their gym 
outfits embarrassed and aroused me; I could see clearly 
the outlines of their breasts, their bare thighs, their 
faces flushed from exertion. A few of them brushed 
against me as they passed, they were so close I could 
smell the sweat from their bodies all around me.

I caught a glimpse of Yuki, last in the group, as she 
quickly slipped past; her tight fitting white top had 
blue racing stripes down the sides and a large blue 
number 'six' curling between her small breasts. Below 
that she had on a pair of baggy gray sweats that hid the 
rest of her figure. I fought the urge to turn and look 
after her as she walked away down the hall while I 
continued towards the boy's locker room in the opposite 
direction. 

The outer part of Mr. Roberts' office was a glassed in 
area set off the rest of the locker room. When I entered 
it was empty. My head was still spinning from seeing 
Yuki and all those other girls in their gym outfits. The 
sight of the empty office briefly gave me the wild idea 
that Mr. Roberts had forgotten about me and that I might 
be able to go straight home after all. Just then I saw 
him come out of his inner office and close the door 
quickly behind him. 

"Ah, there you are Rivers," he said, slapping me on the 
back in a forced gesture of camaraderie. "Glad to see 
you! And you're here early. Good. Very good." 

He was the kind of talker who doesn't let you get a word 
in edgewise, but I was grateful for it because I had 
nothing to say to him anyway. 

He continued: "What I need you to do for me is fairly 
simple, two days a week, Mondays and Fridays, right?" I 
nodded. "OK, today's Friday... let's see...Oh yeah, 
Friday I need the gym floor cleaned. I'll show you where 
all of the stuff is and then you can just get started. 
I've got some things, some work I need to do so you'll 
be on your own." He nodded towards the door to his 
inner, personal office. "I'll be in there. Knock if you 
need me. I'm sure you won't though, huh? Just come and 
tell me when you're done, OK?" 

It relieved me to know I would be working alone. I 
didn't want to have to be around him, his constant 
talking, any more than I had to. He showed me the 
cleaning supplies and let me go to work in peace.

For the next few weeks Mr. Roberts had me cleaning up 
all the gym and locker rooms, scrubbing the floors, 
cleaning the bathrooms and showers, everything. I didn't 
see much of him though. After getting me started on the 
chore for the day he would spend all of his time in his 
inner office with the door closed; when I finished I 
would knock to let him know I was leaving.

My relationship with Mr. Roberts got off on the wrong 
foot. Sensing my dislike for him, I think he labeled me 
an untrustworthy slacker. He continued to give me the 
dirtiest jobs to do and started popping out of his 
office at unexpected moments to check up on me, riding 
me about being slow, not careful, or would hammer me 
with any petty criticism he could come up with. The day 
he asked me to do the laundry was a relief from all the 
scrubbing and cleaning I had been doing on my hands and 
knees.

Mr. Roberts showed me the laundry room and where to go 
get the carts containing the dirty towels and uniforms. 
"Do the towels first, I'd say. There's more of 'em," he 
advised. "Let's see what else we have today...OK! this 
cart is football, do the pants and jerseys separately, 
Right? This one is basketball, they all go in one load. 
Then you'll have to go down the hall and get the girl's 
stuff. You can do the volley ball uniforms today too. 
One load also, OK?" 

My heart was pounding. "Girls volleyball uniforms," I 
thought to myself. "Yuki's uniform must be somewhere in 
that pile!" 

"Rivers!" he snapped at me. "Stop day dreaming! You got 
everything? 

You're ready?" I assured him I was ready to get going 
right away.

I hurriedly got the towels and football stuff going, 
there were enough machines for that much; the rest I 
would have to do after. I sat on one of the machines for 
about ten minutes before remembering that the girl's 
uniforms were down the hall. I found the cart in the 
hall and brought it back into the laundry room, looking 
over towards the office to see if Mr. Roberts was 
around. As usual his inner door was shut and he was 
nowhere in sight. Torn between an intense curiosity and 
a deep sense that what I was about to do was sick and 
perverted, I thought about finding Yuki's uniform 
somewhere in that cart. 

Unable to resist the urge, I nervously looked inside, 
glancing over my shoulder several times as if Mr. 
Roberts might spring up out of nowhere. Growing bolder I 
reached into the cart and pulled out a uniform. It was 
the same as the one I had seen Yuki wearing: One piece, 
like a gymnasts' outfit, the top was white with blue 
stripes, the bottom was blue, so that when worn it 
looked like a separate shirt and pants. Turning it over 
in my hands I looked at the number: 'eleven'. I dropped 
it and reached for another: 'nineteen'. After looking at 
a few more uniforms without finding 'six' I grew bolder, 
throwing the uniforms I had looked at out onto the floor 
and, finally, near the bottom, discovering the precious 
object of my search and lifting it gingerly out of the 
cart. 

Just holding it limply by the shoulders I tried to 
imagine Yuki's beautiful body filling it out: her 
delicate, slender thighs had poked through these round 
leg holes; her small firm butt had filled that now baggy 
piece of cloth, straining out against the fabric, 
shaping it to the form of her body. Turning to the front 
there was just a hint of looseness at the breasts. I let 
my hand run down the front of the uniform finally 
grazing that oh so thin strip at the crotch. 

I closed my eyes and thought: half an hour ago her 
moist, soft cunt pressed against the very spot where my 
fingers now ran gently. The sight of that crotch 
fascinated me; the slight way the fabric puffed out, as 
if it had been pushed out by, or strained to contain... 
what? My knowledge of female anatomy ended right there. 
Like an explorer of old, my imagination had sailed me 
into unknown waters.

When my father had moved out my mother threw piles of 
his stuff into the basement. Among his effects were 
several Playboy magazines that I found and 'studied' in 
the privacy of my room. 'Boobs' were only a passing 
fascination for me; my real interest was the pubic hair 
and what lay, unseen, beneath it. I would search those 
photographs like an astronomer straining his vision into 
the void, the darkness and shadows growing darker and 
shadowier as my gaze descended, always terminating in 
artificial, airbrushed blackness. 

At our swim club I saw a lot of girls my age in the 
tightest swim suits, and again my eyes would seek out 
their crotches, each one slightly different, but none of 
them revealing enough to satisfy my curiosity. Now, the 
tiny blue expanse of fabric I held between my fingers 
fascinated me. To think that only millimeters away the 
flesh that I craved had been held tightly by this very 
piece of cloth, not an hour ago where my fingers were 
now moving freely I would not have been able to put 
them: two distances, one in space, the other in time, so 
close, yet so hopelessly unbridgeable.

"Rivers!"

Mr. Roberts, who had been leaning through the doorway 
for some time watching me, harshly interrupted my 
ruminations. His yell made me drop my beloved number 
'six' back into the laundry cart. "Rivers!" he yelled 
again. "What the hell do you think you're doing in here? 
This isn't fluff and fold. Just jam those things in 
there, will you. Jeez! I want to get home sometime 
today," he added with sarcasm. 

"Oh...Ok!...Sorry," was all I could blurt out, but he 
was already walking away shaking his head, muttering to 
himself. I hurriedly gathered the uniforms and stuffed 
them into one of the washers and got the load going. 
Mercifully Mr. Roberts went back in his office and 
closed the door behind him again. I wondered why he 
hadn't used the ripe opportunity to ridicule me some 
more but had simply walked off. 

For the next twenty minutes or so, while the washer ran, 
there was nothing else for me to do. I needed some air 
after getting worked up over Yuki's uniform and, looking 
furtively over my shoulder for Mr. Roberts, I slipped 
out the door into the cool November air. On the walkway, 
I rounded the corner of the Phys. Ed. building: Yuki was 
standing alone in the distance. I stopped, my first urge 
to being to back pedal, but she had already seen me and 
was looking over in my direction. 

I hesitated, half way around the corner, rocking from 
one leg to the other. "Uh oh," I thought. "I've just 
been fingering the crotch of her uniform. Am I supposed 
to go up and talk to her?" My hesitation only caused her 
to keep looking in my direction, a questioning look on 
her face. I had no choice but to try to approach her as 
naturally as I could. 

"Hi," I called out with an exaggerated wave of my hand. 
I was still about ten feet away from her, an awkward 
distance to start a conversation. "Damn!" I thought to 
myself. "Too soon! Slow down. Wait." 

She waited until I stopped beside her. "Hello," she said 
looking at her feet. "Don't you have a coat? It's so 
cold!" She pulled her down coat more closely around 
shoulders; her jet-black hair was striking, framed by 
the white fur-lined hood.

"Oh, no," I answered: "I just stepped out," pointing 
back towards the gym. 

"Ahhh, I see," she answered, drawing out the words as if 
I had just imparted some deep, dark, fundamental truth 
to her. 

"What are you doing out here?" I asked hurriedly, the 
silence making me uncomfortable. 

"I'm waiting for a ride. My mother...she... sees people 
after school." Her cheeks flushed. I knew she knew that 
I was one of the people her mother saw after school too. 
She hurried to continue: 

"Usually I have practice, with the orchestra, or I stay 
and practice volleyball, but not today, they had to wash 
the uniforms." 

My heart raced. She knew! Was she testing me somehow? 
Did the look on my face betray my perverse infatuation, 
my actions? No, I decided, the panic receding, she 
couldn't. She wouldn't be talking to me now if she knew 
what I had just been doing...

We stood there, awkwardly, each uncomfortably holding 
onto our secret bit of knowledge about the other until 
she turned her head away towards the parking lot and 
stamped her foot lightly. "My mother is late." 

I wanted to stay standing there with her but the silence 
grew increasingly uncomfortable; the longer we stood 
without saying anything the worse it felt. 

"So, you play volleyball." I managed to choke out the 
words.

"Yes."

"I hear you're supposed to be great, that you could have 
gone to the Olympics, or something."

I had embarrassed her. She shook her head. "No, I'm not 
that good," she said as she looked down at her feet, 
watching herself scrape the toe of her boot across the 
ground. "I need a lot of practice. My serve is OK, 
because I can practice that all I want, but my 
defense..." Her tone grew more animated, the volleyball 
player taking over from the shy girl: "My defense is 
terrible. To practice that I need someone else to help 
me. Someone has to throw me the ball and there isn't 
anyone else around here interested."

I was just opening my mouth to speak, to offer to help 
her, to be the one who would throw her the ball, when a 
car honked its horn across the parking lot.

"Oh, it's my mother," Yuki said, quickly turning her 
head. "I've got to go. Bye." 

"So long," I called as I watched her trot across the 
parking lot then, turning, I went back in to the gym.

The distance between us had been bridged, however 
tenuously. The next day in home room Yuki smiled and 
said hello to me. Surprised, I only mumbled something in 
response, but from that day on we began to exchange 
greetings every morning.

***

During the next few weeks my sessions with Mrs. Tanaka 
became painful and emotional for me as she had me go 
over the events surrounding my father's departure in 
detail. I had tried my best to forget his rages, his 
hitting mom and yelling at me, all of his sudden violent 
outbursts, and the weird changes that took over his 
personality. 

Dredging all of that up again under her kindly but 
insistent questioning was draining. I often ended up 
exhausted, in tears during those sessions, my energy 
completely drained by the end of the hour. Mrs. Tanaka 
would often end up with her arm around my shoulder 
comforting me as I poured out my feelings. The light 
touch of her hand sent a pleasant thrill through my 
body, comforting me yet at the same time arousing me.

At the end of each session her demeanor changed abruptly 
but in a way that was subtle, so subtle it took some 
time for me to even notice; it was as if she changed 
from the psychologist to more of a friend as soon as the 
hour was over. She offered me a rides home every week, 
always just the two of us, and she would tell little 
stories about her life, growing up in Japan, or her 
first experiences coming to America. She loved to tell 
jokes, silly ones that I didn't really find funny, but I 
enjoyed them because I loved to hear her laugh. Her 
quiet sing song voice gave everything she told me an 
idyllic, almost fairy tale quality, filling me with a 
sense of calm that lasted long after she left. 

I came to look forward to the fifteen minutes or so we 
spent together in her car every week almost as much as I 
did to seeing her daughter. When she touched me, giving 
me a mock punch on the shoulder, or a pat on the knee as 
I got out of the car, my whole body felt the thrill of 
her touch, vibrating where the pressure of her hand left 
its lasting impression, a slowly fading physical memory. 

My nightmares were all but gone and Kozue more and more 
often entered my dreams as an erotic presence. Where 
thoughts of Yuki still filled my conscious, waking 
hours, for some reason it was her mother who gradually 
came to occupy the unconscious ones. 

Several days after my brief conversation with Yuki I 
found myself late getting out of school. On my way to 
the lockers one of my teachers stopped me in the 
hallway; he wanted to talk about my sinking grades in 
his class. We stood talking in the middle of the hall as 
the other students streamed around us and the school 
emptied. He was friendly but insistent with me. 

All I wanted was to get away from there as quickly as 
possible and so I did everything I could to placate him. 
He mistook my attitude for one of real interest in what 
he was saying and wouldn't stop talking for several more 
minutes. When he was finally through and we took our 
leave of each other we were the last two people left in 
the hallway. 

As I started walking home I had the impulse to pass by 
the gym, not intending to go inside, but hoping that 
somehow I might run into Yuki in the parking lot again; 
but the lot was almost empty, just a few cars scattered 
around, and no one was waiting there. Disappointed, I 
changed direction cutting across the lot and headed for 
the gym. As I stepped on the walkway I could faintly 
hear the distinct familiar thud of a single ball banging 
off the bleachers through the small windows high up on 
the wall. My heart raced: It had to be Yuki, practicing.

I quickly glanced over my shoulder, afraid that someone 
might see me, and went in. The sound of the ball grew 
louder as I walked down the hall towards the double 
doors leading to the gym. Looking through the small 
glass windows I could see a lone figure at the far end. 
A tall slender girl was leaping high in the air, hitting 
a vicious looking jump serve over a volleyball net. 

The ball struck in the corner of the opposite court and 
rebounded off a bank of folded bleachers. She ran 
forward a few steps, bending to retrieve the bouncing 
ball and set up for another serve; her ponytail bobbed 
behind her as she took long graceful loping strides. I 
didn't have to see her face to know that it was Yuki.

My heart raced as it did whenever I caught a glimpse of 
her. Her mother was right: When she was playing 
volleyball she was a totally different girl; she exuded 
power and confidence in the way she moved. Her slender 
body arched gracefully as she tossed the ball high in 
the air and jumped to meet it, kicking back her feet as 
she floated in mid air. Her arm stretched high overhead 
and then snapped forward, tomahawking the ball over the 
net, pounding it down into the opposing court with a 
bang that echoed throughout the gym. She repeated the 
serve many times, alternating which corner she was 
aiming for and she never missed. 

I watched her serve the ball, afraid that if I went in 
it would scare her off and I would have to wait another 
day before my next glimpse of her; then the ball bounced 
awkwardly off the bleachers and started bounding across 
the gym towards the doors where I was standing. I didn't 
think she could see me out in the darkened hallway yet, 
but the ball was going to hit right in the middle of the 
double doors I was standing behind. She would have to 
come over to this side of the gym to get it and surely 
see me lurking behind the windows then. 

I had to make a move quickly or be discovered spying. 
Pushing through the doors I trapped the ball with my 
foot. Yuki was jogging over toward the door when she 
noticed me come through. Slowing to a walk, she reached 
behind her to pull down the butt of her uniform. I saw 
her eyes lower, a guarded expression come across her 
face in the space of that one step, and I instantly 
regretted barging in on her, ruining her intensely 
private moment. I couldn't look away; I felt like a 
leering oaf but I couldn't tear my eyes off her. 

She was wearing her one piece uniform, number 'six', the 
one I had held in my hands. The tight fitting uniform 
made the contours of her body clearly visible: the soft 
mound of her crotch; the gentle rise of her belly, even 
the slight indentation of her navel; her rib cage, 
heaving with each breath she took; her small breasts, 
hardened nipples pointing at me like accusing little 
finger tips that seemed to say: "Shame!"

My gaze embarrassed her, almost more than if she had 
been naked. The tightness of the uniform highlighted her 
body more than it covered it and her hands nervously 
traveled upwards, following the path my eyes took; she 
clasped them together first in front of her crotch, then 
brought them up to wipe her face, covering her breasts 
with her forearms.

We both blushed, the short silence seemed painfully 
long. I panicked searching for something to say, some 
reason why I was even there in the gym at all; the fact 
that I had intercepted the ball was incriminating 
evidence of my spying: it would be a lame excuse to 
claim that I had just happened to open the door right 
then. I had to say something, make up some story, 
anything to break up this wretched, endless moment. 
Finally, in desperation, because I had absolutely 
nothing else in mind, I resorted to honesty.

"Hi, Yuki. Sorry to bother you," I said. "I didn't mean 
to surprise you like that. I was just passing by the gym 
and heard you practicing. I remember you saying how 
tough it is to practice on your own." I faltered, her 
expression was unchanged; what little confidence I had 
left eroded.

"I could throw you the ball, or something," I said 
tentatively.

"Thank you," she said. "It would be boring for you. I 
can manage on my own, really." 

"I wouldn't be bored at all," I put in quickly. "I like 
you...I...I mean I'd like to. I wouldn't be bored." 
Flustered, I thought: "Why did I say that?" She looked 
down at her shoes. "Listen," I said quickly trying to 
erase what I had just said. "Just let me throw you a 
couple. I've got nowhere to go anyway. Let me do a 
couple, then you can tell me to leave, all right? I'll 
throw you the ball twice and then you tell me to go...or 
to stay, OK?"

"I don't know..." 

"Come on," I said, my confidence returning. I could see 
her struggling to decide. The shy girl part of her 
wanted me to go away and leave her alone but the 
volleyball player was telling her not to turn down a 
golden opportunity to get in some much needed practice. 
I knew I was taking advantage of her too, her 
politeness, her inability to say no. She fidgeted for a 
few more seconds before turning back towards the far end 
of the gym.

She told me to throw the ball in a high arc over the net 
and she dug it out underhand, with her fists together. 
The ball sailed straight up into the air.

"Good!" I called out as the ball bounced next to her.

She shook her head as she grabbed it. "No it wasn't. It 
was terrible. It's not supposed to go that high. I can't 
control it; that's the weakest part of my game," she 
said, throwing the ball back to me with some force. "Do 
that again, the same." 

The volleyball player was taking over and she quickly 
became absorbed. I threw her the ball again and this 
time she kept it lower. I could see she was really 
thinking hard about what she was doing; her face had a 
blank look of intense concentration as she threw the 
ball back to me distractedly.

I held it for a moment as she crouched down, waiting. 
When I didn't toss it to her she looked up, surprised.

"Yuki," I said, "that's two. Should I go?" I paused. 
"Whatever you want, but I don't mind staying," I added.

"You really don't mind?" she asked, her eyebrows raised, 
a cute quizzical look that made my heart ache.

"Not at all," I answered truthfully.

She had me throw her the ball many more times after 
that, alternating sides of the court, sometimes near the 
net, sometimes deep in the back. I noticed that she did 
seem to improve with practice although I was mainly 
interested in watching her lithe body going through its 
motions. She looked so fragile and slender, but as I 
watched her move around the court I realized how strong 
and incredibly flexible she really was. 

I could see the muscles in her delicate looking thighs 
flexing as she crouched to receive the ball or when she 
ran after it with long graceful strides. Watching her I 
longed to run my hands over her legs, her thighs, her 
behind, to feel the smooth hardness of her body under my 
touch. I couldn't keep my eyes from wandering to the 
small feminine mound of her crotch, remembering the way 
her uniform puffed out there when I had run my fingers 
over it. 

Her warm cunt was doing that, pushing out the fabric, 
creating that little puffy mound right now, I thought. I 
imagined stroking it, gently, with just the tips of my 
fingers brushing it, just as I had done in the laundry 
room; only now she would be in it, all soft and warm to 
the touch, moaning softly with pleasure, telling me not 
to stop.

I lost all awareness of time as I threw the ball to her 
over and over again; lulled into a trance-like state, my 
head was buzzing pleasantly and my entire body felt 
enveloped in a soft, glowing embrace. Yuki had lost 
herself too, in her volleyball. Her shyness totally 
disappeared and she began talking more freely, if only 
to tell me where to throw the ball and how high, or to 
chide me if the last throw had been off. 

At last she stopped and held the ball under her arm, 
breaking the spell. She said, breathing heavily:

"Richard, I've got to go. My mother will be waiting. 
Thank you so much for helping me practice." 

Looking at the clock I realized we had been at it for 
almost an hour. She came over and stood in front of me, 
so close that I could see the beads of sweat on her neck 
and chest. Through her sweat soaked uniform I could 
clearly see the outlines of her small breasts, the 
surprisingly fat hard nipples bobbing up and down with 
each quick breath she took. It was my turn to look at my 
shoes, too embarrassed to look her in the eye.

"Thank you," she said, again.

"No problem," I said.

"Bye." 

Turning quickly, she trotted to the doors and went out. 
For the rest of the semester I made it a point to pass 
by the gym on my way home from school on days when I 
wasn't working for Mr. Roberts or in a session with Mrs. 
Tanaka, always listening for the sound of Yuki 
practicing. She was usually there and our practice 
sessions together became fairly regular, at least once a 
week. 

I also discovered that she had to be in school early, 
because of her mother, and I made it a point to reform 
my bad habit of showing up to first period late. If I 
arrived early, more often than not she would be there, 
already in her seat studying. We began having a few, 
tentative, non volleyball conversations.

She told me that she had grown up in a small town in 
Japan, in a mountainous part of the country that was 
relatively isolated. The local girls school had a 
tradition of turning out some of the best women 
volleyball players in Japan; that is how she got 
involved in it. She showed promise early so her parents 
and coaches had pushed her to continue and to work very 
hard at it. 

Leaving her home, her school and her team to come to 
America had been difficult for her. The few friends she 
had were all still there, and she knew that by coming to 
America her volleyball skills could do nothing but get 
worse. She also told me that she had never been to a 
coed school before. Her girlfriends back home had teased 
and scared her with their stories about America, and in 
particular, American boys. 

One thing we had in common was our fathers' behavior: 
she confided in me that her father had left recently for 
the Philippines where he was living with a stewardess he 
met on a business trip. Yuki's mother was devastated to 
find out that the affair had been going on for several 
years, but she and Yuki decided to stick it out in 
America alone together rather than act weak and return 
to Japan. I told Yuki about my father and all of the 
weird stuff that went on in our house over the summer: I 
wondered if she knew any of it already from her mother. 

She listened sympathetically even if she did. As the end 
of the semester drew near Yuki told me that she and her 
mother were spending the holiday in Hawaii. She quickly 
countered my expressions of envy by telling me that her 
parents were going to be there together, to try and 
patch things up. She wasn't looking forward to it. For 
the first time I realized I was going to have to live 
for two whole weeks without seeing her: The holidays 
were going to be bleak indeed. I told her that me and 
mom would probably be eating Christmas dinner off of 
paper plates, just as we had done for Thanksgiving.

***

After all of the emotionally draining sessions, Mrs. 
Tanaka took a new tack with me for the last few weeks of 
the semester; no longer hammering away at my memories of 
my father she started asking me all about my social 
life, whether or not I had many close friends, and about 
my relationships with girls. I tried to be as honest as 
I could with her but there was always a gaping hole in 
anything I had to say: 

I couldn't bring myself to tell her how I felt about 
Yuki, and I there was no way I was going to tell her 
about her own role in my dreams. I was worried that Yuki 
might have told her mother about our practice sessions 
together, or our little chats in home room, but I 
decided to play dumb and not bring any of it up. 

I just couldn't confess any of the feelings I had for 
the daughter, in part I began to realize, because I was 
attracted to the mother as well. I spent a lot of time 
trying to figure out if she was fishing, if she knew of 
my interest in Yuki, maybe even of my complete 
infatuation with her, and was attempting to get me to 
talk about it. I felt drained at the end of each 
session, like I had played an hour of cat and mouse. 

Mrs. Tanaka expressed concerns about my being such an 
introvert, and felt that my attitudes about women and 
sex were unhealthy. If I was to be a better adjusted 
person, in her opinion, I needed to base my life more on 
reality than on fantasy. On that point at least I could 
not disagree, and I resolved that with the new year I 
would remake myself: instead of fantasizing about Yuki 
in the dark of my room I would do something positive 
about it, get to know her, maybe even ask her out 
eventually. I felt myself confidence building, and an 
intense feeling of gratitude towards Mrs. Tanaka for 
helping me. At the end of the last session before the 
holidays we exchanged a long hug, wishing each other a 
happy new year.

My holidays weren't bleak after all even though we 
didn't have much to celebrate in our house that year. My 
new found optimism saw me through what would have 
otherwise been a miserable vacation. Preoccupied with 
thoughts of Yuki and Kozue, it was as if I was only half 
there anyway. My poor mother must have felt as if she 
spent the holidays alone, or worse than alone since I 
spent most of my time in my room listening to the sleet 
and snow pelt my windows, waiting for the day when I 
could go back to school.

But the first week of the semester tested my new years' 
resolutions sorely. Yuki smiled and nodded to me in home 
room but we never got a chance to talk; she always 
seemed to be hurrying off to class. Every day I passed 
the gym on my way home from school, sometimes standing 
in the biting cold for ten minutes until my feet froze, 
waiting for the sounds of her practicing that never 
came. The gym was empty when I looked inside.

The morning of my session with Mrs. Tanaka a bitter wind 
blew down from the North , chilling the air well below 
zero, the kind of cold that numbs you to the bone within 
seconds. The sky grew gray and ominous from noon onward, 
foreshadowing the coming storm. A few flakes were 
already falling as I made my way to her office.

She greeted me in a subdued manner, wishing me a belated 
happy new year. The change in her shocked me: she seemed 
to have lost a lot of weight in the short winter recess, 
her eyes had dark circles under them, and her voice, 
once the beautiful, lilting, sing-song voice I had 
loved, sounded flat and tired.

"How are you doing, Richard?" She managed a weak smile 
for me. "No more nightmares, I hope?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Tanaka," I said. "How was Hawaii?" I 
asked, stupidly, regretting the words even as they left 
my mouth.

"Hawaii..." She sighed. "Hawaii is such a beautiful 
place, Richard. Such a paradise." Her weary tone 
suggested a wasteland, not an island paradise at all; 
she looked as if she might start crying and I squirmed 
with discomfort. I hated being around crying women: I 
didn't know what to do, what to say, how I should act. 

Mom cried a lot when dad left and I had tried to console 
her in my own awkward fashion. The feelings of 
helplessness and despair that had come over me were 
still too fresh in my memory; I didn't want to go 
through anything like that again. But Mrs. Tanaka didn't 
cry. She snapped into her professional persona. Asking 
me to sit down, we began the session.

She was not herself; clearly distracted, her mind was 
far away from me and my little problems. She made me 
repeat myself several times, and her note pad, usually 
full of scribbled notes by the end of each session, lay 
on her lap, the top page empty except for my name and 
the date. I'm not even sure what she was driving at with 
her random questions; the whole session seemed so blasé, 
we both just went through the motions: she asking stock 
questions, me giving stock answers. 

Mrs. Tanaka's mood seemed so dark, her emotions so 
fragile, I felt my main objective that session should be 
to simply avoid upsetting her. My mind wandered as we 
kept up the shell of a conversation. I couldn't stop 
thinking about Yuki: Why was she ignoring me? What had I 
done wrong? We both lost track of time. Eventually Mrs. 
Tanaka snapped out of her daydream and looked at the 
clock on her desk.

"Oh, no," she said in a low voice. "Look at the time, 
it's five o clock!"

We should have finished by half past four. She offered 
me a ride home, after she made one quick phone call; she 
wanted to see if Yuki had made it home on her own. I saw 
her relax a little as Yuki answered. They spoke together 
in Japanese for a short time, Mrs. Tanaka's expression 
growing serious as she hung up the phone.

"It's really snowing out there, according to my 
daughter," she said pulling on her coat. "Many roads are 
closed already. She thought I was stuck somewhere. We 
had better hurry. Do you want to call home?"

My mother would still be at work, I told her; no need to 
call yet. Once we stepped out of her well-insulated 
office we could hear the wind howling outside as we 
hurried down the empty hallways.

The door to the outside wouldn't open when she pushed 
it.

"It can't be locked from the inside?" She said, as if 
thinking aloud.

We tried pushing together and finally got the door about 
half way open, letting out exclamations of amazement 
when we finally managed to unstick it: a waist high snow 
had blown against it. Snow blew into the hallway, in our 
faces, sending us staggering back inside. We could see 
her car in the distance, alone in the middle of the snow 
covered parking lot, a drift covering it to the door 
handles.

"Oh," she said softly, wiping snow from her eyes. "This 
is terrible."

We closed the door to shut out the biting cold. She 
leaned against the wall next to the doors, her shoulders 
slumped.

"Mrs. Tanaka," I said, "I think your car is stuck here. 
Even if we could shovel it out we'd never get it out of 
the lot. Did you see the drifts out there?" Nobody had 
been through to plow the school lot yet, if plows were 
even out in a storm like this.

"How quickly it happened," she said with quiet 
astonishment. "It was clear this afternoon. We will have 
to find another way home I guess."

Returning to her office she told me to call my mother 
right away. Mom sounded relieved to hear my voice, but 
worried: the TV news said that all the area roads were 
impassable, the plows couldn't even get out and the 
state police had advised everyone to stay indoors. When 
I relayed this news to Mrs. Tanaka she got a little 
frantic, thumbing through the phone book she said she 
was going to call us a taxi. I sat and watched as she 
called every number in the book with no luck. No taxi 
driver in his right mind was going out in that storm. 
Finally, she fell into her chair, exasperated.

"I'm going to call Mr. Forbes," she said at last.

She explained our predicament to Mr. Forbes and then was 
silent as he spoke for a long time. His bright idea was 
to call the police, which she did right away, talking 
with several different people, growing more and more 
frustrated. It was obvious from her end that the police 
weren't going to come either. Their best advice was to 
stay put. The school had heat, it was safe, and we could 
get food and water if we needed, so why leave? Mrs. 
Tanaka had a difficult time accepting it, and she kept 
demanding to speak to higher-ups. Eventually she got as 
high as she could before slowly hanging up the phone, 
sighing.

"They are absolutely no help," she said, leaning back in 
her chair. "They are going to make us stay here over 
night. Nobody can come until tomorrow." I could see 
tears welling up in her eyes.

I felt guilty because for me the whole thing had been 
exciting:

the storm, getting stuck, maybe having to camp out at 
the school were all welcome breaks from my dreary life, 
but Mrs. Tanaka seemed upset. Barely containing her 
tears she nervously twisted a pen between her fingers as 
she broke the news to me. She felt responsible for the 
whole mess we were in, and my assurances that I didn't 
mind had no effect on her at all. She showed me to the 
office next to hers and told me to call my mother. She 
had to make a few calls from her own office and would be 
back as soon as she finished. 

My mom expressed concern about me, but the fact I wasn't 
going to have to travel in the storm was some comfort to 
her. I assured her that I had all my warm clothes with 
me, I would try to find something to eat, and that 
everything would be fine. After I hung up it struck me 
how quiet these offices were, how insulated from the 
world. Outside, a savage storm was blowing while I sat 
warm and comfortable. 

Nothing could reach me. There was something appealing 
about it, like being in a cocoon, or in a deep warm 
underground cave. I sat back in the comfortable chair 
and enjoyed the feeling. Excitement had completely 
washed away all my worries; for the first time in weeks 
I was able to sit calmly, peacefully, as if I hadn't a 
care in the world.

Mrs. Tanaka stuck her head into the office.

"Richard," she said, "are you hungry? It's almost seven 
o'clock. I think we should see if we can find something 
in the cafeteria, OK?" Her voice was much more relaxed; 
almost back to the way I remembered it. I think 
resigning herself to the situation she had finally 
stopped fighting and accepted our fate calmly. We walked 
in silence through the eerie dark of the deserted 
school, the muffled sounds of the howling wind 
accompanying our soft footsteps as we passed door after 
door of empty classrooms. 

A single fluorescent tube dimly lit the cafeteria, 
giving it an eerie, bluish glow. We walked carefully 
between the chairs and tables, through the heavy 
swinging metal doors and into the kitchen. The kitchen 
was pitch black and Mrs. Tanaka fumbled for the light 
switch. With a crackle the lights came to life, making 
both of us blink at the sudden harsh brightness 
reflected off the stainless steel all around us.

She turned to me. "This is going to be fun," she said 
with a smile that took me by surprise. She laughing, the 
soft, melodious laugh that I loved to hear as she 
surveyed the kitchen.

"I've always wanted to do this," she said as if to 
herself.

After perusing the shelves, she selected a can of tomato 
soup, enough to feed twenty people, but the smallest 
thing we could find. I worked on getting the can opened 
while she disappeared into the walk-in freezer. She 
emerged with a box in her hands and a triumphant, 
mischievous look on her face.

"We are having tomato soup," she said putting the box on 
the counter, gesturing towards the now lidless can, 
"bologna sandwiches," she went on, pulling out bread, 
bologna and a huge bottle of mustard, "and, a special 
surprise! Cake." She pulled a chocolate cake still in 
its plastic tray out of the box with a mock flourish.

"That's great," I couldn't help laughing.

She busied herself making sandwiches and heating the 
soup, refusing my offers to help. I leaned on the 
counter and watched her. Although I had spent the first 
semester seeing her every week, other than the sound of 
her voice which I loved, it was as if I had never really 
paid attention to her before that moment. Now, watching 
her move about the kitchen I saw her, in a certain 
sense, for the first time. 

She had such a youthful quality to the way she moved, a 
playfulness, unlike any other adult I knew. Quick to 
laugh, her eyes sparkled with an impish glitter that 
delighted me. She took off her jacket, throwing it onto 
the counter. In her dark skirt and white blouse I 
realized how fine, how delicate her body looked; her 
slim waist and hips--not girlish and athletic like 
Yuki's--had a woman's mature fullness. 

Watching the movement of her delicate arms and shoulders 
thrilled me as she quickly and efficiently assembled 
sandwiches and ladled soup. In my dreams she had been an 
erotic presence for weeks, but more psychic than 
physical, arousing me entirely with the warm glow she 
radiated. Now the realization came, surprising me, 
almost as something I had been afraid to see: she was a 
beautiful woman.

We ate our dinner mostly in silence making small talk 
about the weather, our strange situation, and other 
things. After we cleaned up, she looked at her watch, 
sighing.

"It's not even eight thirty. Too early to go to bed. 
I've got work here I can do. How about you?"

"I can always go to my locker and get some books or 
something," I said.

"Good. Go get them. I'm sorry but there isn't anything 
else to do in here," she shrugged helplessly. "Study for 
a while before bedtime. Mr. Forbes told me there is a 
bed in the nurse's office. You can sleep there. I'll 
sleep on the couch in my office."

She set me up with my homework in the office next to 
hers where I listlessly flipped the pages of my 
textbooks for an hour while she worked next door. 
Suddenly the lights went out, leaving us in total 
darkness. I heard her bumping around in her office as I 
got to my feet and started feeling my way along the 
wall. We met in the doorway, bumping heads.

"Ouch," she laughed. "Are you OK? We seem to have lost 
power."

We stood for a moment, only a foot or two apart. It was 
so quiet I could hear her breath, feel it on my face. 
The constant rush of the heaters, in the background 
before, had stopped, leaving behind a sudden, noticeable 
void.

"I think the heat is gone too," she said.

I held my hand up in front of my eyes. "I can't believe 
how dark it is in here, I can't see my own hand."

"I know," she said. "We should go back to my office."

I felt her hand brush my arm. "Hold my hand," she said. 
Hand in hand we stumbled to her office. She let me go 
and fumbled around on the desk.

"The phone is dead too."

The room already felt a degree or two cooler because of 
the lack of constantly blowing warm air. We found our 
coats to use as blankets and Mrs. Tanaka suggested that 
we sit on the couch and drape them over ourselves. Our 
bodies touched as we sat side by side. I could feel her 
warm thigh pressed against mine. We sat quietly for a 
while and then she began to tell me a story about her 
childhood, growing up in Japan.

She had been a little girl, five or six years old, 
taking a train trip all the way to the north part of the 
island to see her grandparents, alone. Her parents had 
put her on a train that would go directly to the city 
where her grandparents lived. It was safe, and the 
stewards on the train would look out for her during the 
long trip. Somewhere the train had stopped in a dark 
tunnel for what seemed like hours to her. Terrified, she 
had started crying and crying, she said, and she 
wouldn't stop. A kindly old steward came and held her 
hand, calming her until the train was out of the tunnel. 

Later in the trip he had lead her up to the front of the 
train to meet the drivers and had held her hand again, 
taking her to the waiting arms of her grandparents at 
the station.

At some point during the story she put her arm around my 
shoulder. I wanted to do the same, but felt too shy. It 
was getting noticeably colder and we sat in silence for 
a long time. As I started to drift off to sleep I 
thought I heard her crying softly.

After some time I partially awoke. I could hear the 
heaters blowing and the room was warm again. The lights 
were off but now the dim green glow of a flashing 
digital clock lit the room. I had fallen asleep leaning 
on Mrs. Tanaka's shoulder. My weight had pushed her over 
so that I almost lay on top of her. We were both more 
asleep than awake then, and what happened next seems 
still as if it were a dream: an unconscious whirl of 
motions, half remembered, half experienced, dipping in 
and out of waking and dreaming. Something from the 
depths of my unconscious stealthily surfaced and took 
control of the living body it had moved only in dreams 
before.

Our faces were so close I could feel her warm breath 
streaming onto my cheek. Sensing my wakefulness, she 
stirred. Turning her head slightly towards me her lips 
softly grazed my face. I turned to meet them and our 
lips touched ever so softly: my first kiss. Our mouths 
lingered together without moving, prolonging the 
feathery gentle touch. I let myself sink down more 
deeply, feeling the soft fullness of her lips give way. 

Stirring again I heard the soft sharp hiss of her 
inhalation next to my ear. Parting further, her lips 
pulled my mouth more firmly onto her own. The little 
moan which issued from her throat passed as a vibration 
from her body into mine. Her velvet tongue reached into 
me and darted away again as if frightened then, teasing, 
playfully coaxed me to follow, deeper and deeper into 
her body; at the back of my neck her hands held me 
tightly to her. 

She pulled me down on top of her bringing our legs up 
onto the couch. I felt her skirt slide up over her 
spreading thighs. Our mouths were unable to stay apart; 
when she withdrew for a breath I hungrily sought after 
her lips, and her hands pulled my head back down to her 
again and again as our kisses grew in intensity. Her 
warm thighs moved along my body and she locked her legs 
around me, pulling my crotch against hers. 

She enveloped me completely; her legs and arms wrapped 
around me in a tight embrace, and wherever we touched 
the heat traveled between us completely saturating my 
nerves, making me tingle. I lowered all of my weight 
onto her, freeing my hands to caress her face and stroke 
her hair. Already hard and throbbing, the feel of her 
soft yielding flesh beneath me aroused me more; she 
pushed on me with her calves, showing me the thrusting 
movements I was too naive to know how to do on my own. 

The bulge in my pants burrowed into the soft flesh 
beneath her panties. But I yearned for more total, 
deeper contact with her and pushed myself against her 
with greater and greater force, rubbing myself against 
her faster and faster. Her kisses grew hungrier, more 
urgent and we stiffened, straining against each other. 

I began to feel as if I couldn't hold back any longer, 
as if my motions were no longer mine to control. I 
squeezed my crotch against her, straining every muscle 
in my body, wringing a moan from deep within her. Then I 
shuddered, coming. I throbbed against her, restricted 
and straining inside my pants as warm wet come soaked 
onto her panties, spreading to the insides of her thighs 
as she squeezed my shaking body between her legs.

"I'm sorry," I started to speak. I felt guilty--the mess 
I'd just made--as if I had done something terrible.

"Shh," she gently put a finger to my lips. "Shh, don't 
say anything. It's OK. Shh." She hugged me more tightly 
and I felt her warmth flood into me again. A peaceful 
calm came over me and I drifted back to sleep.

I woke up some time later as she tried to wriggle out 
from under me. I sat upright, feeling the cold wet come 
soaking through my pants. In the dark I could see her 
standing up next to me.

"I'm going to turn on the light, get ready," she 
whispered. The light was harsh after those hours of 
darkness. Her back was to me and I glimpsed her thighs 
as she smoothed her skirt, pulling it down over her 
knees as the lights came on.

"Let's see what kind of a mess we've made," she said 
softly, a little smile at her lips. She looked herself 
up and down: "Not too bad. A little rumpled, I guess, 
but you..."

She looked down at me and I felt ashamed: come 
completely soaked the front of my jeans. I looked as if 
I had wet my pants.

"Mrs. Tanaka, I'm sorry, I..." I started to say again.

"Don't be sorry," she said softly but insistently. 
"Don't. You poor boy! This is nothing to be ashamed 
about." She gave me a pat on the shoulder. "Shh, don't 
say anything more right now." Looking at her watch, she 
went on: "It's three in the morning. We need to get 
cleaned up and ready for tomorrow. If you rinse those 
pants out and hang them in front of a heating vent, 
they'll be dry by morning."

I was taken aback by her brisk, business-like manner: 
I'd just stained her with my come, and now she was going 
on about getting ready for tomorrow.

"Mrs. Tanaka," I began again, more insistently. "Look, I 
didn't mean..."

"Shh, she interrupted me again. "Richard, we'll talk 
about this, I promise we will, but not now. Not right 
now." She spoke softly, as if scolding an errant child. 
"Please, don't feel guilty or ashamed. This should be a 
beautiful time, not a time for apology. Just be still 
now." Her gentle voice soothed me into submission. "Oh, 
and please, don't you think after that you can call me 
Kozue?" she added, with just a hint of mischief in her 
voice.

We made our way to the bathrooms and each went to work 
cleaning up "our little mess" as she called it. I washed 
my pants and underwear in the sink and put them back on, 
wet. She led me to the darkened nurse's office and 
showed me the bed, then, kissing me on the forehead, 
left me, saying she would return when it was light 
outside.

I lay awake for a long time that night in that stark 
hospital bed, listening to the wind whipping outside, 
wondering what Mrs. Tanaka was doing at that moment, 
what she was thinking, and wondering too if my life had 
just gotten better, or, suddenly, a whole lot worse.

Mrs. Tanaka came to wake me up at eight o'clock the next 
morning. We went to the cafeteria again to eat some 
breakfast and wait for our rescue. She told me I should 
come to her office as soon as school resumed after the 
snow storm and we would have a little chat about what 
had happened. In her opinion, it would be a good idea to 
let our emotions cool down before we could deal with the 
situation in a rational way.

With that, she reverted to her chatty, playful persona. 
She started telling me some story about living in New 
York city, and how a big snow storm had hit, but I 
wasn't listening. All I could do was look at her and 
think of how beautiful she was. 

Every move she made sent a shiver through me: the way 
she held her elbows close to her body when she buttered 
her toast; how her delicate fingers curled around her 
coffee mug; the face she made as she wrinkled her little 
nose at the bad school coffee. Her motions, so delicate, 
so thoroughly feminine, made me want her, but she had 
receded back to an unassailable distance again; the 
brief connection we had enjoyed the night before seemed 
lost.

We were rescued about an hour later. Mr. Forbes arrived 
along with a state policeman who checked to make sure we 
were OK and then left. Mr. Forbes took us to the office 
so that we could call our homes, but before letting us 
use the phones he ushered us into his personal office 
and had us sit down. He told us that he would prefer it 
if we both kept quiet about our ordeal. We sat 
uncomfortably as he told us that he feared the local 
press might make "too much out of nothing" and blow the 
whole thing out of proportion if our story got out. 

Mrs. Tanaka nervously crossed her legs as he went on 
about how some people might jump to "the wrong 
conclusions" about the "embarrassing situation" of a 
student and a teacher stuck alone together in the school 
over night. She asked him what he meant by that, but he 
hedged, hemming and hawing, not really answering the 
question. I remember guiltily wiping my sweaty palms on 
the thighs of my pants, still damp where I had washed my 
come off them as he droned on.

School got canceled for the rest of the week due to the 
snow storm. The next Monday as I filed out of home room 
a hand on my arm surprised me. Yuki pulled along side of 
me in the hallway.

"Richard," she hissed, whispering over the din. "I've 
got to talk to you! Can you meet me after school?"

She had never initiated a conversation between us 
before, and after her aloof behavior recently this 
sudden approach completely took me by surprise. 
Something about her almost panicky tone worried me: I 
knew this had to be about her mother. My appointment 
with Mrs. Tanaka was for that afternoon, but using that 
as an excuse for not seeing Yuki seemed risky and made 
me extremely nervous and defensive; I suggested we meet 
at lunch instead. Her mother went off campus for lunch, 
she said, so we could use the office for privacy.

When we met, Yuki led me into the office and closed the 
door behind her. She didn't sit down but leaned her back 
against the closed door, hands folded behind her, almost 
as if she were barricading it, preventing my escape. In 
front of Yuki I couldn't bring myself to sit on the same 
couch where I had slept with her mother. Instead I 
hopped up on the desk, dangling my legs over the edge. 
"The criminal, brought back to the scene of the crime 
for interrogation," I thought.

Yuki took a deep breath and looked me in the eye: 
"Richard, thank you for meeting me here. I'm so sorry to 
trouble you, but the reason I have to talk to you is 
because of what happened last week with you and my 
mother."

Every muscle in my body tensed, it was all I could do to 
resist the urge to push her aside, fling open the door 
and run off madly down the hallway.

She went on: "She is not herself anymore. She has been 
so sad lately, because she and my father didn't work out 
their differences over the winter break, in Hawaii. It 
was awful, the whole vacation was awful, and now she's 
acting as if something worse happened. She has been so 
preoccupied, so absent minded, like a different person 
since that night she spent here. I was wondering if he 
called her again, or, I don't know, if anything else bad 
happened. Did she talk about anything to you?"

I relaxed. So she doesn't know...

In my relief I had forgotten to answer the question.

"Richard?"

"Uh, no, she didn't," I said, blankly. Then, regaining 
composure: "She did seem very sad, but I think she 
wanted to put a good face on things, you know, for me, 
to keep my spirits up."

"She didn't say anything? Did she act unusual in any way 
that night?"

"This is heading in the wrong direction," I thought.

"I don't know, I don't think so," I said. "You know, I 
don't really know her that well. It's usually me that 
does all the talking and she just listens...Come to 
think of it though," I interrupted myself, "she told 
some story about Japan, her childhood, and she seemed a 
little sad then, but I didn't think anything of it, you 
know, I didn't really notice. I don't know what else to 
say. I'm sorry." I shrugged, looking at my shoes 
swinging out from under the desk hoping my answer had 
been good enough to deflect her.

Yuki was silent, thoughtful for a moment. She sighed. 
"Well, I'm worried about her and you are the only person 
who might be able to help me. You are the only person 
who knows us both." Her eyes flickered, then she looked 
down, fidgeting. "So, what was it like, the two of you 
trapped in here alone together all night?"

"Careful," I thought.

"Well, what did your mother say," I asked, trying 
desperately not to let my voice sound cagey.

"Oh, she said it was boring. She made soup, then you 
guys just sat around reading books, or something. But 
she didn't tell me she told you stories about Japan. I 
wonder why she left that out?"

"Oh, we were falling asleep by that point," I said. My 
heart skipped a beat. "I...I mean I was falling asleep. 
I had to go across the hall to the nurses room you know. 
I slept in there." I felt as if she had handed me a rope 
and was watching me tie it around my neck.

"Can I ask you one more thing?" Her voice changed, 
softer now. She didn't look up as she spoke, instead 
fixing her gaze on the carpet at her feet.

"Sure," I said.

"Now she kicks the chair out from under me," I thought 
in despair.

"Are you avoiding me for some reason?" She blushed, eyes 
still downward, knocking the backs of her legs nervously 
against the door.

The wave of relief I felt blanketed me in joyful, 
ecstatic warmth. I could have leaped off the desk and 
hugged her. "I'm alive!" I thought.

"Me avoiding you?" I stammered.

The painful effort it had taken her to ask me that small 
question was obvious: she stood blushing, eyes downcast, 
as she had been the first time I ever saw her, and, 
suddenly, all the feelings I had for her came back, 
piercing me. She looked so desirable, battling against 
her own shyness, her modesty. In her unexpected brave 
act of self expression I glimpsed briefly the shadow of 
woman she would become: so like her mother. Her hold 
over me redoubled its power. I wanted to go to her, hold 
her, comfort her, but I stayed rooted to the desk.

Glimpsing the mother through the daughter illuminated 
the dual, disquieting nature of my desire: I wanted them 
both. One person-- split into two independent, living, 
breathing, and desirable halves-- is how I saw them: the 
daughter the potential, the mother its fulfillment. 
Aching, impossible desire filled me, a heavy, sluggish 
fluid flowing through my veins. "I thought you were 
avoiding me," I said. "I've looked for you, after 
school, in the gym, but I've never seen you there."

"Well I've been there, but I start practice later now," 
she said, defensively. "I have advanced chemistry, and 
the lab time is half an hour after last period. I don't 
even get to the gym until three thirty."

"That explains it," I said, striking my forehead with 
the palm of my hand. "And I thought you were mad at me 
or something." We arranged to meet that Thursday, when I 
would start helping her practice again.

I spent the rest of the day in a euphoric mood knowing 
that I had narrowly escaped an ugly scene, even coming 
out of the encounter having my friendship with Yuki on 
stronger footing than ever.

***

Three hours later I returned to the same office for my 
meeting with Mrs. Tanaka.

She ushered me in, and as we took our seats on the couch 
she gave it a little pat.

"Scene of the crime," she said, a smile flickering 
across her face.

I sat in dumbfounded silence: was she a mind reader?

"All right, Richard," she started, more formally. "We 
both know what happened in here the other day. I don't 
even think we need discuss the details. What I'm 
interested in are your feelings about it. I'll tell you 
mine too. Now the reason I kept shushing you up the 
other day was because I wanted you to have some time to 
reflect on it, before you just blurted something out, 
something you might regret later. I needed the time to 
reflect myself. It's not that I don't respect your 
thoughts, it's just that I want them to be better 
formulated, OK?"

I nodded. All I could think about was the last time we 
sat together on this couch. Her thigh had been touching 
mine, making me tingle. Now she sat a few inches away, 
inches that felt like light years.

"Why don't you tell me what you feel about it," she 
prodded. I didn't want to talk. I only wanted to reach 
out and stroke her thigh, run my hand over her skirt, 
under it, feeling her softness, and maybe finally see 
her unclothed body. There was no way I could tell her 
the feelings going through me at that moment. My 
feelings required actions not words, and I didn't have 
the courage.

"Well, Mrs. Tanaka," I began, hesitantly. "I feel really 
badly about what happened. I mean, I don't have much 
experience with girls, or women I mean, well I don't 
have any actually." I was blushing so hard my head was 
hot. "I'm not sure I knew what I was doing that night. 
Not really, anyway."

"Did you enjoy it?" she asked quietly.

"Uh, well, uh, I guess so..." My embarrassment grew more 
painful.

"It's OK if you did. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Well yeah, I enjoyed it," I said. I wanted to do it 
again so badly it hurt. To have to talk about it and not 
be able to do anything was like twisting a knife in me.

"Do you think you took advantage of me," she asked.

"Well yeah, sort of," I said more forcefully. "You were 
asleep. I kind of started things."

"But I woke up at some point, didn't I?" She smiled 
knowingly. She was torturing me, absolutely torturing 
me, whether she knew it or not.

"Yes, I think you must have," I admitted.

"And, did I ever tell you to stop, at any point?"

"No, you never did."

"Then I think you should re evaluate whether or not you 
took advantage of me, OK?"

I nodded.

"Now, do you think I took advantage of you? Think about 
it carefully." He tone grew serious.

"No way," I said adamantly. "I think I'm the one who 
really wanted to do it. You just went along with it. 
Anyway, I'm the one who, you know...who..." I couldn't 
bring myself to say it.

"Came?" She said quietly. "You're the one who came?"

"Yes," I exhaled, relieved that she had said it for me.

"How do you know that, Richard? How do you know I didn't 
come too?"

She had thoroughly flustered me. I sat stupidly, 
speechless.

She relaxed and smiled.

"Richard, you have a lot to learn about women, and about 
sex. First of all women don't just go along with it, or 
at least they shouldn't," she said forcefully. "I wasn't 
just going along with it for your sake. I enjoyed it too 
you know." She gave me a pat on the leg. "You men have 
the problem of thinking that sex is always for, and 
about yourselves. Well, women enjoy sex too. Never 
forget that. They don't just go along, or if they do and 
they don't tell you it's not your burden to feel guilty 
about later. Do you understand?"

I nodded in assent, feeling a slight glimmer of hope: 
She enjoyed it! I longed for her to touch me again, but 
she kept talking.

"My feelings are that it is something that happened, we 
were in a stressful situation, and sometimes that brings 
out a side of our personality we aren't even aware of 
ourselves. It happened, we both enjoyed it, now it's 
over."

As I listened she slowly broke my heart.

"I don't have any regrets, and neither should you, but I 
think what happened wouldn't have happened except in 
that very unusual situation. Now there are people who 
would condemn me for what we did, not you, but me: I'm 
older. I should be responsible and so on and so forth. I 
don't share their views. I think we were both old enough 
and wise enough to decide for ourselves what was right 
and, personally, I don't think any real harm was done, 
to either of us. 

However, my position as your counselor has been 
compromised, and ethically I do think it is wrong for me 
to continue in that role. When a certain gap has been 
bridged between people it is hard, well impossible, to 
ever go back to the way things were before. We achieved 
a certain, let me say, familiarity, with each other the 
other night." 

She gave me a wistful smile. "Now we can't go back. I 
can't go back to the position I need to be in to counsel 
you effectively anymore. Personally, as friends, I think 
we must be careful with each other as well. Once 
crossed, that bridge to intimacy is easier and easier to 
re-cross, more and more tempting. I think we should not 
see each other at all for a while."

Noticing my pained expression, her voice softened.

"Don't assume you're the only one this is difficult for. 
I'm a human being too. I've got feeling that can be 
hurt, just like yours." She stopped abruptly, sounding 
close to tears.

She got up and sat behind her desk, increasing the 
already painful distance between us. Her words dashed my 
hopes, and the last shards of my euphoric mood, finally 
dislodged, blew away.

Mrs. Tanaka gave me the names of some free counseling 
centers that might take up where she left off, but she 
didn't feel it was of vital importance that I keep 
going: I had made some progress, and we had accomplished 
the main goal of the sessions; my nightmares had gone 
away completely. She had no idea that I still dreamed 
about her almost every night instead. As she rose to let 
me out of her office she told me I could certainly drop 
by if something important came up then planted a little 
kiss on my forehead. Its impression burned for hours 
after I left.

***

Over the next several weeks I got closer to Yuki, 
although being in her presence hardly cut through the 
deep melancholy I felt over my break up with Mrs. 
Tanaka. 

We started meeting at the gym a few times a week as 
before. Yuki seemed to come out of her shell, talking 
and laughing with me more than she had in the past and 
sometimes we would sit on the bleachers together for a 
few minutes after she had tired out, just talking. She 
told me of the places she had toured all over Asia 
playing volleyball, or she would tell me things she and 
her girlfriends had done back in Japan or the comings 
and goings of life in her small town. Whenever she 
mentioned her mother in passing and I had to stifle the 
urge to ask her to tell me more.

The sight of Yuki in her volleyball uniform never bored 
me. Soaked with sweat as she usually was after practice, 
she might as well have been naked. Without seeing her 
with her clothes off I already knew her body intimately: 
I could clearly see her nipples and the areolas around 
them through the sweat soaked fabric; I could count her 
ribs or see the small indentation of her navel in the 
middle of the soft rise of her belly. Sometimes the back 
of her outfit would ride up showing a small firm cheek 
of her behind. But looking at the small mound between 
her legs was my most guilty pleasure. 

The very essence of her femininity, its soft fullness 
constantly attracted my gaze, and if nothing else had 
already aroused me, looking there was sure to produce an 
erection, impossible to hide standing across the net 
from her. I had to ration my quick glances to times when 
we sat together and I could safely fold my hands in my 
lap, or hold the ball there, pressing it into me, 
pretending it was her body I held against mine.

She became aware of how I looked at her, she had to, and 
I think she came to enjoy her role as the object of my 
desire. Her behavior became more playful, flirtatious 
even. Sometimes it almost seemed as if she posed for me, 
knowing how her body affected me. Before, when the back 
of her uniform had crept up she had pulled it down, 
modestly, furtively, only when facing me, but now she 
did it with her back to me, giving the elastic a little 
snap. 

Bending to retrieve the ball: did she do that more 
slowly now, holding the stretch for just a second longer 
than necessary, when I could see the muscles in her 
thighs flexing, her long pony tail sweeping the floor, 
or did I only imagine it? Whenever she spoke she looked 
me in the eye now and fewer things I said or did seemed 
to embarrass her. 

It was me, more often than not, who ended up looking 
away or at my feet when she would give me little pats on 
the shoulder thanking me at the end of each practice 
session, or a little punch if I told a particularly lame 
joke. I thrilled at her touches, wishing for more, but I 
restrained myself from pursuing her physically. 

The change in her delighted me, but my enjoyment always 
had a dark underside: so many of the little things she 
did reminded me of her mother. The closer I got to Yuki, 
the more I longed for Kozue. Memories of the night we 
spent together haunted me: the feel of her soft thighs 
against me, her hot, passionate kisses, the give of the 
flesh under her panties. 

Seeing some small thing in Yuki could trigger it at any 
time, setting off the whole painful cascade of recalled 
sensations again. I felt as if I walked along a razor's 
edge: if I got any closer to Yuki her mother would 
surely find out and she would be lost to me forever, so 
I maintained my frustrating distance, getting what 
enjoyment I could just by watching.

As usual, Mr. Roberts became the thorn in my side. I 
assumed that since my therapy sessions were over I could 
stop reporting for work at the gym, but he had a 
different idea: he telephoned my mom, telling her what a 
great help I had been to him, and that my work could 
turn into an after school job. My mom just couldn't turn 
down the offer of a little extra money coming in and I 
didn't have the heart to say no to her when she asked me 
to do it: we needed it. I would be working in the gym 
three afternoons a week, for minimum wage.

Once I was an employee instead of a slave Mr. Roberts 
began treating me a little better. He let me take 
breaks, when I could sit at the desk in the outer part 
of the office, put my feet up and kick back for a few 
minutes. I still hardly ever saw him: he always closed 
the door to his inner office and he would emerge every 
now and then to check on me or to do some other small 
errand.

Sometimes I heard him talking on the phone through the 
door, just a word here and there of him joking around 
with some friend on the other. He evidently talked to 
this friend, or friends a lot about women and sex, maybe 
he gave the rundown of his most recent conquests; I 
could only hear just enough to arouse my curiosity. 

What started as innocently overhearing bits of 
conversations slowly evolved into outright 
eavesdropping. I began looking for the little light on 
the telephone to go on, signaling me that he was on the 
line so I could tip toe into the outer office and listen 
at the door, but this was still frustrating; I could 
barely hear what he was saying through the door and the 
other half of the conversation was lost.

One day, quite by accident, I discovered how to listen 
in from the other phone. I needed to call my mom for 
some reason and I picked up the phone without thinking 
to hit the button for the other line. I held the 
receiver to my ear but instead of a dial tone I heard an 
unfamiliar voice. "...and you're gonna tell me about it 
today I hope?" the voice said.

I put my hand on the mouthpiece, waiting with bated 
breath to see if they had noticed me pick up another 
phone. Mr. Roberts came on the line: "Yeah I'll tell you 
the whole thing, right now. You got a few minutes?"

"Sure."

"OK, it's the same chick I told you about, with the big 
tits."

"Big for a fourteen year old, I'm sure," the voice said 
with sarcasm.

"No way," Mr. Roberts answered emphatically. "No, these 
babies are just B.I.G. Big! But ripe, you know, not 
hanging down or anything. They stick straight at ya."

"Uh, huh."

"Anyway, I make her stay after school the other day. I 
make her stay late after class, alone. Making up some 
excuse, like I need to update my file, or something, so 
I just asked her, her phone number, a bunch of shit like 
that, you know, just to kill time. I just wanted to keep 
her there."

"So, did you fuck her?" The voice sounded eager.

"No! No, I didn't fuck her, not yet anyway. She's not 
like the one last year. You remember the one I told you 
about. The one who was dying for it; who practically 
crawled down MY pants for it. Anyway, this one's 
different. Real conservative, sweet. It's going to take 
a lot of work if I'm going to stick it to her, you know, 
if ever. But for now I'm just watching."

"You lucky prick!"

Mr. Roberts laughed: "You said it, my friend! To get on 
with my story: I keep her there until everyone else has 
cleared out, then I tell her to hit the showers. Just 
then that punk kid, that guy who works for me, he shows 
up, and he's asking me what to do and I'm panicking. I'm 
thinking: 'I've got to get going,' so I tell him to do 
some damn thing or other and I'm free. I'm just in time 
too. She's turning on the water in there, facing me. 
Facing me! Those big ripe high school tits are jiggling 
right in front of me, then they're all wet, and the 
water is running over 'em in these two little water 
falls that go down each tit and over the nipples. Her 
nipples are small, you know and tight."

"Nothing like a small nipple on a big tit, I always 
say," the voice on the other end chimed in.

"Right you are! They're like two brand new little pencil 
erasers."

"What happened next?"

"Well, I swear she knows I'm watching, because she puts 
on a show. Maybe being alone in the showers is a turn-on 
for her, but I think she knows I'm looking, or she 
senses it anyway. Whatever. She washes her hair, then 
soaps up those tits. I mean she's squeezing them with 
both hands, cupping them, and I can see how firm they 
are by the way they're moving."

"You gotta love a girl who loves her own tits."

"For sure. So I've got my cock out. I can't stand it 
anymore, and I figure she's almost done. But she's not. 
She's just getting started. She takes the soap again and 
soaps up her bush. She's got a thin crop of pussy hair 
on her which she works into a lather. Now she's facing 
away from the water, sideways to me, but I can see 
clearly. She starts rubbing her pussy!"

"No way!"

"Yes way! Right there in front of me. I can see her 
middle finger stuck downwards between her thighs and 
she's making these slow side to side motions, then round 
and round she goes. She kept if up for a few minutes, 
and I joined her, you know, stroking my cock at the same 
time. I can tell she was coming. She arches her back, 
her whole body's spasming and she lifts herself onto her 
toes. I can see her ass twitching, giving these little 
pelvic thrusts, and her thigh muscles clench up. 

Then her hand stops moving. 

I know she's coming right then, at that instant. Her 
whole body stopped for a second, then she started 
jerking, like she was riding an invisible bucking 
bronco. Holy shit! Her tits were shaking. Everything was 
shaking, and, man, I lost it. I shot my load right then, 
all over the fucking wall. I didn't care."

"That's amazing. Man you are one lucky dude!"

"I know, I know. I'll have to have you come over again 
sometime, when that kid isn't around, and you can check 
it out for yourself. It'll be better than last time. 
Remember that volleyball game. I sneaked you in there, 
didn't I, and while I glad handed all the parents you 
got to check the whole team out showering. I took care 
of, man. I'll do it again."

"And I thank you for it," the voice said.

"Listen," Mr. Roberts went on. "I've got to go check up 
on that kid, OK? I...."

That was all I heard. Putting down the receiver, I 
quickly tiptoed out of the office. I hadn't gone far 
when Mr. Roberts came out.

"Rivers!" he yelled at me as I was slinking through the 
locker room. "Are you finished, or what?"

"No, I'm just taking a break," I told him.

"OK then, but back at it, soon. All right?" With that 
returned to his office and shut the door behind him.

As I listened to him talk on the phone I didn't feel 
shock, or even surprise; it only confirmed my feelings 
about him. I'd never liked him because I always thought 
he had a sleazy, corrupt side, but I had never been able 
to pin down specifically why. It no longer mattered: 
this was worse than anything I could have imagined. 

I knew what he was doing alone in that office all the 
time, and why he kept it locked up like Fort Knox, 
proving to me for once and for all time that he was a 
sleazy bastard. I could go on hating him with a clear 
conscience.

When he mentioned the girls volleyball team, and how he 
had let his friend spy on them, it filled me with a 
righteous, fiery anger. How dare he! Yuki was on that 
team, MY Yuki! And that creep had been letting his pals 
spy on her! I swore I would get even with Mr. Roberts 
for that, and that alone. I needed some proof though, 
some concrete evidence against him other than a 
conversation I had spied on. 

I knew that as a student any little indiscretion I 
committed would be used against me, no matter how 
heinous a crime it served to expose, while Mr. Roberts 
would always get the benefit of the doubt. If I wasn't 
very thorough, the bastard would wriggle out of it 
somehow. Before I could tell anyone I would have to get 
into his office and figure out exactly how he was doing 
it, then I could turn him in, armed with the knowledge 
that when the door finally opened Mr. Robert's secret 
would be made plain for all to see.

I needed to act soon. The thought that Yuki was getting 
undressed every day in front of him made me burn with 
hatred, and also with jealousy. If anyone deserved to 
see her with her clothes off it was me.

***

The snow lay heavy on the ground as February wore on. I 
bided my time, watchful, ready to pounce whenever the 
opportunity presented itself, but Mr. Roberts didn't 
slip up. He always closed and locked the door behind him 
when he left his office, even for a moment. I began to 
despair of ever getting in there and figuring out what 
was going on, resigning myself to the fact that I might 
have to go to Mr. Forbes, armed only with flimsy 
evidence to hold up against the word of a teacher.

Mr. Roberts kept up his phone calls to the same friend 
and several others, so I got to hear some of his stories 
two or three times. His goal was to fuck the student I 
heard him describe before. According to him, he managed 
to pick out and fuck at least one student every year. He 
took smug satisfaction in describing the joys of 
deflowering fourteen and fifteen year-olds to his 
coterie of horny friends, to whom he was something of a 
hero. Listening to him talk that way enraged me; but my 
anger also thinly disguised jealousy, which I cloaked in 
the guise of moral indignation.

As I sat in the office taking a break the phone rang. I 
could see the light go on when Mr. Roberts picked up, 
and I was soon on the other extension.

"...anything going on?" the voice said.

"Nah, not at the moment," Mr. Roberts answered, sounding 
bored.

"Listen, are you coming out with us Friday, like we 
planned?"

"Well, no. There's a change of plan, for me anyway." Mr. 
Roberts laughed, sounding self satisfied.

"What's up?"

"I've got a date Friday night!"

"You're shitting me. A date? You? What, are you wining 
and dining those little girls now before you plug them? 
That just doesn't sound like you, man."

"No, no," Mr. Roberts cut in. "This is a real date. 
Progress on that student is slow, too slow. In fact I'm 
wondering if I picked the right one or not. Anyway, I'm 
not getting any right now. A most dire situation. So I 
got myself fixed up with a date for Friday."

"Somebody I know?"

"Nope, no way. She works here at the school. You'd never 
have seen her."

Somehow, before he said it, before he mentioned her 
name, I had the sinking feeling, the absolute, utter 
sinking to the bottom of the deepest pit of the ocean 
feeling that I knew exactly who he meant. The room 
around me seemed to reel; I grabbed the arm of the chair 
to keep from falling over backwards.

"She's the counselor at the school, or something," he 
said. "I dunno exactly what the hell she does. Met her 
in the teacher's lounge over there a few weeks ago."

"Well, is she a babe, or what? Inquiring minds want to 
know, buddy."

"OK, let's see. Yeah she's a babe, but not in the 
traditional babe sense. She's Japanese, a little older. 
She's been to college, educated you know, done that 
whole scene, but she's hot. I can tell. Underneath all 
that book learnin' she wants it, bad. She just got a 
divorce, and you know what they say."

"Hot to trot," they said in unison and laughed.

"I know the type," he continued. "I feasted on chicks 
like that all through college: all prim and proper, so 
concerned about their image, their reputation, all that 
shit. But once you nail them, you know, once you break 
through that barrier, they turn out to be wild bitches 
in heat. They'll do anything. And they're grateful for 
it! That's the best part. You fuck them for a while and 
they start thanking you for bringing them outta their 
shell, you know, opening them up and all. 

"But that's when you have to dump them. You have to be 
merciless with chicks like that. They're smart, and they 
get dependent, and that is fucking dangerous. Dangerous! 
Nothing more dangerous than having a horny, brainy chick 
dogging your ass."

"Well, be careful. But it sounds like you're getting 
laid Friday night. I guess we'll let you off the 
hook..."

"No!" Mr. Roberts sounded angry. He had to lecture the 
guy some more. "You don't understand a fuckin' thing I 
tell you! With a chick like that you have to go slow. 
Maybe it'll take a couple of dates, I dunno, two or 
three. It's an investment. A chick like this one has to 
be comfortable with it. Both of you know what's going on 
here, exactly why you're asking her out. She knows, and 
you certainly know, but she needs a couple of drinks, a 
couple of dinners, maybe a kiss or two before she'll do 
it, so you play along. Once she breaks down and does 
it..."

I had heard enough. More than enough. His descriptions 
of women, especially since they applied to Mrs. Tanaka, 
sickened me. I placed the phone gently in the cradle and 
left the office. That bastard! It was bad enough that he 
spied on Yuki, but now he was going after Mrs. Tanaka, 
and in a much more threatening way. I wondered what Mrs. 
Tanaka could possibly see in a creep like Mr. Roberts, 
such a low life pervert. Of course she didn't know he 
was a pervert, or a low life either, I realized. 

He must really turn on the charm when he's around women. 
They would have no idea about this side of him, until it 
was too late. Still, being a psychologist, I reasoned, 
she would have some insight into a character like this. 
She must know the type. Even I had seen through him 
right away: the vague sense that he was a sleaze had 
been there all along and all of this had only confirmed 
what I already knew. She must surely have an even keener 
sense than mine. Why couldn't she see it?

Then a disturbing thought occurred to me, a thought that 
slowly gnawed away at me. I remembered Mrs. Tanaka 
telling me how she had enjoyed our little moment on her 
couch. Images of her came to my mind: of her kissing and 
holding me passionately, the way she looked with her 
little half smile at my come soaked pants afterward. How 
much come had she seen in her life, I wondered? How many 
men had she been with? 

Somehow, although I knew better, I had deluded myself 
into thinking of her as being pure and innocent, like 
Yuki. The realization that she was a sexual being, a 
woman with her own sexual feelings and desires made me 
uncomfortable. Mrs. Tanaka might 'need some' in the same 
way that Mr. Roberts did. She indeed might see right 
through him, know his type. "She knows what's going on," 
he had said: maybe that was the reason she was going out 
with him.

The fear that Mrs. Tanaka and Mr. Roberts might have sex 
threw me into a panic. I couldn't let her go out with 
him, possibly sleep with him. There was no way I could 
stand by and let that happen: she was mine! He didn't 
deserve her, that sleaze ball. I had to act, and before 
Friday, two days away. The rest of that day, and long 
into the night, images of Mr. Roberts and Mrs. Tanaka 
engaged in every possible of kind of sexual activity 
whirled around in my brain, tormenting me.

***

The next day I had arranged to meet Yuki for more 
volleyball practice. I listlessly threw her the ball 
without much enthusiasm. I could hardly look at her any 
more after overhearing that phone call: it only made me 
more painfully aware of the fact Mr. Roberts got his 
chances to look at her too, and he had seen her in ways 
that I could only dream about. Also, I had no idea yet 
how I could stop her mother from going out with him the 
next day and I knew that if he did sleep with her I 
would be forced--

I would force myself--to listen to him describe it in 
lurid detail to his pals over the phone.

Yuki, sensing my discomfort, suggested we have a seat in 
the bleachers.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "You look sick, or 
something."

"I'm fine," I said. "I've just got problems, big ones 
this time."

"Poor Richard, always with problems. Can I help you in 
any way?" she asked, patting my arm.

"Just keep doing that," I thought.

"No, not really," I sighed. "Just talk to me. Help me 
take my mind off things, OK?"

"Sure Richard. What do you want me to talk about?"

"Well," I started cautiously, "how is your mom doing? 
You said she was really upset a while ago. I wondered if 
she was OK now."

I had to be careful, very careful. I needed information 
about her mother but I knew that to get it I would have 
to tread on some very thin ice, risking possible 
exposure.

"She seems to be better now. That's sweet of you to 
ask."

"So far so good," I thought.

"Do you guys talk much, about things, you know, personal 
stuff? Like, does she know about me. I mean us...I...I 
mean that we practice together and stuff?"

She raised her eyebrows, normally an achingly cute 
gesture that made me long to reach out and grab her, but 
in this context it was alarming.

"Hmm," she said slowly. "Richard, you have no idea what 
it is like having a psychologist for a mother. Every 
little thing you do gets dissected and analyzed. Every 
time you do something she is ready with an explanation. 
She is very good at getting her way too, because she 
knows all of the tricks you might use in advance. 

"Don't misunderstand me: I'm very close to my mother. We 
share everything, and we talk about a lot, but there are 
some things, some personal and important things, now 
that I'm older, that I don't bring up with her any more. 
She respects my privacy now that I'm... developing... 
and so I haven't told her about you. It's too special."

She blushed and looked down at her hands resting on her 
bare thighs.

Her honesty floored me. She had never given any 
indication that she thought of me as someone special 
before, and now that she had I could only sit speechless 
and stare at her in blank amazement, wanting her more 
badly than ever.

"You're so nice to ask about my mother." She lay her 
hand on my shoulder and let it rest there. "She's fine. 
Really good in fact. She has got some big secret date 
coming up that she is so happy and excited about, but 
she absolutely will not tell me who it is. It is all 
some big mystery: some mystery man. I think she is 
finally getting on with her life, you know, forgetting 
about my father and all of the awful things he did to 
her. She is ready to start enjoying life again."

To me "enjoying life" meant only one thing: having sex 
with Mr. Roberts. My dual obsession was killing me. 
Whenever something good happened on one front, the other 
front collapsed in disaster. Yuki had just told me that 
I was special to her. She had her hand on me, touching 
me at that very moment, something I had lain awake at 
night hoping for, yet all I could think about was her 
mother getting worked up and excited, ready to give 
herself to that creep Mr. Roberts. I had to do 
something, and I had to do it, whatever it was, that 
day.

"Richard, I bet you are coming down with something," she 
said. "You really look pale." We parted and she jogged 
off across the gym. Not long ago nothing could have torn 
my eyes off her retreating form, but that day I hardly 
noticed. I left the gym and ran headlong into Mr. 
Roberts moving at a brisk pace along the walkway. "Whoa 
there Rivers," he said. "You're just the fellow I could 
use right now!"

I told him I wasn't working that day, but he said that 
if I helped him out for fifteen or twenty minutes right 
now, I could have tomorrow off. All he needed me to do 
was watch the office while he ran an important errand: 
he had to deliver some flowers to a lady. I noticed the 
bouquet under his arm, for Mrs. Tanaka no doubt. Just to 
kick myself, to add humiliation to the total defeat 
crashing down on me I assured him that I would be happy 
to help him out. We parted: he with a spring in his 
step, me dragging my heels back to the gym.

Mr. Roberts had turned off all the lights in the locker 
room. An eerie gray darkness greeted me when I opened 
the door. The lights to the outer office were the only 
illumination in the place. Moving carefully between the 
benches and lockers in that twilight I finally came to 
the office and threw myself into the chair. 

My resignation was total. He must be over there in Mrs. 
Tanaka's office this very moment, sweet talking her. 
Maybe she had even invited him to have a seat on the 
couch: our couch! I couldn't stand it. I leaped to my 
feet and paced the room like a caged animal. 

Several minutes went by before I noticed with gleeful 
astonishment that Mr. Roberts had left the door to his 
inner office ajar. In his haste to get to Mrs. Tanaka he 
had finally slipped, finally made that one, fatal 
mistake. And like the caged animal seeing its last 
chance, I pounced.

I hurried into the inner office and pushed the door 
almost all the way closed behind me. I didn't know how 
much time I had. Taking a quick look around I noted how 
ordinary it was: just a plain metal desk, littered with 
loose papers, a couple of file cabinets, posters of 
various athletes on the walls... But it was obvious 
right away how Mr. Roberts concealed the secret of this 
office. He must have counted on the fact that no one 
would ever even get through the door. 

On the wall, right behind the desk, hung a large 
calendar with the title "Iron Women" emblazoned across 
the top. Miss February, a busty blonde flexing her 
biceps, with only two dumbbells for clothing, grinned at 
me. Lifting the calendar revealed a hole nearly three 
inches in diameter in the center of the wall.

As I bent down to peer through the hole the sound of 
running water began abruptly. "Some one's in the locker 
room!" I thought. "Mr. Roberts must have come back and 
he's taking a leak." I tip toed out of there as fast as 
I could, carefully replacing the calendar on the wall. 
In the outer office I paused to let the adrenaline rush 
pass. 

The sound of running water was fainter, almost inaudible 
from there: pipes must run through that wall, I 
reasoned, feeling ridiculous for jumping at the false 
alarm. I briefly considered not going back in to the 
office again; I had all the evidence I needed already. I 
could go to Mr. Forbes, or whomever, and lead them right 
to the hole in the wall. But, in the grip of a 
compelling curiosity I couldn't turn back, I had to go 
in again and actually look through that hole myself.

Back in the office I immediately went to the calendar. 
Taking it down I leaned to peer through the hole. As it 
passed through the wall it narrowed considerably so that 
on the other side it could have only been about the size 
of a dime, I guessed. As I expected, it opened into the 
girl's showers. Like ours, the girl's showers were 
simply a rectangular tiled room with a row of shower 
heads along one long wall. The hole was positioned so 
that it looked straight down the line of showers.

The sound that had scared me was one of the showers 
running, splashing onto the empty floor. Just as I was 
about to pull my eye from the hole Yuki stepped into 
view, naked. I started. She was looking right at me, 
standing not even ten feet away but she showed no 
reaction: the hole must be well hidden on her side. 
Standing outside the stream of water, she held the hot-
cold knob with one hand while making little jabbing 
motions with the other, testing the temperature. 

Her breasts shook slightly with the motion of her arm. I 
had only seen her in her uniform or school clothes 
before: her breasts always flattened tightly against her 
body by the little bras she wore or the tight volleyball 
outfit. Now standing out freely from her slight frame 
they looked surprisingly heavy, like small ripe fruits 
budding off a supple tree. My eyes traveled down her 
body, below her belly. Her pubic hair, already dotted 
with a few shiny water droplets, like pearls resting on 
a bed of the softest grass, grew sparsely so that I 
could see her pale white skin through it. 

Growing towards the center of her body it thickened, 
forming a small tuft, a dark line that passed between 
her legs. She stepped under the water, turning sideways 
to me; her jutting breasts proudly lifting their nipples 
upward; below her slim waist she swelled: the soft mound 
of her belly rising gently before plunging into the fine 
growth of hair below and disappearing between the soft 
outward curve of her thighs. The steamy water beat down 
on the small of her back and flowed over her in one 
graceful arc, down over her behind to the top of her 
thighs.

In one hand she held a bar of soap which she used to 
quickly lather her arm pits and breasts. I could see her 
soft flesh give as she rubbed herself. She modestly 
applied soap between her legs, lathering up her pubic 
hair then made a slow full circle under the stream with 
her arms raised to rinse all the suds off. Turning off 
the water she suddenly stepped out of the shower and my 
field of view.

The whole thing couldn't have lasted more than one or 
two minutes, but thinking about it later, going over and 
over every minute detail seemed to stretch it much 
longer. Something about that heightened state of 
perception, when it seemed as if my eyes and every pore 
of my body strained to absorb as much of her as I could, 
had the effect of obliterating the flow of time. I might 
have stood there looking at her for an hour, or all day, 
the impressions of those fleeting moments burned 
themselves into my memory so strongly.

The feeling that I had to get out of that office 
abruptly cut off my thoughts of Yuki. Mr. Roberts must 
be on his way back, or he would be very soon. Leaving 
everything as I had found it, I left.

Mr. Roberts came back from his visit to Mrs. Tanaka 
smirking as he stood talking to me. I didn't even hear 
what he was saying I was so dazed by what I had just 
seen and enraged at the thought that he had just come 
from Mrs. Tanaka's office.

"I've got you now, you bastard," I thought.

I ran to the main building after he finally let me go, 
trying to catch Mrs. Tanaka before she went home for the 
night. I decided then that I had to tell her about Mr. 
Roberts right away, to protect both herself and Yuki. 
Rounding the corner of the gym at a full run I saw the 
rear of her car as it left the parking lot and sped 
away. I had no idea where she lived or her phone number. 
Waiting for tomorrow would be too late. I sank down on 
the cold icy curb and cursed myself.

***

That evening, after sitting through a seemingly endless 
dinner with my mom, unable to eat anything, I started 
panicking as thoughts of Mr. Roberts, Mrs. Tanaka and 
Yuki all jumbled together in my fevered imagination. The 
sweet memory of Yuki showering was completely ruined by 
my growing anxiety over what Mrs. Tanaka might be 
getting herself into. The longer I sat the more agitated 
I became.

When I could stand it no longer, I went to the phone in 
the basement and called directory assistance: only one 
K. Tanaka listed, it had to be her. I decided that if 
Yuki answered I would hang up. There was no way I could 
speak to her and then ask for her mother. I couldn't 
face it.

The phone rang twice before a woman answered. Or was it 
a girl? I couldn't tell!

"Hello? Is anyone there?" The voice asked, again.

I froze.

"Who is this?" She sounded angry now but I recognized 
the voice: It was Mrs. Tanaka! I let out an audible 
sigh, but I had just made my job much harder.

"Mrs. Tanaka?" I finally spoke up.

"Yes, now who is it?" she said angrily.

"I'm sorry, I didn't recognize your voice. It's 
Richard...Rivers, Richard Rivers."

"Richard?" She sounded wary.

"Yes, Hi Mrs. Tanaka!" I laughed nervously. Her end of 
the line was silent. "I'm really sorry to bother you, 
but something important, well, bad, something bad has 
happened and I need to talk to you."

"Do you want to set up an appointment?" she asked.

"No, no. I need to talk to you right now."

"Well, all right. But let me move to another phone. Can 
you hold on a..."

"No!" I practically shouted, then lowered my voice. 
"Sorry. No, I mean, no I can't talk on the phone. This 
may sound weird, but I need to meet you at school, 
tonight."

"Tonight? It's seven thirty! This must be able to wait 
until tomorrow. Can't it?" Then her tone changed, her 
voice got very soft and she practically whispered: "This 
isn't about, you know, the night of the snow storm, is 
it?"

It seemed to take an hour for her to agree to meet me at 
the school, and I don't think I ever convinced her that 
this had nothing to do with our night together because, 
of course, it did; it had everything to do with it, and 
her reluctance only made me more nervous about the whole 
thing. I slipped away from home and ran the entire way 
back to school in the dark.

When I came panting into the parking lot she sat waiting 
for me in her car, suggesting we go to her office and 
have a seat before I said anything. With her back to the 
door she stood before me just as Yuki had a few weeks 
ago.

"What is this all about, Richard?" she asked, perturbed, 
but with a little concern in her voice.

I quickly ran down the details about Mr. Roberts; his 
phone conversations, and what I had discovered that 
afternoon, without admitting I knew about her date with 
him or that I had seen Yuki taking a shower. Her eyes 
widened as I told my story. When I had finished, ending 
with a made up version of how I had looked through the 
hole into an empty shower room, she finally broke her 
silence.

"Richard, this is terrible, just terrible." She 
shivered, folding her arms across her chest. I knew it 
had just occurred to her that she still had a date with 
this guy set for tomorrow.

"But why are you telling me?" she asked. "Why didn't you 
just go to Mr. Forbes with this?"

"You're the only person I really trust," I said lamely. 
She raised her eyebrows: so reminiscent of Yuki, I 
thought, but by her look it was clear she didn't believe 
me.

"Really? Come on, there has to be more to it than that." 
I knew I had to give her the truth then, or at least 
part of it, and I knew it would hurt her. I felt 
cornered.

Slowly I recounted the phone conversation I had heard 
the day before, telling her all the things he had said 
about her indirectly. Tears forced their way out the 
corners of her beautiful eyes, making them all bright 
and shiny as she stood silently listening. Seeing the 
hurt my words did to her I stopped, but she told me to 
go on, to tell her everything. I recounted all I could 
remember Mr. Roberts saying, including having his friend 
watch the volleyball team shower.

She covered her face in her hands and stood very still. 
I could see the tears wetting her fingers, falling to 
the floor. I didn't know what to do; somehow this is all 
my fault, I thought. The pity I felt only inflamed my 
desire for her, and I began to tell her how I felt about 
her: I hadn't been able to get her out of my mind since 
the snow storm; how beautiful she was; by bringing her 
here and telling her all this I only wanted to protect 
her, and that even if we could never be together again 
it didn't matter: I cared about her so much, I would do 
anything for her.

Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs and I 
immediately regretted telling her how I felt. I thought 
I had gone too far, insulted her, and at a time when she 
had already suffered enough; but she looked up at me 
with her tear-streaked face, trying to smile.

"Why do all the men in my life have to turn out to be 
creeps, except you?" she said softly.

She told me about Mr. Roberts then and how she had come 
to have a date with him. He had been courting her for 
some time it turned out, almost since the night of the 
snow storm. Showing up in the teacher's lounge he had 
acted so sweetly, so polite. A few times he had brought 
her small gifts, flowers, chocolates, other things. They 
had chatted after some of Yuki's volleyball games, and 
she had grown to like him. Since her husband had left 
her in the summer she had been alone, she explained. 

The wounds from the bitter separation were still healing 
and Mr. Robert's attentions had made her feel wanted, 
ready to share friendship and intimacy with a man again 
for the first time. "This must have been so hard for 
you," she said. "I'm so sorry to have hurt your 
feelings. I had no idea...You are so sweet to try and 
protect me. No man has ever done anything like that for 
me."

She broke down again as I stood helplessly watching.

"Mrs. Tanaka, what can I do? I don't know what to say." 
Seeing a grown woman cry like that broke my heart. I 
felt on the verge of crying myself.

"Just give me a hug," she said.

I hugged her, feeling her small shoulders heaving under 
my arms, and I started crying too. We stood that way for 
a long time, each lost to our own sorrows, and, almost 
exactly as it had the first time, our passion emerged 
from the depths, as if our bodies, knowing what they 
wanted from each other all along only had to bide their 
time until our minds, exhausted, could hold them back no 
longer.

She looked up. "Oh, you're crying," she said, and softly 
kissed the tear running down my cheek. Our lips met, 
suddenly, in a long deep kiss. Just as she had said, 
once crossed, the bridge to intimacy was easier the 
second time. She clung to me like a woman drowning. Her 
tongue flickered in an out of my mouth, soft yet 
insistent, leaving behind a tingling sensation where it 
touched. Her arms tightened around my shoulders pulling 
us together, pressing the soft contours of her body into 
me. I massaged her shoulders, letting my hands slowly 
slide down her back, feeling the strap of her bra 
through her thin blouse. Finding the ridge of her spine, 
I traced downward to the small of her back, and lower, 
over the top of her skirt to her behind. My palms 
flattened and grasped her firm body.

Pulling her mouth from mine, her voice breathless, she 
said:

"Grab me, harder."

I squeezed her against me, surprised her firmness: the 
palpable feel of her body made me vividly aware that in 
my arms I held another human being, like myself made up 
of living flesh and bone, and muscle, throbbing with 
life. My fingers sank into her, kneading her. The bones 
of her pelvis dug into my thighs, and between them her 
warm feminine softness, yielding yet hungrily 
persistent, pressed against me.

She broke free from our kiss and lay her head on my 
shoulder, letting her hands travel up and down my back. 
The sensations were incredibly sweet and vibrant. Where 
her hands passed, they left in their wake a tingling 
sensation, and an empty yearning feeling that only the 
renewal of her touch could quench.

The pressure of the bulge in my pants against her made 
me a little self conscious. As she pressed her hips 
against me I tried to pull back; painfully aroused 
already, burrowing into her like that hurt. I released 
her and took a step back. Her arms hung on my shoulders 
while I brought my hands up between them to her breasts. 
A sound escaped from deep in her chest as my hands 
covered them completely, her hard nipples boring into 
the soft palms of my hands.

"Softly. Gently," she whispered.

"Sorry," I whispered back.

She put a finger to my lips. "No sorrys today, OK?"

I kissed her finger and she laughed, soundlessly.

"Mmm, that's it," she said in response to my lighter 
pressure.

"Just like that."

Ever so gently, I kneaded her breasts while she purred. 
Her hands slid down to my chest and, searching, found my 
nipples. It had never occurred to me that my nipples had 
any use whatsoever until that moment, when she gently 
pinched them, sending a wave of pleasure directly to my 
groin. I gasped.

"Ooh! too hard?" she asked, concerned, but without 
releasing me.

"No," I gasped. "Oh, no."

"Do it to me, just like I'm doing to you," she whispered 
and gently twisted my nipples.

I found her stiff little knobs and twisted them, 
synchronizing my motions with hers, feeling them tighten 
and grow larger between my fingers.

"That's nice," she said. Her head rolled back. I could 
see her eyes sparkling. "Keep doing that, for as long as 
you can. Whatever I do to you OK?"

I nodded.

She looked at me with the mischief that sometimes stole 
across her face, the faintest flicker of a smile that 
twinkled and vanished, almost a memory while still 
there. She let her left hand rest on my chest while her 
right hand dropped down and I felt it rise between my 
legs. Gently raking her finger tips across my jeans she 
found the soft spot where my balls were and stroked 
them. I lost my grip on her nipples. The pleasure was 
too much. "Ah, how soon you forget," she laughed softly.

I started reaching for her again but she patted my hands 
down.

"That's OK. It's your turn. Just enjoy. I think I know 
just what a young man like you needs," she said. Now 
both her hands dropped down and she traced the along my 
straining shaft. I let my eyes close as she continued 
stroking me.

"Mm, such a strong boy, and eager too," she said under 
her breath.

The buttons to my jeans popped open one by one when she 
parted my fly. My straining underwear could hardly 
contain me. She gave me a little pinch between her thumb 
and forefinger on my swollen head. Looking down I saw a 
patch of wetness spreading across the fabric.

"We have no time to lose," she said in a husky voice. 
"We've got to get you out of these pants. Shoes first."

She knelt and started unlacing my shoes. I reached down 
to stroke her thick black hair and she nuzzled her cheek 
against my thigh while diligently helping me step out of 
my shoes. She asked me to take off my pants. 

When I stood before her in my underpants she grabbed the 
elastic band and slowly slid them down. Finally free, I 
sprang outward, burning hot against the cool air of the 
room; and still more blood rushed in making me painfully 
erect. She delicately put two fingers under the tip and 
pushed upward, pinning it against my belly.

"What a beautiful cock," she said. "Is that what you 
call it?

Cock? Or what word do you use?"

She studied it carefully.

Even after everything that we had done so far, hearing 
her say the word 'cock' with that lilting, sing-song 
voice I loved was the most arousing thing I had ever 
experienced. I closed my eyes. "Well?" she persisted 
softly. "What do you call this?" she asked, giving me a 
little pinch.

"I don't know," I mumbled. "I guess I just call it 'it,' 
or something, or nothing, usually. It's never come up, 
before," I stammered.

My unintentional pun made her laugh.

"I doubt that," she said, giving me a few feathery soft 
strokes.

"It doesn't matter anyway," she said. "I was just 
curious. Why don't you sit down?"

She had me sit on the couch with my legs spread and she 
knelt between them. Grasping me lightly again she began 
a series of quick upward strokes from base to the tip, 
alternating hands like someone climbing down a rope. Her 
hands felt as if they were clad in silk gloves and her 
quick motions coaxed me upward, stiffer. I let my head 
roll back over the top of the couch. I had never felt 
anything like what she was doing to me.

She grasped me firmly with one hand.

"Don't you want to watch?" she asked.

I opened my eyes and looked down: protruding from her 
small hand, my wine-dark color stood out against the 
whiteness of her skin. She started stroking me again, 
now more firmly while her other hand found my balls and 
cradled them.

"Richard," she said. "Look at me. I want you to look 
into my eyes when you come."

Her gaze fixed on mine; the serene look of concentration 
softened by the faintest trace of a smile never wavered 
as she continued her firm, inexorable strokes.

The pleasure had stopped coming over me in waves: now I 
vibrated with continuous ecstasy. The pressure building 
up in me was becoming overwhelming. My body start 
jerking erratically and I let out an involuntary sound.

"Oh, how hard you are, how big you're getting. Are you 
going to come for me?" she asked.

"Mmhmm," is all I could manage.

"Then pull up your shirt," she whispered. "I don't want 
you staining your clothes again."

The way she said that, her motherly tone of concern, 
sent me over the edge. I barely got my shirt tails 
pulled up out of the way in time. The first wet splash 
landed on my chest and I groaned. She timed her strokes 
perfectly between my throbbing spurts. I drained myself 
completely onto my chest and belly as she expertly 
milked out every drop. All the while her eyes stayed 
locked on me, softly boring into mine, serene, 
unwavering.

"Ooh, so much," she cooed as she continued stroking, 
slowly easing the last few shudders from my body.

"Have you ever tasted it?" she asked, wide eyed.

I shook my head, no. She dipped her finger in the pool 
of come on my belly and drew it up to my mouth, sliding 
her finger inside. I tasted the sweet salty drop.

Fishing in her purse next to me on the couch she 
produced a small handkerchief and started to clean me 
up.

"No messy clothes this time," she said with a 
conspiratorial smile. Raising herself to the couch she 
sat next to me and kissed me deeply.

"Thank you, Mrs. Tanaka," I said.

"Kozue, please. After all that you still can't say my 
name?" She gave me another little kiss.

"All right Kozue," I said. It felt awkward. She would 
always be Mrs. Tanaka to me no matter what we did.

"What about you?" I asked. "I mean... don't you want? 
... I mean... I could... We could... you know." I was 
trying to ask her to have sex with me, still too 
embarrassed to say the words.

"Of course 'I want,' but just rest now for a minute. I 
want to show you how to please a woman, just like I 
pleased you."

Turning off all the lights except her desk lamp she lit 
the room with a soft yellow glow.

"I'm a little shy," she said. "I'm not sixteen any more 
you know."

She stood with her back to me and slowly undid her 
blouse. Unzipping her skirt she let it fall to the floor 
at her ankles. My eyes hungrily roamed over her soft 
round breasts, her narrow waist, and full behind. She 
came and sat next to me on the couch in her bra and 
panties and I ran my hands over her slender body, from 
her slight shoulders down to her waist. She didn't have 
anything to be shy about, I thought. Her body was firm 
to the touch, yet soft, her skin smooth, silky and warm 
as my hands glided over her. She turned towards me.

"Undo me," she said in a soft voice, bringing her hands 
up to touch her breasts. "The clasp is in the front."

"Twist, and then pull apart," she advised my fumbling 
fingers, and when the two cups separated to expose her 
small round breasts: "Ah, that's it!"

"Now touch me... lightly... gently... just your finger 
tips. Make little circles."

She was telling me exactly how to touch her, in a voice 
soft and smooth, like a hypnotist's.

"Now pinch me, like before, just the nipples. Softly."

Her nipples felt firm and warm between my fingers.

"Ahhh... twist, gently... back and forth."

I felt them stiffen.

"Now pull, softly," she said, her voice husky with 
pleasure.

"Yes, oh, yes."

She let herself fall back on the couch.

"Kiss me, here," she gently tapped between her breasts." 
I leaned over her and gently placed my lips in the space 
between them, smelling the sweet fragrance of her body 
as my face descended into the cleft between her breasts. 
She smelled like sandalwood, or some exotic spice.

"Now suck on me, softly, like a little baby. That's 
right...just the nipple. Close your lips around it and 
pull."

I tasted her and felt her breast swelling between my 
lips. She let me take more of her into my mouth: I 
hungrily opened wide, I couldn't get enough. I filled my 
mouth with first one, then the other of her breasts. 
Back and forth she guided me between them, with soft 
words and the gentle touch of her hand.

"Now it's time for these to come off," she said running 
her thumbs under the waistband of her plain cotton 
panties. "Help me."

She raised her bottom off the couch and I helped her 
ease them off, over her behind and thighs, around the 
bend in her knees, to her ankles where she kicked them 
off playfully.

My eyes went right to the small triangular patch of 
downy hair.

"Have you ever seen a woman's body before?" she asked. 
"I mean all of it..."

"No," I answered in a whisper.

"I'll show you. Get on your knees in front of me."

She slid forward on the couch, almost lying on her back 
as I knelt before her.

"Push my knees apart, slowly."

I eased her legs apart and watched as her body unfolded 
before me. Her small full thighs parted revealing more 
of the downy hair, and pushing her knees further apart 
caused her to unfold, the outer lips parting, revealing 
the soft bare skin, and her tiny lips, still clinging 
together at her center.

I looked, captivated by the sight of her: there was more 
to this than I had imagined.

"Give me your hand," she said and guided me to her soft 
outer lips.

"Stroke me here first. Softly...up and down."

She took a deep breath as my fingers grazed through her 
curly hairs and found the soft swelling mound of skin 
beneath, stroking up one side and down the other. I 
found the tiny crease, where the top of her thigh joined 
her body and ran my fingers along it, then outward, down 
the inside of her leg. The sight of her lips still 
folded together fascinated me. I couldn't keep my hands 
away and I let my fingertips graze that soft skin, 
slowly pushing them from side to side.

"That's nice," she whispered. "Now open me. Be gentle, 
so soft with your fingers; like you would open the wings 
of a butterfly."

With the fingers of two hands a parted her and saw 
tender pink flesh exposed. She took my hand and bringing 
my finger up to her mouth she sucked on it.

"Now stroke me. Right down the center... Yes... just 
that way.

Up and down. As softly as you can."

I looked up to her face: with her eyes closed tightly 
she looked like a little girl, asleep, so beautiful. I 
spread the moisture from her mouth across her delicate 
skin. My finger began to glide more easily up and down 
as she produced wetness of her own.

"Do you know what a woman's clitoris is?" she asked.

"I think so," I said, even though I really had only a 
vague notion.

"Do you know where it is?"

"Isn't it really hard to find?" At least that's what 
reading all those Playboy magazines of my Dad's made me 
think.

"Not hardly," she laughed and took my hand, guiding my 
finger.

"It's...right... here! Mmm."

I felt a little nub, like a tiny nipple under my finger.

"How hard was that?" she asked, laughing softly at her 
own little joke. "Now, rub me there, but ever so gently. 
Spread some of my moisture to it... yes. Go round and 
round it."

I did as she asked and felt it stiffen under my finger. 
She let out a small gasp.

She lay silently except for little gasps or sharp 
inhalations while I continued stroking her. I tried 
different motions, seeing if I could get her to make a 
sound or take another deep breath. She seemed to 
particularly like a rapid side to side motion with just 
my finger tip touching her. Her thighs began clenching 
and unclenching as she moved her pelvis up and down.

"I want you to taste me," she said under her breath but 
with urgency. "Lick me."

I lowered my face between her legs: I could smell the 
deep fragrance of her body as she stood open, glistening 
in front of me. Bringing my tongue against her, I tasted 
her: salty, tangy, a musky-damp, like nothing I had ever 
tasted before or imagined.

Holding the sides of my head she guided me in long 
strokes from bottom to top, lingering there to circle 
the little bud of her clitoris before gliding back down.

"Grab me!" she said, and raised herself off the couch so 
that I could slide my hands under her behind. Then her 
soft voice grew more insistent. "Squeeze me with your 
hands. Harder. Hold me against you." She was rocking her 
pelvis against me and in my hands I felt the muscles in 
her behind working pushing herself against me with each 
little thrust.

"Now stay there," she commanded in a whisper, placing 
her hands at my temples, holding me at her clitoris.

I began slowly circling the little bud with my tongue 
and immediately a felt her muscles tighten. She stopped 
moving and held herself rigidly still.

"Just like that. Keep doing it just like that," she 
implored, her voice a ragged whisper. Bringing her legs 
over my shoulders she clamped my head tightly between 
her thighs. I could hardly breathe but she kept on 
telling me not to stop; I went on, gasping for what air 
I could get.

At last she let out a long low wail and lifted my face 
away from her.

"I'm coming," she gasped and clamped her thighs 
together. Her body writhed and squirmed. With her eyes 
still closed she reached for me, grasping my shoulders.

"Come up here. Kiss me." She pulled my mouth, wet with 
her juices, to her own and kissed me deeply. Still in 
the throes of her orgasm, she writhed and I had to hold 
her tightly to keep my mouth on hers.

When she had calmed down we lay back on the couch side 
by side looking up at the ceiling. I was aroused and 
hard again, I wanted her so badly.

"Mrs... I mean Kozue," I said. "Can we, you know, have 
sex?" I was still embarrassed to even ask.

Noticing my condition, she gave my thigh a little pat.

"No Richard. No we can't. I mean I can't. That's 
something I just can't do, OK?" She looked away and I 
thought she might start crying. "We have to talk about 
this Richard. But, in this state you're not going to 
hear a thing I say, are you?" Her voice brightened.

"OK, just this one last thing, then we have to talk," 
she said as she grasped me in her hand. "I don't think I 
could keep up with you, anyway."

She quickly stroked me to another climax. Almost as 
quick as I could have done it myself I thought, but how 
much more enjoyable to feel someone else's hand do it.

We both pulled our clothes on in silence. My post orgasm 
melancholia was made worse by the fact that I knew that 
she was going to tell me we shouldn't have done what we 
just did, that it was wrong, and we could never do it 
again.

"Now we have to talk," she said as we settled back onto 
the couch. "Let me tell you a little story, OK?

"You remind me of the first man I was ever with, the 
first man who ever made love to me. From the minute I 
met you I thought of him, in the back of my mind at 
first, but now I remember it more strongly. Not that I 
planned any of this to happen," she waved her hand and 
let it fall back to her lap. "But something about the 
way you act, the way you react to things, to life, 
reminds me of him, strongly.

"I was sixteen, still in high school, living in Tokyo 
with my parents. My mother and I had a terrible 
argument. I don't even remember what it was about now, 
something small, stupid, that doesn't even matter 
anymore. I left our apartment that evening and took a 
train across town just to get away from home. I didn't 
even know where I was going. 

I guess I thought I could stay with a friend or 
something, but ended up just walking the streets in the 
Shinjuku area. I just walked blindly, I was so mad at my 
mother I didn't even see the world around me anymore. It 
got late, dark outside, before I calmed down and I 
realized that I still hadn't called anybody. I still 
didn't know what to do, but I knew I wasn't going home. 
That was certain.

"Finally, at about eleven at night, I started getting 
worried. It might be too late to call any of my friends 
if I waited longer, so I found a small restaurant and 
went in just to use the phone. Someone was using it and 
I sat and waited my turn. The restaurant was one of 
those sushi places where they put the readymade sushi on 
a conveyor belt and it goes round and round. 

"Anyway, I sat down and realizing I was hungry, grabbed 
the first thing that came along. It was then that I 
noticed him sitting at the end of the counter: an 
American, maybe in his early thirties, I guess. I hadn't 
seen that many westerners at that time to really know. 
But I knew he was handsome in an exotic kind of way, 
with his bushy hair and beard.

"I'm not sure what came over me then, but I could see he 
was confused, he obviously didn't know Japanese and he 
didn't know how that type of restaurant worked. I got up 
and sat next to him. It was a crazy thing to do. I 
hardly knew English at the time, and to just go up to a 
stranger, a foreigner like that was crazy, very bold, 
because I was a shy school-girl, but I did it. 

"I think being angry, defiant against my mother just 
loosened something in me, some wildness I never knew was 
there. In my bad English I explained how he should just 
take whatever he wanted and pay when he was finished: 
they calculated the bill by counting the different 
colored plates. He thanked me and offered to buy me 
whatever I wanted. I was grateful for the offer since I 
didn't have much money with me and I was starving.

"He treated me to many pieces of sushi and we talked as 
best we could. I forgot all about my parents, the phone 
call I was supposed to make. He explained that this was 
his first trip to Japan. He was a musician, playing in 
an orchestra that was on tour; he was a little jet 
lagged and bewildered by everything at the moment. I 
remember asking him about where he came from. He 
described his home town, some large city in America that 
was only a fairly tail to me. 

"As he told me about his life, where he lived, what it 
was like to play in the orchestra, I grew more and more 
attracted to him in my school-girl way. As I said he was 
foreign, exotic, but I think handsome by any standard. I 
developed an instant crush on him. Well, more than a 
crush. At that age sex, romance, and boys were the only 
things I thought about. Like a lot of young girls I 
longed for some prince charming type to come along, and 
he fit the bill perfectly.

"I don't think his intention was to roam Tokyo looking 
for little girls to pick up. He was a gentle soul, far 
from home and lonely. I mentioned that I had run away, 
that I needed a place to stay, and he offered to let me 
stay in his hotel, one of the best in Tokyo. I know the 
request on my part was mostly innocent, naive, and maybe 
I'm kidding myself, but I think it was on his part too. 
Or at least it started out that way.

"Well, we got to his room. At first it was awkward. We 
watched TV, he was very polite and formal with me, so it 
was I who made the first move, showing him that I wanted 
more than just a place to stay. I got up and sat on the 
bed next to him, and before long we were kissing 
passionately. I'd never kissed a boy before so it was 
quite a new and exciting feeling for me. 

"When he started getting more physical with me, touching 
my breasts and running his hands under my dress, I got 
scared. I stopped him and explained that I had never 
done this before: I was still a virgin and I was really 
nervous. He asked me if I wanted him to stop. He was so 
sweet then, and it made me want him more than before, so 
I said no, he didn't have to stop, but I didn't know 
what to do, and I was afraid he would hurt me.

"Then the most wonderful thing happened. He turned out 
to be so gentle, the perfect first lover in fact. He put 
on some music, something slow and sad, music that 
started with a faint murmuring from the low instruments 
of the orchestra and grew like a long sighing breath, it 
was such deep music and so moving. He undressed me and 
spent hours on foreplay, touching me everywhere with his 
hands, his tongue, kissing me deeply. He explored my 
whole body, and he made me feel so safe under his 
gentle, patient touch, so aroused, that when he finally 
entered me I was ready, I couldn't wait in fact. It was 
such a beautiful thing.

"I stayed with him for the next three days until he went 
back to America. It was like a dream. I phoned my father 
at his office and told him I was staying with a friend 
so they wouldn't go looking for me. Then we made love; 
in the morning, after breakfast, and again in the 
afternoon. We took long hot baths together. He gave me a 
ticket to hear his orchestra play. It cost over a 
hundred dollars I think: and there I was, so self 
conscious, sitting amongst all those people in their 
formal evening dress, me in my little school-girl 
outfit. 

"I loved watching him play. They played the same slow 
sad piece he had put on in his hotel room. During the 
applause he gave me a tiny wave that made me so proud, 
and made me shiver with desire for him. After the 
concert we went back to his hotel room, ordered the most 
lavish and expensive room service meal I had ever 
imagined, and then made love again all night.

"I spent two more days like that with him and then he 
left for home. We never exchanged addresses or anything. 
I know where he lives, I've even seen his orchestra on 
television and caught glimpses of him several times, but 
I've never thought to look him up again: by then I was 
married, and the memory of those days is so perfect, my 
first experience with love was so wonderful, I think 
that seeing him again could never live up to that. Since 
then my luck with men hasn't always been so good anyway. 
But I got off to such a good start I think I've never 
lost my idealism about it. I'm thankful to him."

She stopped to wipe tears from her eyes with the back of 
her hand.

"The reason I'm telling you all this is that you 
reminded me of him. Something about you, the way you 
react to things, your gentle nature, it struck me almost 
right away. I think that's why things happened between 
us. It's my fault, I know, but I suppose it was almost 
inevitable. I'm telling you because I think, like him, 
you would make some young girl a wonderful lover.

You just need a little experience, the tenderness is 
already there, and the thought of you groping around in 
the back seat of a car in some furtive, guilt ridden 
fashion just seems wrong to me. America is such a 
puritanical country, so old fashioned. I'll never get 
over it. It's the one thing I dislike about your 
society.

You have so much freedom here, so much vibrancy and 
life: then why all these backward hang-ups, this fear 
about sex?

"I guess in some way I'm just trying to be for you what 
he was for me: someone to teach you gently, kindly. But 
like that experience this -- I mean you and me-- this 
can't last. It shouldn't. We can share something 
special, but then I have to go away; maybe not 
literally, but we have to end it. There's no future 
between us. Do you see that?

"Surely there is some young girl, someone your own age 
you are interested in? Isn't there? You can tell me. You 
don't have to worry about my feelings. I don't care who 
it is. Just tell me: is there someone you long for? 
Someone whom the mere sight of sets your heart pounding, 
makes your head swim?"

I felt like she had just looked right into my soul. 
After what she had told me I couldn't lie to her, hold 
anything back.

"Yes," I said.

"Good," she whispered. "Good. That's who you should be 
spending your energy on. I make it too easy for you, too 
comfortable. With me there's no challenge. The pursuit 
of love shouldn't be comfortable, not at your age. At 
your age it should be making you lose sleep, not be able 
to eat, driving you a little crazy. This young girl, 
whoever she is, should be the one you spend your days 
and nights longing for, not me. Do you understand?"

I nodded. As she told me her story the image of the 
young girl in my mind wasn't her, it was Yuki: the young 
girl that I could see shedding her shyness and 
innocence, letting them give way slowly to her emerging 
womanhood. I longed for that innocence, hers and mine 
together, and that we might grow closer to one another 
as we came to share more and more intimacy together. 
Perhaps being satiated as I was then helped, but the 
rightness of what Mrs. Tanaka was telling me was 
undeniable. My desire for her faded and I thought more 
and more of Yuki.

"You're right," I said. "Of course you are. But I love 
you..." She started to speak, but I stopped her. "I mean 
I love you in the way you love that man you met long 
ago, who was kind and gentle with you, who set you on 
the right track. But there's one thing I have to say. I 
can't keep this from you another day, not any more. I do 
long for someone. There is someone who makes my heart 
pound, who keeps me up at night, makes me not able to 
eat or sleep: it's your daughter, Yuki."

***

The ball nicked the top of the net and spun there 
precariously for what seemed like a gravity defying 
moment until it dropped on the far side. Yuki came 
running headlong, diving, one arm outstretched as she 
twisted her body in mid air trying desperately to get a 
hand under before it hit the ground. Just barely missing 
it she landed with a little yelp and slid under the net 
on her belly, winding up almost at my feet.

"What a rotten thing to do," she said, smiling up at me, 
panting like an eager dog returning his master's stick.

We had been practicing what she called in her still 
sometimes funny English, 'the desperation save.' I would 
throw the ball far away from her and she practiced 
running it down, diving for it, doing anything she could 
to keep it in play. She had crashed to the ground so 
many times over the last half hour I marveled that her 
delicate body wasn't black and blue.

"Richard, are you going to help me up?" she asked, still 
smiling, holding out her hand.

I grasped her midway down the forearm, as I'd seen 
professional athletes do, but she slipped her arm 
through mine so that our palms came together as I pulled 
her to her feet. She stood close to me for a moment, 
still grasping my hand, before releasing it.

"This floor is dirty," she said with a grimace, brushing 
herself off. "Whoever does the floors in here doesn't do 
a very good job. He must be a day dreamer, I guess." She 
smiled and gave me a playful punch on the arm.

Cleaning the floors was my job but I hadn't done it once 
in the three weeks since Mr. Robert's sudden departure. 
I'd spent all that time helping Mr. Davis, the new gym 
teacher, sort through files in the office.

Sudden departure: that was the official line, what 
almost everyone in the school knew about what happened 
to Mr. Roberts. Only Mr. Forbes, Mrs. Tanaka and myself 
knew the truth. The morning after I had been with her in 
her office Mrs. Tanaka contacted Mr. Forbes and together 
they had met Mr. Roberts when he arrived at school. 
That's all I knew. Mr. Forbes had called me in later 
that morning, where I had once again sat beside Mrs. 
Tanaka as he lectured us on the need to keep everything 
quiet. He assured me that Mr. Roberts had no idea who 
had found him out. 'A student' turned him in is what he 
had been told. I wasn't filled with confidence that my 
anonymity would last long. It must have been obvious 
right away who had turned him in. For the moment though 
he was gone, out of a job, and as Mr. Forbes explained, 
in some legal trouble as well. That meeting was the last 
time I had spoken to Mrs. Tanaka.

Yuki turned her back to me.

"There is dust all over me," she said. "Can you do my 
back." She pulled her pony tail over her shoulders 
exposing the nape of her neck. A few wispy strands of 
hair too short to be caught up in the pony tail grew in 
a tiny line down her neck, a small downy line marking 
the center of her body.

I gently brushed nonexistent dust from her neck and 
shoulders. She stood motionless as my hand crossed the 
small ridge where the uniform traversed her back, a long 
shallow arc that dipped just low enough to reveal the 
tops of her shoulder blades. My hands slid up and down 
over the smooth fabric, along her firm slender body to 
the small of her back.

"Lower," she whispered. Suddenly everything went still. 
The air seemed to thicken and coagulate around us, as if 
we were suddenly at the bottom of the ocean, moving as 
if in a dream.

I let my hands slowly trace from the small of her back, 
and below; over that rise where the firmness of her body 
turned to softness. I grazed the top of her behind with 
two hands now pausing at that line, the line that 
existed in my mind alone, the act of crossing which 
would take me beyond friendship and towards sensuality. 
Pausing, suspending time briefly, my hands wavered then 
retreated up her back.

She started saying something to me but I didn't hear it. 
All I could think about was Kozue, how much I had hurt 
her. The wry little smile she gave me when I told her my 
feelings for Yuki remained frozen in my mind. She hadn't 
said anything else about it, not directly, but the 
subtle change in her tone of voice, her body language 
and all of a sudden we were like strangers again. After 
being so close it felt like having ice water dumped on 
me.

The next day she had been friendly, but distant and 
formal in front of Mr. Forbes. When we left his office 
she had just said good-bye and walked away. Anyone 
seeing our exchange might have thought it friendly: only 
I knew how much pain my deception had caused, how 
difficult to bear it was, and the guilt of it crushed 
me. Now, poised at the brink with Yuki, I could not 
bring myself to take the next step, add to the injury I 
had already done?"

The silence, the look on her face told me Yuki had just 
asked me a question but I had no idea what she said.

"Richard!" Her shoulders rose and fell in exasperation. 
"Are you are day dreaming again? What is your problem?"

"I'm sorry Yuki, what were you saying?"

She stamped her foot.

"You don't listen to a thing I say, do you? You just 
stare at me all the time. It makes me uneasy. Is 
something wrong? Is it me?"

She looked away for a moment. I thought she was going to 
leave, trot away coolly as she had done many times 
before.

"Can I talk to you? I mean really talk to you, when you 
will listen to what I have to say?"

"Sure, Yuki," I said.

"Richard, why are you here?" she asked, sitting on the 
bottom row of the bleachers. "I mean what makes you come 
to the gym all these times to help me?"

She stopped me from answering, holding up a hand as I 
sat down next to her.

"No, I'm sorry. I should say it differently." She looked 
up at the ceiling in search of the right words, her eyes 
wide and beautiful.

"I mean, you have been so nice this year, to help me, to 
come here so many times. You have been so patient with 
me. I'm grateful to you for your dedication.

"Other than my mother you are my best friend here in 
America. I feel we have gotten close to each other 
through all of the time we spend together. But then 
there are times, like today, when I talk to you and you 
don't seem to hear what I say. You seem to be so far 
off, somewhere else, and I wonder if there is somewhere 
else you would rather be. I feel as if I'm wasting your 
time, keeping you from something important, maybe 
someone else more important...I want to be your friend. 
I'm trying to, but sometimes I feel as if my words just 
float away, unheard.

She sighed.

"Before I came here from Japan, my friends back home 
teased me about what America would be like. None of us 
had ever been here, it was like a dream and I think they 
were jealous of me. They told me how horrible it was 
here, how the people are so violent, and the schools are 
terrible; but they said the worst things about American 
boys. I went to an all girl's school since the 
elementary grades and so I've been isolated from boys my 
age most of the time. All my friends were too. 

"It's scary for most of us to think about going off to 
University where we will mingle with boys for the first 
time; it's scary, but exciting too. Boys are all we talk 
about, all we think about. Since we don't know many they 
frighten us; but they excite us too. My friends teased 
me about American boys a lot. They said that none of the 
American girls my age were...I don't even know the word 
in English. What do you call a girl who never, you know, 
did anything with a boy before, slept together?"

"Uh, a virgin, I guess," I said past the lump in my 
throat. We were both blushing profusely, but she seemed 
to be handling it better than I was.

"Well that's what they told me: American girls all did 
it before we did, and any American boy would expect it. 
If I got to know any of them and maybe wanted to go on a 
date, my friends told me I would have to be ready for 
it, to do it, because that is what American boys would 
expect. That's how they teased me, because I... well... 
I'm a... virgin... I've never done it.

A shiver went through me, hearing her say that word.

"When they teased me like that, it got to me, it really 
made me scared. But it made me excited too, to think 
that I would leave my small town behind, experience new 
things... I have seen more of the world than my friends, 
because of volleyball. I travel a lot and I mingle with 
some of the older girls, college girls who are players. 
I've overheard them talking: some of them have 
boyfriends, and they've done things. When we go on 
tours, at the hotels we stay in, the team chaperones 
have to work overtime. 

There are always men around, westerners mostly --they 
seem to know just where we stay-- and some of the 
players sneak away and go off with them sometimes. I 
hear them talking about it later. Hearing the older 
girls talk that way used to scare me, I was afraid of 
those men, but now that I'm older I think that I want to 
have some of the experiences that they have: I don't 
want to be scared of boys any more. When my friends 
teased me about American boys, one part of me really was 
still scared, but secretly, another part of me was 
excited by it, hoped that what they said would come 
true.

"But that was back in Japan. When I first started school 
here the scared part of me took over. Getting along here 
wasn't simple like I thought it would be. As for boys, I 
stopped even thinking about them; I was so nervous all 
the time. But then you came along, you were so nice, so 
kind and polite, and I realized that there was nothing 
to be scared about, at least not with you. 

"I really started to like you. And it seemed as if you 
liked me too. Why else were you spending so much time 
with me, I wondered? But you never... did anything, 
never went any farther, even though I started to wish 
you would. I thought it was because you were so polite, 
so kind, that you didn't want to offend me. I've tried 
my best to show you that... I like you... a lot, not 
just as a friend, but as... maybe more than a friend, 
closer... 

"Lately, I don't know, the last several weeks, you are 
so distant. It hurts me, the way you act. It's like 
everything I say or do doesn't matter to you. You have 
no idea what it feels like to gather up all your 
strength, all your courage, just to make one small step, 
to try and reach out to someone and have them not even 
notice. You have no idea because you never do it 
yourself. You're so quiet, so watchful. At first I 
thought you were just shy, but now I wonder... I think 
you are watchful, waiting all the time for someone else 
to do something. I don't want to seem ungrateful for all 
your help, but the way you act sometimes...it hurts 
me..."

She bowed her head, staring at her hands resting on her 
thighs.

A single tear splashed onto her leg.

Her words went straight to my heart. Finally things were 
clear to me, and I realized how all my efforts to remain 
cool, calm, and uninvolved had gone astray. I had let 
myself be tossed like a bit of flotsam on the stormy 
seas of other people's emotions. Never intending to hurt 
anyone, my inaction, and the evasions, and the 
deceptions it had caused me to take had all achieved 
exactly the opposite result of my intentions. 

Without trying I had let myself become entangled in a 
web of emotions, hurting both mother and daughter in the 
process. It had taken Yuki's pained expression, and 
before that her mother's, to make me see how stupidly, 
how cowardly I had acted.

Sitting beside Yuki alone together in the silent 
cavernous gym, I felt more keenly than ever the delicate 
balance which I had been maintaining, a weight bearing 
down on me, immobilizing me under its force. I had borne 
that weight for months at the fulcrum, the balance 
point, maintaining the delicate equilibrium for as long 
as I could, but now it had started to slip out of my 
control. I didn't have the strength to hold everything 
in place any longer. It was time for action before it 
all came crashing around me, and I could only see one 
possible way out.

I lay my hand lightly on Yuki's arm. She raised her 
eyes, bright with tears as I leaned towards her, sliding 
my hand under her chin, raising her face to mine.

"Richard, I'm sorry..." she started to say.

"No Yuki, shh. No sorrys today. No more words now," I 
whispered.

"Forgive me Mrs. Tanaka," I thought as our lips met, 
softly, trembling: our first kiss.

Fin

Other stories by this author at:
/~Richard_Rivers/

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 69