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From: observer@onramp.net (observer)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: **New - A Night with Yokosan [1/2] M/F Rom
Date: 25 Jun 1996 01:36:18 GMT
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Author's Note:
I answer all E-Mail, eventually.
This story is available in WPD format - request file Yoko_F.wpd.
If a segment is missing, send a request, I will respond.
This story is intended solely for the entertainment of adults,
and may contain words which depict acts of human sexuality.
If you are a minor as defined by your local political jurisdiction,
a postal inspector, or an asshole looking for trouble, please delete
this file before reading, and go away. In other words, void where
prohibited by law. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance herein
to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended.
*****
"A Night With Yokosan"
by Observer - observer@onramp.net
(c) June 1996, all rights reserved
Edited by Chris.
This part one of two parts.
*****
It didn't cost me a dime.
Her name was Yoko. Heck, it seemed half the girls I met in Japan
were named Yoko - Yokosan if you wanted to be polite. The other
half were named Michiko, or something like that.
I was always polite to Japanese women, and they loved it. They
loved it because the average Japanese man was an asshole toward
women. This is no longer always true for complex reasons, but when
I lived and worked in Japan the men were chauvinists of the first
water.
There I sat in a combination saki-ramen bar lusting after this
little bitty girl with the sweet face who smiled at my attempts to
speak Japanese from a phrase book. She covered her mouth when she
laughed, which all polite Japanese women do, as I was to discover.
It was my first foray on the streets of Japan. I had no idea
exactly where I was, or how to get back to the base. But I surely
liked Yoko, uh, Yokosan. Maybe I'd better explain how this came to
be, when and how I ended up wherever it was I was.
The Army shipped me to Japan a long time ago. Japan was
rebuilding, but still in pretty bad shape fifteen years after the
war. In bad shape by my terms, anyway. I later found out they
liked ramshackle wooden dwellings - it had something to do with
earthquakes.
The "Frederick S. Funston" (General) was the smallest ship in the
Army. That's right, the Army. And that's the ship I rode from
somewhere in Washington state to Yokohama, stopping by the desolate
island of Adak to drop off some dependents. The damn ship was so
small, I think even the Captain got seasick while traversing the
Alaskan waters, which are famous for big waves during certain times
of the year.
Japan was the destination of choice for most of the men who signed
up with my branch of the Army, as I quickly learned after arriving
at the school where I was to spend six months learning the skills
the Army believed I needed to do the assigned job. Only five
allocations for Japan were available to our class, and the
assignments were passed out according to class rank. I worked hard
to get to Japan, and I was finally on the way.
Coming from an era and a community where women saved themselves
for marriage, I was now on my way to the land of the Rising Sun,
where I had been led to believe a lot of females were free with
their charms, or at least didn't charge too much.
Traveling to Japan on the ship also marked the first and last time
I ever ran *away* from a naked woman. The Army had decided
somebody needed to stand guard at the back of the ship to keep the
enlisted men from climbing the steps that were there and raping the
dependents, who were all in cabins on the upper decks. The waves
through which the ship pitched and rolled were easily fifteen feet
tall
So there I was on the fantail, holding an empty rifle and
trying not to get seasick, when this broad ran out of her cabin
making a beeline for the rail. She didn't have a stitch of
clothing on, not even panties.
Yeah, I do remember what she looked like, even with the quick
glance I gave her as I dashed back around the fantail corner to get
away. Pretty cute, but I was less interested in that than I was in
getting away from the wind-driven results of her seasickness.
There were only sixteen enlisted men on the ship, which was
designed for several thousand. This meant we could spread out in
the assigned bunk room, and also that we had a lot of spare time to
think, to play games, and to try not to get seasick.
Most of us got sick anyway. I spent my time doing what
everyone else was doing, and laughing at the crude descriptions of
sideways pussy we had been led to expect.
When we got in to Yokohama, a bus was waiting to greet the
ship, along with a bad band playing military marching music.
Because I was in the Army, I was herded off the ship and onto the
bus. The bus joined a herd of vehicles leaving the port.
On the way to the transit depot in Tokyo, where I was to be
transhipped up to Hokaido, the northernmost island, I got my first
glimpse of just how different Japan really was. The area between
Tokyo and Yokohama wasn't as built up then as it is now. And every
square inch of ground that didn't have a ramshackle wooden building
on it had something green under cultivation.
And that's where I saw what I later identified as a papasan,
standing in a pathway by the road. He had on a funny hat, baggy
pants, and was smoking a silly long-stemmed pipe. He was also
calmly taking a leak in what a country boy like me knew to be a
cabbage patch. Never could eat the stuff after that.
The sergeant at the transit depot gave me a 48-hour pass and
told me to stay out of trouble. I was the only one bound for
Chitose, the small town on the island of Hokaido where I was to be
stationed. The other men would be processed and gone before the day
was out. I had to take a train, and if the train left without me,
I would be in deep shit.
I would not be the first or last greenhorn he would caution.
Sergeants probably know more about young males than the young
males' own mothers. In his own way, he was trying to help me to
prevent my hormones from overloading my brains by putting the fear
of God in me - or more correctly, the fear of sergeants.
Sergeants are such fun.
I asked the bus driver to drop me anywhere. On the drive to
the base from the harbor, almost everywhere had looked like almost
everywhere else. I did not want to go to the fleshpots of The
Ginsa and other areas. I wanted to mingle with the general
population, see sights an average GI never saw, and immerse myself
in the exotic culture of the Far East.
And get laid. Preferably by a girl who had no prior experience
with a GI. The driver stopped at a point he said was a good spot,
I got off the bus, and that's how I ended up at the Akimi, and met
Yokosan and her brother. I have no idea what 'Akimi' meant, and am
not sure to this day that I am even spelling it right.
The bus driver dropped me off at a location about twenty
minutes from the base. He gave me the usual polite Japanese smile
as he gestured that we were in a place I would be safe. I surveyed
the now-familiar dusty streets and wooden sidewalks, clean with no
litter; wooden buildings everywhere, clean and not needing repair;
and people, clean, if not well dressed. Except for old men pissing
in cabbage patches. I thought that I might like Japan.
After I met Yokosan, I was positive.
Wandering the streets eventually got boring, but not before I
had appraised the surroundings, and the women. I examined the
goods on display in dozens of small shops, and the women who minded
the stores.
I decided I liked Japanese women, who had certain common
characteristics to my wandering eye, and seemed mostly pretty, at
any age. The first thing I noticed was that I didn't see any
really obese people, especially the ladies. I speculated that
exercise from walking and walking and walking, coupled with diet,
kept everyone trim and slim throughout their lives.
The next characteristic I noticed was that the women were
short, something less than five feet tall. This meant small, and
small meant tight, in my mind. The next was how they wore their
hair. The younger girls had long black hair, straight and shiny,
well brushed, with bangs, although a few had pony tails, which made
them look too young for the direction my hormones were pointing. A
good many of the older women wore their hair short in pixie style.
Almost every woman I saw had a great ass. Their rear ends were
tight and muscular, probably from walking everywhere. On the spot
I decided that nothing beats a good tight ass on a woman. Not even
big boobs, which were nowhere in sight. Moving from shop to shop,
I continued to appraise the females.
I couldn't wait.
Lost amid the shops and homes of a people about whom I knew
almost nothing, I continued my journey of discovery. As I
appraised the women, they appraised me back. More than once, as my
roving eye focused on an especially delightful vision of mysterious
loveliness, I thought I noticed her attention turn quickly aside.
This, of course, led me to ponder as to the best approach to take
to accomplish my goal - getting some pussy.
The women were slender, lovely, exotic, seemingly friendly and
approachable - if I could work up my courage. I was overwhelmed.
My manhood was calling attention to itself periodically, and I
often had to stop and focus my thoughts on mundane things to lessen
the bulge I was carrying around.
I also noticed that most of the girls had slightly bowed legs.
It bothered me a bit then, although I realized later there were
some benefits to that.
*****
Wandering the streets, I was looking in my phrase book to find
out how to say "Food," when a young Japanese guy approached me and
asked in halting English if he could help me.
"Sure," I said. "Food."
On that note he took me by the arm (very unusual, the
touching), and dragged me to a small store down an alley. I was a
little apprehensive until I got inside the shop - and saw Yokosan.
There was a rapid fire exchange of Japanese that I speculated
meant 'Get all his money, sister,' and Yokosan's brother left the
shop. Yoko bowed to me politely, I bowed back, she giggled and put
her hand before her mouth, and I was lost.
From about seven that night until eleven thirty, I sat in what
I discovered to be the equivalent of a neighborhood bar and social
center. I was perched on a stool at the corner of the bar where
Yokosan, in between taking care of business, taught me some
Japanese, and I taught her some English.
During the course of our halting conversation, I learned that
she and her brother owned the shop. An uncle had passed away and
left it to them, and their parents lived in another city far away
to the south.
Everyone who came in smiled politely and exchanged greetings
with Yokosan. They knew her, she knew them, and they all knew each
other.
And they all wanted to practice their nearly worthless English
on me, while I practiced my equally worthless new-found Japanese on
them. But great fun was had by all. I learned quickly how to
stand and bow instead of shaking hands, although a few of the men
wanted to try that strange Western custom. And I talked - or tried
to talk - to Yokosan.
Most of the customers were men. The atmosphere was that of any
neighborhood bar, where men down a few brews on their way home. In
the case of the Akimi, of course, they downed a few small cups of
hot Saki. Yokosan also served medium sized cups of ramen, Japanese
noodle soup she flavored with bits of ham, shallots, small pieces
of shrimp, and other ingredients I could not identify.
It was delicious and I consumed three bowls.
I watched Yokosan as she went about her business. Her
cheekbones were more prominent and well defined than what I had
come to believe was the norm for Japanese women. Her hands fussed
with her long straight black hair, especially when she caught me
watching.
The other customers noted my focus, and seemed to be amused, at
least I hoped so. I could see verbal exchanges and sly glances as
they shared confidences among themselves. I could not comprehend
the content of those exchanges, but it was clear they were talking
about me. I knew that my fascination with Yokosan was a part of
that discussion, but what I did not know was exactly what they
thought of it, or - more importantly - what Yokosan thought.
Now and again a customer would make a remark either directly to
Yoko, or more often, just within her earshot. Yoko would either
say something in response that sounded petulant or angry - or
simply give the offending party a vicious pinch as she walked by.
I would have killed to have understood.
More than once during the long evening I noticed Yokosan
watching me as I interacted with her customers. Just as I would
look away when she caught me staring at her, Yoko would hastily
busy herself with something else when I caught her. It occurred to
me that if Yoko was desirable to me simply because she was so
different, perhaps, just perhaps, she viewed me in the same light.
Her brother obviously noticed something. As the evening wore
on, he would stop by the Akimi more and more often. At first he
acted glad to see me sitting there, presumably spending money. But
when it appeared I was not going to leave anytime soon, he began to
frown, and started talking to Yoko in earnest, clearly about me.
The entire evening I had only spent about 300 Yen, less than a
dollar. About eleven, I got sleepy, and after a hand-concealed
yawn (I was learning - don't show your crooked teeth), Yoko grabbed
my phrase book and showed me the word for "Hoetelu." Hotel, in
other words.
Dragging me out of the shop, she walked me quickly up the hill
to a well built two-story building, introduced me to the obasan,
and got me checked into the hotel. The charge was 400 Yen,
slightly more than a dollar, and the room was mine all night.
Then before Yoko could leave, I showed her the carefully noted
phrase in my book that said simply, "Will you join me?" I held my
breath waiting for her answer.
Yoko stared at me as my heart pounded in my throat and I
flushed bright red, then she finally nodded and said, "Hei" - which
meant - "yes."
When I could breathe again I asked her when, and she indicated
about 2 a.m. As Yokosan departed, the sense of relief and
anticipation nearly overwhelmed me. I took another look at her
slender legs as she walked away. Her buttocks moved freely under
the slightly loose short skirt she wore, and her waist looked
impossibly small.
Earlier, I had noted a small bulge at exactly the right spot on
the front of her skirt. I knew that almost invisible indication
was the beginning of the promised land - the mysterious valley of
my dreams I would now be allowed to explore, maybe.
But the several hours between then and Yoko's return loomed
like a century to my hyped up senses.
So I entertained myself talking, or rather gesturing, with the
bemused obasan and fending off her resident hooker, Kimisan. Kimi
spoke a kind of pidgin English, and we did manage some interesting
conversations about what she could do for me.
Kimi created a good deal of turmoil in my heart - or somewhere.
Simply put, I thought I was in the land of milk and honey - pussy -
and I wanted some. I ached with the intensity of need that only a
deprived young man in his late teens can have. Kimi seemed to know
this, and found great pleasure in amusing herself by speculating on
the size of my organ, how fast I would have an orgasm, how soon I
could get it up again, and her own expertise in managing all of the
above.
Blushing furiously at some of her suggestions, I knew my
embarrassment was giving away my inexperience. Yet I was still
fascinated by the somehow discreet way the young Japanese whore
went about teasing me and making her point. The old woman watched
with amusement, and interjected a comment from time to time that
caused them both to laugh and Kimi to redouble her efforts to make
me squirm.
But my heart was with Yokosan, and I was determined to wait.
To pass time, and get away from Kimi, I took a bath. I soaped up
good in the tub, and drained the too-hot water out when I was
through, dressing again in my street clothes. Man, did I get in
trouble. I was educated quickly by a pissed-off obasan and hooker
who let me know in no uncertain terms that I had done a bad thing.
A Japanese bath, they explained, consists of getting clean
outside the bathtub, then getting into the very hot water in the
tub to soak, saving clean hot water for the next user. If you're
lucky, I learned later, you may even get help in the form of a
nubile miss (or two) to scrub the dirt away and pour warm water
from a bucket to rinse your body before you both (or all three)
climb into the soaking tub.
I apologized profusely, bad-mouthing my American upbringing,
and offered to pay for them to go to the public baths that I had
learned were available. Now, Japanese women may get crapped on
almost everywhere by Japanese men, but they are not nearly as shy
in their own homes as they are in public. After I had apparently
groveled enough, they forgave me, and the obasan charged me twenty
Yen for the hot water. Then they trooped off together to the
public baths laughing and probably planning to share juicy gossip
with their friends about the stupid GI and his first encounter with
a Japanese bath.
In the meantime, I had the run of the facility. I wandered
about the small garden, marveling at the arrangement of rocks and
small plants. Even to my untrained eye, it was beautiful.
Starting at about 1:45 I began hanging around outside the
hotel, waiting for Yokosan. Well, hoping for Yokosan. My
adrenalin was pumping and my heart was beating faster and faster as
I waited. My manhood alternated between tumescent and
insignificant as my emotions switched from high expectation to
paranoia.
Shortly after 2 I saw Yokosan walking rapidly up the hill, with
her brother hot on her heels. Stopping about twenty feet away,
they got into a knock-down drag-out screaming fight in the middle
of the street. I was aware by then that I was watching a very
unusual event. Japanese do not scream at each other in the middle
of the street.
Finally, Yokosan stomped on her brother's foot and marched
toward me. Shaking her head no, she said in a low voice, "Go
inside, wait for me." Her pronunciation was not nearly that good,
but I got the message.
Then she marched off stiff-legged down the hill. Her brother
gave me a glare, then a bit of a smirk as I walked back into the
hotel with my shoulders slumped in mock dejection. He went the
other way apparently satisfied that he had defended the family
honor. As I walked to my room, I started to become apprehensive
about my upcoming performance. What if I shot too quickly? The
teasing by that damn little whore Kimi had planted a seed in my
mind that was growing into a full tree of doubt.
In a few minutes, Yoko joined me in my room. Rapidly taking
off most of her clothes and slipping into the futon, a Japanese bed
on the floor without much of a mattress, she beckoned me to join
her.
Then with the schoolgirl English she knew, she clasped my head
in her hands and said, "Me pissed off. My brother. No good now. We
sreep now, preeze?"
Disappointed and instantly depressed, I determined not to show
it. Instead, I kissed her on the forehead to show my good
intentions, and complete with a boner that could have chipped
concrete, my worn-out body fell asleep in record time. In a way I
was relieved, too. I now had time to relax and forget my fears.
It was worth it.
*****
I awoke the next morning to find Yokosan sucking on my nipples
and fondling my erection. When she had me fully awake, she got up
and put on a thin cotton kimono. Helping me into a similar
costume, she led me by the hand down the hall to the bathroom and
showed me how to use its conveniences. I already knew all about
the hole in the floor, but watching Yokosan use it was a real treat
Without a trace of modesty, Yoko squatted over a floor-level
porcelain facility that must be seen to be believed, and relieved
herself. After some initial reluctance, my bladder got the best of
me and I did the same when it came my turn.
The young girl scarcely seemed to notice. She was busily
washing her face with a hand towel. I do think she peeked once,
though. From somewhere she produced a toothbrush that didn't look
too used, and some toothpaste, and after a quick wash of teeth and
face for both of us, she again led me by the hand back to the room
- where she proceeded to make love as only a Japanese woman can -
or at least that's what I thought at the time.
Yokosan was fascinated with my dick. Japanese men, I found
out, are much smaller than the average American in that department.
So I was bigger, and she was determined to find out how it felt.
But not before a lot of buildup.
She pulled my dick first one way then the other, pausing to
give it little kisses. Finally satisfied she had it memorized for
all time, she started up my body, kissing all the way until she
found my mouth.
After a number of mouth-to-mouth kisses, I took over. Pressing
her back onto the thin mattress, I decided to make love to her as
well. I had read a book once that described with exquisite detail
how to eat pussy, and I had found one I felt worthy of that
attention from me.
I was inexperienced, but willing to try anything - especially
with Yokosan. I nibbled on the thick nipples that capped her
small, firm breasts. Concentrating on each in turn, I licked and
sucked and practiced my store-bought knowledge. I must have been
doing OK. Yokosan pushed her breasts at my mouth, and I could hear
a low pitched indescribable sound coming from her throat, very
nearly a purr, as she started to breathe heavily.
Moving down her slim torso, I paused at her navel, only to be
thwarted. She was extremely ticklish there. Then she guided my
head down to where I found fine, straight hair, and not much of it,
covering a pretty and clean-smelling pussy. I could have done a
lot worse with my first experience. She had olive skin except
around her pussy lips, where it looked more brownish.
I took a good long couple of licks straight up her slit,
catching my first taste of female lubrication. 'Hmm, not bad,' I
thought to myself. Well, no that's not true. I thought a lot of
things, but the memories of a slightly acrid taste and whatever
else I thought are dimmed by my recollection of Yokosan's reaction
to my ministrations. Her moans became louder, and her hips started
to revolve as she reached down to caress my head and run her
fingers through my hair.
Licking the crease between her thighs and crotch, I mushed
around her cunt, first licking the wet hole, then the ragged labia,
and gradually moving toward what I knew to be the main event.
Yokosan all the while continued to moan and kept shifting her
hips around to help me hit the spots where it felt good, or maybe
just from natural movements women make when they're working up to a
good cum.
I finally reached the center of her desire. Her clitoris stuck
out nearly as far as her nipples, turgid and visibly throbbing,
ready to take whatever I could deliver.
I rolled my tongue into a circle, a trick I learned when I was
a kid, and started fucking her clit like it was a dick and my
tongue was a pussy. This was a technique I had read about in the
book, and it surely did get Yokosan's total and immediate
attention. She jerked as if she'd been stuck with a pin, and
started heaving against my mouth, putting part of the futon in her
mouth to stifle her cries and unknown Japanese phrases.
Man, did she get noisy. Especially when I left off with the
rolled up tongue and commenced to giving her taut little bud a
circular move while sucking with my lips. Alternating between the
revolving and the flicking of my tongue rapidly across her
clitoris, I brought her to a major league orgasm.
Her voice dropped three octaves as she started to cum, and I
thought she would never stop.
Humping against my mouth, guttural groans emanating from her
throat, Yokosan came for what seemed like hours, but really must
have been only minutes. Her hands were wrapped in the hair of my
head pulling me into her loins.
Awed by the force and intensity of her orgasm, I periodically
dropped my head down -- at the risk of losing every hair on my head
-- to taste her freely flowing juices.
Finally, she pushed my head away from her loins, saying "Etai,"
which I knew meant "Hurts." My weary body and hard dick crawled up
the futon to lie alongside her. My face was wet, my neck was sore,
and I was astonished that my first excursion into the art of pussy
licking had met such a reaction. I resolved to eat pussy as often
as I could in the future, especially with Yokosan, who enjoyed it
so much.
Yokosan cuddled up against me for a few minutes, then, with a
giggle, wiped my sopping face with a corner of the futon. Saying a
few words in Japanese, which I took to be marks of favor, she
climbed on top of me and started to give my - until then ignored -
cock some attention. It wasn't easy for her.
Now, I'm not all that well hung. But I guess I was a giant
compared to what Yokosan had been used to. As wet as she was, it
took a good couple of minutes for her to work me into her squeaky
tight pussy. If I had not eaten her out first, the job probably
would have been impossible, or so I like to remember.
Then she did a strange thing.
Pulling all but one inch out, leaving just the head in her
vagina, she started moving my shaft in and out of her pussy,
looking me right in the eye at the same time, and muttering to
herself in Japanese. I didn't understand a word of what she was
saying, but did understand that she wanted to have another orgasm,
this time with me in her.
I tried to get her to take it deeper, but she stopped me,
saying, "Ei, no, preeze. Me want feel good. You wait, preeze." So
I waited, with Yokosan moving my cock in and out of her pussy to a
depth of about two inches.
This was the biggest part of my dick, and I was receiving good
squeezes from Yokosan's tight pussy. But for some reason, I felt
there was no way I was going to cum unless she would take me
deeper, which she apparently was not going to do.
So I just watched Yokosan's face, and enjoyed.
*****
End of part one of two parts.
If any part is missing, let me know, I will respond.
observer@onramp.net
========
Path: news.primenet.com!nntp.primenet.com!news.cais.net!news.sprintlink.net!news-dc-2.sprintlink.net!news.onramp.net!usenet
From: observer@onramp.net (observer)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: **New - A Night with Yokosan [2/2] M/F Romance
Date: 25 Jun 1996 01:41:16 GMT
Organization: Nada
Lines: 211
Message-ID: <4qng3s$8qa@news.onramp.net>
NNTP-Posting-Host: legroom132.onramp.net
X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.99.8 (beta 2)
Xref: news.primenet.com alt.sex.stories:165971
Author's Note:
I answer all E-Mail, eventually.
This story is available in WPD format - request file Yoko_F.wpd.
If a segment is missing, send a request, I will respond.
This story is intended solely for the entertainment of adults,
and may contain words which depict acts of human sexuality.
If you are a minor as defined by your local political jurisdiction,
a postal inspector, or an asshole looking for trouble, please delete
this file before reading, and go away. In other words, void where
prohibited by law. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance herein
to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended.
*****
"A Night With Yokosan"
by Observer - observer@onramp.net
(c) June 1996, all rights reserved
Edited by Chris.
This is part two of two parts.
*****
I thought she was in pain. Japanese women, when they're having
fun, often look like someone is beating on them. For whatever
physiological reason, pleasurable experiences reflected on their
faces translate in the occidental mind as pain.
From time to time she would look at me, clear-eyed, and smile.
So by that sign, I knew everything was all right. It took her
about ten minutes to cum again. Her face grew more distorted than
ever, and she started snorting through her nose and driving my cock
deep into her belly, taking as much as she could as she groaned
through her second orgasm of the morning.
The added depth started getting to me, and I was working up to
my own long neglected final pleasure, when she stopped and lay down
on my chest, exhausted. I had had about all the teasing I could
stand, so I rolled Yokosan over on her back and started drilling
her vagina for all I was worth. To her credit, the tender girl
pulled her bowed legs up, allowing me total access.
Long deep strokes of my ass drove my cock into her tender
little belly with brute force. One of my forearms was under her
shoulders and neck, the other under her waist and extended down to
cup her ass with my hand. I cradled her in my arms as I rode out
my pleasure in her belly.
Yokosan responded by trying to make it as good for me as it had
been for her. Finally, dropping her legs, she caught her heels
behind my knees, then began pulling her pelvis up as I pulled out,
putting maximum draw on the bottom of my shaft and thus attempting
to suck my cum up through my tube.
On the front stroke, she would tilt down to provide a direct
angle to get in as much of my dick as I could give her, then
bottoming out, I could feel the end wall of her pussy. On the back
stroke, she would do the pulling up routine. I was unable to get
all of me into all of her. Yoko was so small and finely
constructed that about an inch of my shaft was left outside when I
bottomed out against her nibbling cervix.
When I could feel my cum begin to erupt, I gave a final hard
thrust as deep as I could get into her hot belly, and held at that
depth, pushing frantically for release. My cock expanded to a size
I had never know before, and I seemed to be blasting her apart,
stretching her, filling her womanhood and finding places she didn't
know she had.
Yokosan grabbed my ass with both hands, and milked me.
The young Japanese girl milked my balls dry with her pussy.
Holding onto my ass, she used some peculiar motion of her pelvis to
cause her pussy to suck on my dick, and pull up on the tube through
which my semen ejected. The sensation of my cum traveling up my
penis and exploding into her was almost painful. I gave her more
of my seed than I knew my body could hold.
It was my turn to become rigid and convulse as I shot into her
body with one, then two, then three, then more, spurts of the
product of my loins. And all the while she talked to me, partly in
Japanese and partly in English. I was so overcome, the only
utterances from my mouth were groans and moans.
"Juto (good), erk, goooood, etai, mnph, aishimas (love)," she
said, and other things I can't remember.
As the last of my lifetime's accumulated seed left my body to
enter hers, Yokosan started a new movement. Holding me by the ass
with her hands and behind my knees with her heels, she pushed
against me with her pelvis and rotated to what appeared to be a
halfway good cum for herself. Flushed, face distorted, Yokosan
came for the third time that morning. On the spot I learned that
women can cum more than once during a love making session. And it
was good, and I was proud, and I was on full empty.
I rested my weight on her body and partly on my elbows and
arms, while we both enjoyed the afterglow of good pleasure and a
good fuck. She clasped her arms around me and hung on for dear
life, kissing my neck and face.
I think she liked me.
Be that as it may, she surely did like my screwing. And I
liked hers. I had never before even come close to a love making
session like I had just enjoyed. Yokosan had milked me into her
body and herself into my heart. I was pleasantly empty except for
affection for this little woman who had cleaned me out so well,
allowed me such access to her body, and introduced me to pleasures
previously unknown.
Tilting off of her, I lay down next to her. We cuddled and
went to sleep. I awoke to find her frantically putting on her
clothes. I watched for a moment, then got up and went over to my
trousers while she continued to dress. Taking some money out of my
pocket, I just looked at her. She looked back, and got a pissed
off look on her face.
"Eie, No" she said.
I said, "Gomenasie (sorry), just me get dressed." She looked
at the five thousand Yen I was holding with a little bit of longing
while I just stood there. That was a lot of money in those days
and she was plainly tempted. But again, "Eie (no)," as she came
over to me for a goodbye hug. I quickly put the money away, and
tugged on my pants as if that had been my intention all along. I
had learned something about Japanese "Face."
Yokosan suddenly turned shy as I gave her a big bear hug and we
exchanged small kisses. I understood.
So I said, "I come back tonight." Realizing I intended to come
back, Yokosan's face lit up, and with a final kiss, she ran out of
the door.
After she left, I got cleaned up and caught a taxi back to the
base for some real food and a real shower. I was happy, in love
(or in lust, take your pick), and making plans to see Yokosan that
night.
I can only hope she understood about stupid Americans. Because
I was never able to find her shop again. I hunted all night, and
talked to a dozen bus drivers trying to find the one who took me
there, but to no avail.
And I never saw Yokosan again, except in my daydreams and night
fantasies.
*****
Arriving at my new duty station, I spent the next two years
getting to know Japan and performing the job the Army paid me to
do. Half of me mourned for Yokosan. The other half took delight
in exploring the charms of assorted Michikos and Kyokos, and
ultimately, my full attention became focused on Rikisan. That
gorgeous creature would still be by my side except - well, that's a
story for another day.
The end
"A Night with Yokosan,"
by Observer (c) June 1996, all rights reserved.
Edited by Chris
Afterword:
Not a bad way to lose your virginity, eh?
Love won and love lost is a favorite theme of mine, but NOT the
only theme. I had great fun writing this story, and I hope you had
great fun reading it.
If you did like the story, you really need to let me know.
When you go into a store and buy a book, cash rewards the author.
The only coin-of-the-realm that can pay for stories posted to news
groups is a "Thank you."
*Very* few people acknowledge readership for whatever reason,
and that might help explain the dearth of new stories.
This especially applies to you ladies. If you like the stories
that have more romance, and find them to be few and far between,
there is a reason. Zipless stories get a lot of response which
encourages more of same. I can go either way, and reader response
plays a big role in what I write.
Unless an author specifically requests no E-mail or has a bogus
address, please acknowledge your readership. I assure you that
form of payment will be appreciated. In my case, sooner or later I
acknowledge every message received, and I delight in exchanging
specific comments about story content and development.
As always, I must thank my editor. Believe me, and editor
makes all the difference to both author and story. Several
editors had a hand in this story, with the main one credited.
If you are interested in how I post stories, let me know.
This is the end of part two of two parts. If any part is
missing from your server, let me know. I will respond.
The Observer
observer@onramp.net