he’d been doing exactly that.
Now his fingers crept down between my legs and began the patient, teasing come-hither strokes over my clit that drove me wild—when we had time to linger. Unfortunately, we didn’t. The clock said seven-forty and I knew I had to be in the shower by eight. I wasn’t about to settle for a morning-boner charity quickie like I used to do in college. Thanks to the thoughtfulness of the book buyer at Maruzen, I was converted to the No Hands philosophy of female pleasure every time.
Girl-on-top was the quickest route to satisfaction, the book promised, so I swung a knee over Hiroyuki and settled down for the ride. My robe was still tied at the waist, but with my breasts and shoulders bare and the lower portion gaping open wantonly, I felt like one of those floating world prints of a courtesan impaled on her samurai lover’s over-sized member. Hiroyuki was definitely enjoying the view.
I started by squeezing his long, thin cock with my secret muscles, bringing on a nice glow. No Hands women were active, they squeezed and wriggled and moved at their own pace. But I was still working on step seven which was decreasing my dependence on direct clitoral stimulation. Could I jump on to step eight—‘Any Time, Any Position: Now You’re Really Fucking Like a Man’—and graduate early?
In this land of so many unexpected successes, why not give it a try? I leaned forward so my pussy lips were pressed just so against Hiroyuki’s firm belly and began rocking my hips to get the right friction on my clit. Hiroyuki was helping nicely by twisting one stiffened nipple between his fingers and flicking the other with the tip of his tongue. But the clock was ticking, and the book suggested fantasy as a way to turn up the heat to a quick boil. It was time to call in the reserves.
I closed my eyes and silently called to him. My old friend, the mysterious stranger who liked to pop in now and then to watch me masturbate, had followed me across the Pacific. Over the years he’d lost his domineering tone though. Sometimes I told him what to do, like this morning, when I pulled him, rubbing his eyes and dragging his feet, from the closet where I kept my futon the few times I managed to put it away properly.
He yawned. ‘It is rather early, Lydia, my dear. I haven’t even had my tea. Why don’t you just let that fine young man ejaculate in your pussy and get on with your duties?’
‘Because I don’t want to be horny all day. Come on, help me out. You always know just the right thing to say, you dirty old man.’
‘Please, you flatter me. Although I am aware that you respond well to a challenge. Today’s is quite simple. The clock says you have five minutes to come on that boy’s cock. Or as the Japanese prefer to say, ‘go,’ which is an interesting shift in perspective, don’t you agree? At any rate, if you don’t come, or go, as the case may be, you’ll have to suffer through a long, hot day as a very unsatisfied young lady. Oh my, now you only have four minutes.’
I let out a moan of desperation and worked my ass harder. Hiroyuki began to bite my nipple gently. A jolt of pleasure bordering on pain shot straight to my groin.
‘The second hand’s racing forward on that clock, Lydia. The Japanese say a busy life is best, but your schedule is so packed today you won’t even have time to slip into a restroom later to finish yourself off. But you’ll still be turned on. Every man you pass on the street will see your nipples poking through your blouse, that I-want-it-bad wiggle in your hips. But you’ll just have to endure—gaman, gaman, as the Japanese do—until you can get home and ease that throbbing hunger in your cunt.’
‘Faster, yes, faster.’
I must have said those particular words aloud, because Hiroyuki dutifully quickened his thrusts.
‘One minute left now, my dear. What will it be? A nice orgasm to start your morning or a whole day of aching frustration?’
His taunting words made my skin tingle and burn. I’d show him what I could do, the bastard. I jerked my hips, slamming down hard until I felt my orgasm rising, cutting through my belly, bursting up into my throat as a low, quivering groan.
Hiroyuki followed soon after, his moans an echo of my own pleasure.
‘Congratulations, Lydia dear, I’m off to breakfast now,’ the voice said with his usual insouciance, but I could tell deep down he was proud of me.
My other lover, the one in bed with me who had a body, pulled me down and hugged me to him, a gesture that needed no translation.
I lay in his arms for a moment, reveling in the applause as they handed me my diploma. ‘Lydia Evans earns her first completely No Hands orgasm with Hiroyuki Kawakami, Kyoto, Japan.’
It was indeed a great way to start the day. And from there it would only get better.
CHAPTER TWO
Gaijin—foreigners—in Japan are often told they look like movie stars. I got Brooke Shields, Audrey Hepburn, Jodie Foster, and the occasional Marilyn Monroe, a list varied enough to suggest I might not have a future as a celebrity impersonator after all. However, it is true that the life of an ordinary gaijin is a lot like that of a celebrity. Strangers approach you, bowing nervously, to ask you if you will pose for a photograph with them. You are invited to cherry blossom-viewing picnics and karaoké parties and even weddings of people you barely know. On occasion, your fame also makes you the target of heckling gangs of country boys who troop through Kyoto on their school trips. And guys who get off masturbating on train platforms tend to pull their trench coats open in front of your window for that extra frisson of international exposure. Everywhere you go you are noticed, watched, even devoured, by curious stares.
It may have been that ‘hey-everyone-I-had-my-firstno-hands-orgasm-this-morning’ glow, but I seemed to get more star-struck attention than usual as I crisscrossed the city from my English conversation classes at a construction equipment company to my Japanese dance teacher’s villa in the eastern hills. I was riding the bus to my last appointment, a private lesson with a wealthy dentist’s wife on the west side, when some mutual staring turned into my second conquest of the day.
Everyone’s eyes turned to Jason as he climbed onto the bus at the Philosopher’s Walk stop and asked the driver in loud, but serviceable, Japanese if this bus went to Kyoto Station. I myself couldn’t help staring at his chiseled nose, green eyes, and curly brown hair, light enough to be called ‘blond’ in this part of the world. I had grown so accustomed to the eye-soothing planes of Japanese faces, the restful repetition of black hair and golden skin, that I sometimes jumped when I glimpsed a foreign devil’s face in a train window at night, realizing in the next moment that I was gazing at a reflection of myself.
In Jason’s case, it was more his body that got to me: solid, sturdy, the perfect build for practicing my newfound riding skills. He was definitely a big man. I had to wonder as my eyes grazed his jeans, the brawny thighs and ass—how big? Of course, I wasn’t really planning to find out the answer. I didn’t come to Japan simply to fuck white guys. I’d done plenty of that back home.
Just then Jason’s eyes lit on me—a fellow countrywoman who’d obviously had great sex that morning. He made his way past the giggling junior high school girls in their summer sailor blouses and asked if the empty seat next to me was taken.
I could hardly lie.
I was immediately dizzy from the smell of him, the slightly sour, cumin scent of American male. Japanese men smelled of shampoo or tobacco, always something other than themselves.
Jason introduced himself and I nodded
