Authors: Jane Nin
I nodded, afraid if I spoke my voice would give away all the
sadness I was swallowing.
“Hey,” he said, reaching down and weaving his fingers into
mine, “if you hated that job so much, I’m glad you quit.” He squeezed and I
squeezed back. “We’ll figure something out for you—something better.”
We
, he’d said.
I quickly turned and kissed his ear, and for a long, sweet
moment I stayed there, stilling the grateful sobs that wanted to pour out of
me, breathing the clean scent of his hair. Our hands stayed linked, tight.
I had never been to a place as completely foreign as Tokyo and I was glad to be arriving with Jack, who either knew or gave the illusion of
knowing his way around. We walked out to our car—still “our” car, though it was
a tasteful compact sedan—and after the attendant finished loading our luggage
into the back Jack bowed and thanked him in Japanese.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said, once we were in the
car and the doors were closed.
“What?” he said, innocently.
“You
know
what,” I said. “You
speak Japanese
?”
He laughed. “A little. Please, thank you, where is the
bathroom. And of course, ‘how much will you accept for this technology’?”
“Promise?”
“Swear. Much as I’d love to impress you, most of our
business is conducted in English.”
“I’m frankly relieved,” I said, “maybe you’re human after
all.”
“Most assuredly,” said Jack.
I gazed out at Tokyo through the windows. It was neon and
concrete and orderly. The people walked purposefully along its crowded
sidewalks. But I had also read of this culture’s seedier side—the sex clubs and
geishas and tentacle porn, the schoolgirls’ underwear in vending machines. I
couldn’t imagine what our game would be tonight.
Our car turned down an alley where, in a long stretch of
garage-like spaces, craftsmen were turning out furniture: planing and
polishing, sanding edges smooth.
Jack rolled down the window and told the driver to slow
down. In the car I could smell the wood, and the lacquer.
“Here,” he said suddenly, and the driver stopped. “Come on,”
he told me, and I climbed out—that familiar feeling of delicious apprehension rising
up in me.
He conferred with an old man carefully buffing a gleaming bench
made of mahogany. The man nodded, and gestured for me to approach.
With a quietly proud gesture he yanked a sheet from where it
had been draped over a tallish something. The furniture revealed was nothing I
could decipher. There were two levels of what seemed like tabletop, suspended
over a long, built-in seat. It reminded me a little of a child’s school desk,
if such a thing had been built to accommodate a child sitting in it with his
legs straight out, and strangely high off the ground.
This man spoke only a tiny bit of English. The bi-level
“tabletop” was hinged, and he now lifted it and gestured for me to climb in. I
was intended to sit in this thing. I started to climb up—the seat part was
bar-stool height. He stopped me, though, and pointed to my head.
“This… here,” he said, pointing to the lowest part of what
I’d thought was the seat.
Jack nodded for me to follow his direction. I climbed in and
lay on my back, knees bent and ankles crossed. The seat was gently sloped, so
that my head tilted down, my hair spilling off the edge.
The man spoke to me impatiently.
“You have to straighten your legs so he can lower the lid,”
explained Jack.
I did so, and the lid was lowered. I could no longer see the
ceiling—only polished wood a few inches from my face. From there, the wood
pressed against my shoulders, and the opening admitted my breasts. Beneath
them, the second panel covered my stomach.
Now I felt the man’s hands on my ankles, slowly bringing
them apart and in the direction of my head. It reminded me of yoga, a pose
called “Plow Position,” where you laid on your back and stuck your ass in the
air and finally brought your toes to touch the floor above your head. Except
here I was also doing the splits. I relaxed, finally, and the tops of my thighs
rested upon the wide upper level of the table.
Even with all my clothes on, it was not difficult to see the
kind of view this table had been expertly built to facilitate. And I did not
imagine I would be wearing clothes whenever I climbed into it next.
“Good,” said Jack, and the table was opened again and I
climbed out. Between the blood rushing away from my head and the anticipatory
tingling between my legs I suddenly felt everything spinning and began to lose
my balance.
Jack saw, and grabbed me, steadying me. “Are you okay?” he
asked, “Is this still okay?”
The room still lurched and spun but I could focus on his
face, searching, worrying.
“Yes,” I said. I was dizzy, but terribly excited.
The lighting in the restaurant was somehow both bright and
flattering—presumably carefully engineered to show off the gorgeous colors and
textures of the fish behind the counter. The sushi chefs were preparing
everything for the evening when Jack and I walked in. Once again, I wore my
fur. This time, having an idea of what was in store, I hadn’t bothered to put
anything on underneath it.
This had led to various stresses, amusements and
titillations in the process of getting here from our hotel, nor had I eaten
yet, so for the second time that day I was simultaneously floating and aroused.
I cruised the counters and inspected the pink and orange and nacreous white
flesh of the fish, saw the tank of teeming, striped prawns, the inert coils of
octopus tentacle. Beads of salmon roe glistened orange, whole mackerel lay in
little streaks of silver. It felt more like a jewelry store than a restaurant,
so clean and white, everything safely behind glass.
As I finished my inspection I turned back toward Jack and
saw the table. I realized now it had been finished to match the rest of the
furniture in the restaurant—it was at even height with the other tables, its
finish the same glossy, understated surface as all the other wood in sight.
My breath caught a little and I wobbled in my brand new
high-heeled shoes. Jack had suggested I be pedicured and lavishly shod, given
that my feet would be very much on display. “I doubt they’ll be looking at my
feet!” I teased him, but I surely didn’t mind some preparatory pampering.
“When does it start?” I asked him, and he looked at his
watch.
“Five minutes,” he said. “You should probably climb in.”
I nodded and stepped toward the table as he lifted its lid.
He helped me off with my coat and for a moment I just stood there in the middle
of the restaurant, naked. The sushi chefs studiously continued their work, not
stealing so much as a glance. I found their work ethic reassuring, admirable.
Jack helped me into position in the little table. I wriggled
down until my head was at its lowest part, my back and breasts arched up, my legs
clear of where the lid would hinge back down.
“Are you comfortable?” he said.
“I think so,” I said. “I’ll need to eat later, though.”
“Of course,” he said. “We’ll make sure you do.” And then a
beat. “I’m going to close the lid now; are you ready?”
I nodded, shot him a last trusting look. He lowered the
tabletop and once again it was pressed against me, my bare breasts protruding
from a gap in the cool, hard wood. Gently he guided my legs into place,
spreading my vagina wide open. I took deep breaths, trying to relax.
“Wet already?” he asked, mock-surprised.
Even though the table blocked me from looking up, it was
open at its end, and my head, tilted back, was exactly at the level of his
crotch. I could see his swollen cock inside his perfectly tailored slacks—it
was barely an inch or two from my face. This aroused me more, even as I
realized it was unlikely this element of its design was any accident.
“Touch me,” I whispered, but he was already turning away,
and there was the noise of a group of men entering the restaurant and greeting
each other jovially. Mostly they spoke Japanese to each other, but here and
there I could pick out Jack’s voice, greeting them in English, asking after
their wives, their kids, their golf games.
Suddenly a man’s voice was loud, right next to me. I could
see the expensive blue suiting across his hips. And the hardening organ inside
it.
“Jack,” he cried out, “what is this? Special
omakase
?”
He chortled at his joke.
“Bento box?” suggested someone else. I heard Jack’s laughter
among the others’.
The other men were approaching now, laughing and murmuring.
“You will have to show us the polite way to eat this dish,”
said someone. “It appears to be American, not Japanese.” More laughter.
“Oh,” said Jack, “I think you will find that eating this
dish is simple enough. But I should warn you that there is a chance the dish
may also eat you.”
Exclamations of delight as the men caught his meaning,
confirming my deductions about the table’s design.
“Who’d like to start?” A pause, shuffling of feet. “Our
Board President, of course. Please, Mr. President, come stand here.”
A moment later another crotch was at eye level. This one
without the telltale bulge of the previous two. I felt and heard the sounds of
small ceramic dishes being placed upon the tabletop.
“These,” he paused, “are mostly just for texture. You may
enjoy touching them if you like.” Another pause, as more dishes were set down.
“This, of course, for dipping. It is milder than your soy sauce but I assure
you, just as sweet.”
“Ah, yes, yes,” said Mr. President. And then I felt his
fingers gently pulling at my nipples. They were cool and dry and slender, and
if there was any doubt I was certain now that he was an older man. My nipples
hardened at his touch. He laughed nervously and said something in Japanese.
More laughter.
“Please,” said Jack then, “eat.”
I’d been wet before but these faceless men all staring at my
spread vagina and asshole had me fairly soaking. I wanted him to keep touching
my breasts, but then he stopped. I heard the paper wrapping being torn off a
pair of chopsticks, and then there was a moment of silence throughout the room,
and a moment later I felt cold, wet flesh rubbing against my clit.
I gasped. The room stayed silent for a moment—I sensed them
watching the man bring the fish to his lips, chewing.
Through the mouthful came an appreciative grunt, and the
room burst into applause.
Now a second cool morsel was being rubbed against the wet
and swollen lips of my pussy—and then removed, as he took a second bite.
“No wasabi?” said someone.
“Compromises,” said Jack, to my relief.
This dipping and slipping of fish flesh against mine
promised to be torture—too short to get me off, but constant enough to keep my
pussy wetting and re-wetting itself.
The next piece of fish was warm, almost hot, and I gave a
little cry. I watched the man’s crotch—he still wasn’t hard.
“Thank you,” I heard him say now, and he stepped away.
“Perhaps, for another guest.”
More applause, and a new pair of pants appeared before the
table, bulging visibly. I could even see a spot of wetness on the fine grey
wool.
“Mmm,” said this man, as he pinched my nipples and rolled
them between his fingers. “Yummy,” he added, testing out his awkward slang. I
saw his cock twitching in his pants as he kneaded and pulled at my breasts.
He paused for a moment, addressing someone in Japanese. A
moment later, I felt drops of something sprinkling my breasts. Then his hand
returned, smoothing it into the nipples, around and around. It was some kind of
oil. Finally the scent reached me: sesame.
Now, more dishes were set down upon the table, and a new set
of chopsticks were unwrapped. The cool fish once again was slid against my hard
clit, up and down the wet, open folds of my vagina. But he didn’t yet take it
away to his mouth. He continued to rub me with it, dragging it back and forth
across my clit, so this time some tension could actually build. I couldn’t help
it, I was whimpering a bit, straining up into the air for more.
“This table is noisy,” said the man, and the fish was
removed and as the men laughed once again he reached down and unbuckled his
belt and unzipped his fly and pulled down his pants. He leaned his hips now
into the edge of the table, and his hard cock was thrust toward my face.
I stuck out my tongue and flicked it at the wet tip of his
cock. He exclaimed something in delighted Japanese. A moment later, a new piece
of fish was being slipped and glided along my hungry pussy. Again he troubled
himself to rub it in sweet circles around my clit, and I thanked him by popping
the fat head of his cock into my mouth and sucking hard.
He cried out a little, and I felt his knees buckling, or
else bending to give me more of his length. I was moaning even though he filled
my mouth, moaning and sucking away hungrily. I wanted him to make me come.