by Jane Nin
“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.
Unfortunately, my efforts seemed to effectively suspend his own, and I heard him attempting to speak to his compatriots. Suddenly my breasts were being stroked again, I gathered by someone else, and a third person seemed to be swirling a morsel in the juices of my pussy.
Then, suddenly, he cried out and came in my mouth, thrusting as I continued to suck at him, swallowing and swallowing. I was glad when he pulled out and backed away laughing nervously, as it gave me a chance to recover a little, breathe better.
Now another man approached the table, his pants already down, and poked his erection up toward my face to take him in. This was someone rather more demanding than the others, I gathered. He barked orders to the men around him as he palmed and tugged at my breasts. More warm drops of liquid landed on me, this time on my ass, and someone rubbed it in gently, dipping a tentative fingertip into my asshole. I tightened up at the sensation and the fingertip was removed, but then there was something much larger in its place, broad and smooth and cool, and before I knew it, it was sliding deeper into my ass.
I moaned loudly now, not that anyone could hear it, as I was under the table, my mouth full of insistent cock.
It had become, I quickly realized, a team effort. How very Japanese. The thing in my ass—some kind of vegetable, I was guessing, was slowly and methodically plunged in and out. My tits were kneaded steadily. To my relief, the chunks of fish seemed now to have been dispensed with, and eager fingers rubbed more quickly across my clit.
Someone was querying Jack now. “It’s okay?”
“Help yourself,” he said, and I became aware of a man leaning over the table from the side, and then there was again something warm swirling around my clit, but it was not anything edible—it was a man’s tongue. He lapped at me, then used a hand to stretch the skin taut so my clit popped free of its fleshy hood, and then with the very tip of his tongue he proceeded to dot it, flick it, encircle it.
I was screaming now but nobody could hear. Now an entire hot mouth was lowered over my clit and began to suck, his tongue st
ill playing across that sensitive button of flesh, and my mouth was full of my own spit, and of this man’s pulsing cock as his own climax approached, and the whatever it was they were working in and out of my ass, and screaming desperately I began to come, my nipples hardening as the enormous shiver rippled through my entire body, and then the man whose cock was in my mouth also came, filling my throat with semen, and because they could not hear me the others did not stop, they kept licking and sucking my clit, and ramming that thing into my asshole, and so my orgasm kept coming, and coming, and I was far, far past the point where I’d ever stopped anyone before, and I felt a strange new sort of climax building and then I had a sensation like I was starting to urinate and felt warm liquid squirting out into the air and splashing onto my thighs and trickling down over my inverted stomach, and the men I could not see began to whoop, and clap, and laugh.
12.
Not twenty-four hours later I was on another plane, this time bound for Paris, alone—though Jack was soon to join me.
Following the meal at the sushi restaurant he’d wrapped me in my coat and spirited me—the whole starving, limp, sticky mess of me—to a calm, lovely suite at a hotel just steps away. To my astonishment and gratitude, there was a hot bath already waiting.
I lowered myself into it and he sat beside me and gently stroked my hair. I was so peaked I couldn’t even keep my eyes open to look at him.
“You’re okay?” he said, and I appreciated the genuine worry in his voice.
“Mmm,” I said.
“What happened in there,” he said, “that was okay?”
What happened in there. Was surreal, but: “Yes.”
Gently he took a sponge and began to wash my body. He lifted my arms and soaped them up. Rubbed gentle circles over my collarbone and my breasts. I was vaguely aroused, but my fatigue kept that sensation from progressing past just the faintest inkling. He had me lean forward so he could soap my back. The warm water, the massage, his careful attentions—this, too, was ecstasy.
“Can you stand?”
A little wobbly, but I managed. He lathered my knees and thighs, my stomach. Passed the sponge gently over my still-sensitive pubis, making me jump a little, and across my hips, to my ass. Then he set the sponge aside and turned on the shower wand and carefully rinsed me from head to toe. He ran his fingers through the little thatch of my pubic hair, to loosen the stubborn suds of soap. A little moan escaped my lips, and then his hand moved, palm flat against my inner thigh as he ran the shower stream over my ass. Despite my fatigue, I was starting to feel more powerfully turned on.
He turned off the water and helped me to step out of the tub. Efficiently he toweled me off—the towel, too, had been thoughtfully pre-heated. As he bent to dry my feet he suddenly paused, and looked up at me.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
I looked down at him, my gaze snapped back into focus. There was water all over his beautiful suit pants. He’d rolled up the sleeves but still his shirt and tie were soaked. Wisps of bubbles on his shoulders. I laughed. “And you’re soaking,” I said… because the compliment, I wanted to believe it, but I was afraid to.
He looked down at himself and laughed, too, and then I was mad at myself for not letting myself linger a little longer in the sweetness of his appreciation.
There was a casual kimono-style robe to put on, and he changed into the men’s version of the same, and then one of the chefs from the restaurant arrived with a big cart and served us sushi in the room. It was buttery and silken and the sake was warm and when he left I was contented and full.
Then there was the glorious bed. I slipped out of my kimono and nestled down into the cool, clean sheets. Jack came and sat beside me, and I loved feeling his weight on the bed so close.
“I could get used to this,” I said, smiling with my eyes closed.
“Having strangers give you screaming orgasms and then getting to sleep in nice beds?” he teased.
If I were less exhausted maybe I’d have felt defensive—the game, after all, being his idea—but instead I simply told the truth.
“No,” I said, “I would get bored of the strangers,” and then, the fatigue continuing to fail to block my honest thoughts, I said, “You. I could get used to you.” And I took his hand in both of mine and brought it to my mouth and kissed it. And he squeezed it, and leaned down, and kissed me all over my face. And on my ear, and my neck, and a last sweet kiss on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, “but I have to go.”
This seemed terrible. “No,” I begged him, “please don’t. Please stay.”
“I want to,” he said, “but I can’t. I can’t sleep beside you. I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”
“So don’t!” I exclaimed, scooting up to a sitting position, and again grabbing his hand. “You’re not a vampire. We’re not applying for sainthood. Stay here, touch me. I want you to.”
“But the game,” he said.
“Fuck the game,” I said, “you made the game up! There’s no reason it has to be this way.”
“You’re not ready,” he said.
“Ready, what the fuck, are you some kind of sensei now?”
I knew what he meant—I didn’t love him, we didn’t know each other—but I hated him putting it on me. Because what was in his heart, I’d guessed: he didn’t love me yet, either.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to sound accusing. You’re right; I don’t know what I’m doing. But here’s what I saw tonight: you’re far from ready to stop this.”
He was right. I’d been excited. I wanted to see what came next—more exotic, more abject. The game had become like that old flame that leaves you wondering forever, what if? We had to play it to its natural ending, whatever that was.
“Do you think we’ll know?” I asked. “When it’s time to stop?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Jack. “But I hope so.”
And so he left me, and in the morning, beside my tray of tea and rice and sweet egg, was another plane ticket and a small envelope of Euros.
It was a nonstop flight, 13 hours, and I arrived in Paris in the early evening. As my taxi drove through the city to my hotel I saw people everywhere dining or stepping out in pretty clothes, off to enjoy the exciting Parisian nightlife. I checked in to my hotel and there was a message at the front desk: Jack would be arriving late, probably not until midnight. I was on my own until then. I went up to my room and flopped down on the bed, unsure whether I was hungry or sleepy or restless or none of these.
After a few minutes, realizing I wasn’t ready for sleep, I got up and opened the balcony doors, then leaned out over the railing. I didn’t even know what part of the city I was in. I’d been to Paris once before, in college, and recalled exactly nothing about how it was arranged. But the neighborhood below seemed bustling and happily loud, and I thought I had better be brave, at least venture out for a walk.
The moment I stepped out onto the street, I felt profoundly out of place. Everyone around me moved with such confidence and purpose—they literally knew where they were going, while I did not. Taxis and cars careened down the narrow street; pedestrians strode efficiently along while chattering into their phones. I suddenly was gripped with a terrible fear of getting lost. And so I ducked timidly into the very next café I encountered, and managed to convey that I needed a table for one.
They sat me on a banquette against the wall, from which position I could survey all the other patrons coming and going. I ordered soupe à l’oignon and a glass of wine and commenced to feeling sorry for myself, all alone for my first meal in this famous lovers’ town.
Loneliness makes for quick eating and quicker drinking, so before long I’d paid my bill and set off back for the hotel. It was completely dark now, and to me it seemed there was nobody left on the streets except couples in love. I was glad Jack would be rejoining me soon.
At my hotel, though, the desk clerk waved me down. Another message. This time sayin
g he couldn’t make it till late the next morning.
I was terribly disappointed. I checked the clock. It wasn’t quite 9. But tomorrow wasn’t so far away, was it? After all, I could sleep a good chunk of that. I went back upstairs to my room and readied myself for bed, though I still didn’t really feel tired. I showered and turned down the covers and then laid down in the bed and listened to the happy voices out on the street below—I could hear them, even with the balcony doors closed—and in that fashion I failed to sleep, for hours.
At early light I was wide awake again and feeling sheepish. I resolved to go out for a walk again, a braver one. This time I went in the opposite direction, not wishing to be reminded of my silly fearfulness the night before. I zigged and zagged my way from block to block, memorizing the route back. Then I turned a corner and poking out behind the next row of buildings was the leg of an enormous spaceship.