An Englishwoman in Japan Ch. 01

The way the water traced its way along my thigh and then trickled back into the tub looked kind of erotic to me.

I picked up the bottle of body wash from the side and pushed my body up from the bath. Lathering the liquid in both hands, I had to resist the temptation to let my fingers stray between my thighs as I spread it across my stubble. I was here to shave, not play with myself.

It didn't take long for my little pink razor to complete its task, and my skin felt incredibly smooth as I slowly ran my fingers ran across my newly-shaved flesh. Ridiculously, I found myself wondering if Yoko was smooth, too—she'd been a model after all. Still, based on the evidence of the Japanese porn I'd watched over the last month, it seemed unlikely.

Shaking away the absurd thought, I placed my hands on the side of the tub and pushed upwards and out of the bath. Still dripping water, I grabbed a towel and patted myself dry as I made my way to the bedroom and opened the top drawer of my bedside table.

Why not, I told myself, taking out my vibe. I had time, didn't I?

The mirror on the dressing table was tilted perfectly from my masturbatory session last night, allowing me to watch my reflection from the bed. I settled back on the sheets and switched on the vibrator as I thought back to my session with Nick in the taxi.

Had I really put on a show for the driver? I'd never done anything quite like that before. I'd wondered several times since then if he'd played with himself while he watched us, watched me.

He must have done, mustn't he, even while driving?

For whatever reason, that thought had never failed to arouse me. I slid the vibe inside me as my imagination begun to wander. What if Nick hadn't been in the taxi? What if the driver had exposed himself to me? And the worst of them all—what if it was him I was fucking, not my husband.

Girl, I told myself as my hips began to pump upwards from the bed, you need it real bad.

TWO NIGHT'S LATER

I hadn't been this drunk in some time.

Well, maybe not drunk, not yet. But close. We had meet at the high end Kozue restaurant, perched far above the fray on the fortieth floor of the Park Hyatt, and my mouth had dropped open as soon as I'd walked through the door. I'd never been in such an opulent setting, not even in England.

"Everyone who is anyone dines here," Yoko had smilingly told me, and then pointed out one Japanese celebrity after another.

"It usually takes months to obtain a reservation," she'd added, "but if you ever need a table, just use my name."

She had ordered for us—a shabu-shabu of perfectly marbled beef from premium wagyu cattle—along with the expensive Koshu wine that had been my undoing. I'd over-indulged, which hadn't been a good idea considering the amount I'd already drunk before leaving my apartment.

I apologised of course, but Yoko just told me not to be so silly. I was her guest this evening and anything went, she'd pointed out, and added that she was drinking every bit as much as I was. Maybe she could hold her booze better? All I knew was that by the time we'd finished the meal, my cheeks were red, my head was woozy, and a delightful feeling of wellbeing had settled over me.

Despite her undeniable fame—a former Supermodel married to one of Japan's most successful and wealthiest businessmen—it was so easy to talk to her. She had me laughing out loud at some of her stories about her modelling exploits while gasping in disbelief at others. If only the public knew what some of these high-profile models got up to in their private lives! But basically, we were just two women out together for the evening, enjoying one another's company.

She'd insisted on ordering liqueurs before we left the restaurant, and by the time we'd headed onto the exclusive nightclub she regularly frequented I was becoming unsteady on my feet as well as slurring the occasional word.

It occurred to me that Nick would have been appalled to see me in this state when I was in the company of his boss's beautiful wife, but whose fault was that? He shouldn't leave me by myself for such long stretches, should he? And anyway, he was apparently so busy at the plant that he hadn't even telephoned me on either of the last two evenings.

So why shouldn't I enjoy myself?

I'd complained about his forgetfulness to Yoko as we'd travelled in the taxi to the Starlight Lounge—for the first time since I'd arrived in Japan, I felt like I'd found someone I could really open up to—but she'd patiently reminded me that work were rightfully first, second and third priorities in her country.

"It's our role to take care of our men when they are at home," she'd added. "We must look after their happiness, but to do so we have to be content, too. Otherwise how can we support them effectively?"

Even in my fuzzy brain, what she said made sense, but there was only one way I was finding temporary contentment in Nick's absence and I wasn't sure if there was any long term future in that...

"Let me introduce you to traditional Japanese massage," she added, resting her hand soothingly on my bare thigh. "Japanese models discovered the secret years ago and I have regular sessions with the same masseuse for years now. Táchira just has this perfect way of making me feel good about myself."

"I'll try anything," I absent-mindedly agreed, suddenly more interested in the sensations created by her fingers on my thigh than what she was saying.

But just as quickly they fingers had moved away and the taxi was easing to a stop outside a brightly lit club in what appeared to be a side street.

"I'll book you a slot with Táchira," she whispered as we alighted onto the narrow, cobbled pavement. "I guarantee you're going to love him."

---

The Starlight Lounge—in the heart of the Shinjuku entertainment district—was alive with salsa. Tokyo's most exclusive nightclub was filled with the live percussionists, playing off giant conga drum stages, each song transitioning into the next. I hadn't had so much fun dancing in a long time.

But I was happy enough to adjourn to one of the bars when Yoko suggested it, allowing me a break from the series of guys trying to hit on me.

"You can't blame them," Yoko laughed as she ordered more Amaretto sours. "Many Japanese men adore European women, and when they're beautiful and blonde..."

She left the statement unfinished, and it struck me that it was the first time she'd called me beautiful. Her breath felt deliciously warm on my cheek and she smelled good—some kind of spicy perfume. It was the alcohol, I told myself, as I felt my nipples harden, and I grinned inanely at her as I downed yet another drink.

The bar glowed green and blue against the orangey lights of the rest of the club and I could feel my body continuing to sway to the beat as if it had a mind of its own. Everything here felt larger than life and my gaping eyes took in the uninhibited scene around us. I could smell drugs as well as alcohol in the air and on the dance floor everyone was working their bodies in their own unique style.

"Liquid dancing," Yoko whispered in my ear. "It's a crazy type of dancing that only comes out of a person when they've had too much to drink. Why don't you show me how crazy a beautiful English woman can be..."

There it was again—this stunning former Supermodel had called me beautiful.

I was so lost in the moment that I had no idea how I found myself in the middle of the dance floor, but I did. It felt like all my cares had faded into the background and I smiled to myself as Yoko watched from the bar as I gave myself up to the music and just let myself go.

I had no idea how long I danced, nor did I care. Men were dancing around me, beside me, with me, against me—young Japanese men—and I danced uninhibitedly with them, not just allowing one set after another of groping hands to wander over my body but practically encouraging it.

There was one guy in particular who persistently cupped my asscheeks and pulled me tight against him. After a couple of weak attempts to drag his hands away, I eventually just let him have his way and felt myself grinding back on his hard cock as he thrust it against me.

When his friend moved behind me, the combination of two hard cocks simultaneously thrusting against my groin and my ass was impossible to resist.

I knew I should stop them. I was married after all, but the fuzziness inside my head was stopping me from thinking clearly. At least, that's what I told myself. The reality was that I desperately needed some sort of physical contact in Nick's prolonged absence and—with one pair of hands fondling my tits through my Armani dress and the other dragging the hem of my dress upwards—they were edging closer to actually fucking me on the dance floor.

Yoko's intervention came just in time.

She appeared from nowhere and her disapproving glance at the two young men sent them immediately scurrying for cover. I almost screamed out my frustration above the heavy music when she led me away.

"Never in public, Tiffany," her husky voice breathed in my ear. "But I know exactly what will help..."

---

I knew it was the early hours of the morning—maybe two or three o'clock—but I wasn't aware of much else except that I was lying naked on a large bed in a luxurious massage studio. Yoko had taken me there.

I couldn't remember much about the journey there, except that Yoko had continually stroked my hair as she'd told me that I had to be more circumspect in public, and that her masseuse was going to take good care of me. A traditional Japanese massage would ease all the simmering tensions inside me, she'd promised, before leaving me to Táchira's ministrations.

The small, inoffensive-looking man wasn't what I'd expected at all. In my inebriated state, I'd been hoping that a young, strapping, muscular masseuse would be working on me, rather than a shaven headed fifty year-old sporting a wispy grey beard. But perhaps it was just as well, I convinced myself...

There wasn't any risk of impropriety with this man.

As his soft hands massaged the scented oil across my body—was I really lying naked infront of this stranger, without even a hint of embarrassment?—it soon became clear why Yoko had sung his praises. The knowledgeable way the white uniformed masseuse went to work on each of my tense muscle groups confirmed that he was indeed an expert in his profession.

"Relax, Missy," he told me in his pigeon English when his searching fingers found yet another tense knot. "Close eyes and hand body over to Táchira."

Hand my body over? I wondered if he could hear my chuckle. That's exactly what I'd been doing on the dance floor for the last couple of hours. My vibe would be working overtime when I got home, but I kept reminding myself that I didn't need to think about that right now. All I had to do was concentrate on the sensations created by his experienced touch.

The way he continued to pour copious amounts of oil onto my body as he worked—slowly, sensually—had me purring like a cat.

As time went on it soon became clear that while caressing fingers were gradually working the kinks out of my body, they were also unlocking the sexual feelings I'd experienced with two hard cocks grinding into me on the dance floor. I willed myself to lie still and focus on the moment, but my purr upped a couple of notches as his oil-covered fingers took the fullness of my breasts in his hands, rotating them in one direction and then the other.

This couldn't be normal, I told myself, but how could I object when this was Yoko's masseuse. Did he touch her this way, so intimately? Surely not!

The illicit thought began to draw pictures in my mind, pictures I shouldn't be seeing, and I closed my eyes as I attempted to will them away.

"Relax, Missy," his soft voice told me again. "Relax."

Relax? How could I when my heart was practically pumping out of my chest. I tried to think of Nick but instead it was the two young men at the nightclub who came in to my mind, touching me, feeling me, grinding against me.

Their hands had been all over my body. Just like Táchira's...

His fingers were sliding up into my armpits, making me gasp before they returned to my tits. He repeated the action, over and over, building up the anticipation inside me before eventually giving me what I craved by smoothing his fingers over my breasts, deliberately rubbing my thrusting nipples.

I groaned out my disappointment as his hands temporarily left me, but to my relief it was only so that he could spread more oil across my breasts. When they returned to my nipples, the sensations as he squeezed them between his thumbs and forefingers and were even more intense and I had to screw my eyes tightly shut in an attempt to hold off my rapidly approaching orgasm.

For a moment sanity returned and I tried to pull his hands away, tried to push myself up from the larger than average massage table, but Táchira patiently returned my hands to my side, telling me again in his pigeon English to relax.

When his probing hands returned to my tingling flesh, they moved downwards this time, to my stomach. I could feel my whole body shaking as I suddenly thought of my husband. Nick would be appalled if he could see me now, allowing a stranger—even a masseuse—to touch me so intimately. He would have expected me to cover myself, politely thank him for his efforts and then excuse myself and leave as quickly as possible.

But he wasn't here, he was in Kagoshima. His work was more important than I was. Despite Yoko's explanation of what was expected in Japan, it was hard to accept that I no longer came first in his life.

Even as my alcohol-muddled brain tried to make sense of my feelings, the heat inside my body was reaching fever pitch. Táchira's hands had flicked some switch and I hoped the continuous series of groans I could hear weren't mine.

Dammit, he was pouring oil on my inner thighs now. I'd already learned that where the oil flowed, his hands followed. I kept my eyes closed as I battled my inner demons, telling myself to keep my legs firmly together and yet not offering even token resistance as his firm hands eased my thighs apart.

Then his fingernails were scraping along my skin, massaging closer ... and closer. Was he testing me? Seeking approval? If so, the way my ass began to rise from the massage table gave him his answer. His fingers covered the outside of my flesh at first, teasing me before tantalisingly edging inwards, shooting to the very edge of my labia. I was dimly aware that I was raising my body even higher, offering myself up to him, and when he took advantage his two fingers made a wonderful squelching sound as they slid into my wetness.

Inside my head, I was screaming, pushing his hands away, covering myself up and jumping down from the table. This couldn't happen. I was married.

But in the mirror across the room—specifically placed for the purpose?—I could see my legs widen as forced his fingers deeper, and then I was throwing my head back as I squeezed them, rocked on them, pumped my heaving body upwards and fucked them like a madwoman.

---

This wasn't happening. It couldn't be, could it?

I'd been so busy coming down from my climax that at first I hadn't realised Táchira had climbed on the table beside me and released his surprisingly large cock from his white uniform. I stared weakly at him as his hands found my ankles, pulling my legs upwards and holding them apart. When he eased himself inside my unresisting body, I gasped out loud.

No, I told myself. It wasn't happening. It wasn't. It had to be a dream. I was married and the man about to fuck me wasn't my husband. I should be screaming at the diminutive, wispy bearded man. I should be pushing him off me, insisting that he had to stop. Yet, instead, my curled fingers were clutching the sides of the padded massage table and I was whimpering out my need like a rampant animal as his wonderful thickness began to pump inside me.

"Oh my God ... Oh my God ... Oh my God ..."

They were my words, over and over again.

"Oh my God ... Oh my God ... Oh my God ..."

His rhythm was steadier than Nick, almost machine-like, just like some of the guys I'd watched in the porn movies. How many times had I wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end? Now I knew. And despite this being wrong, so very wrong, I wanted more.

I gasped out my approval when he leaned forward and pinned my legs back either side of my breasts. When he began to pound me harder and deeper, I twisted my head to the side as I began to moan like a two dollar whore.

"Don't stop, Táchira," I found myself begging him, the words slurred but still partially intelligible. "Please don't stop."

He didn't. Not for a long time...