INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS

                              by

                         C. Lakewood




    "When I was almost 13, my father was transferred to the Far 
East, and we lived in Japan for about 3 years.  I was bigger than 
all the Japanese girls my age (and even some of the boys) and much 
less agile.  I was, of course, 'gaijin' -- a foreigner -- and that 
meant a lot.  

    "We played this game with seven 4-sided dice (shaped like 
little pyramids), with symbols instead of dots.  We'd gamble our 
clothes, and the first one naked was the loser -- and had to be 
everybody's servant.  I never understood the rules, and I always 
lost.  Always!  But, after the first couple of times, I knew I 
always wanted to lose.  It was humiliating, but...."

    I suddenly realized that I was talking too much (and revealing 
too much).  I took another gulp of wine (as if I hadn't had enough 
already).  Emiko Hasegawa, my graduate assistant, sat across the 
table wearing an enigmatic expression.

    I dragged the conversation into less dangerous areas and kept 
it there -- the sort of curve I wanted her to use in grading, for 
example, which place in town made the best pizza, and how much we 
both loved tennis and hated housework....  I was resolutely 
discreet for the rest of the evening.  Though we did agree to play 
tennis Thursday, and we even made a bet -- loser to serve as maid 
to the winner.   
 
		******************************            

    When we walked onto the court Thursday afternoon, I was 
feeling pretty confident.  After all, while she was younger, I 
was bigger and stronger, with excellent stamina and a devastating 
serve.  I decided to take it easy on her the first game, but I 
won, anyway.  As it turned out, though, she had been taking it 
easy on me.  She won the first set 6-3 and the second 6-1.  (There 
was a long volley in the fifth game of the second set, and, after 
that, I was absolutely blown.)  By the terms of the bet, I owed 
her eight Saturdays of maid service!       

		******************************
                           
    So noon Saturday found me standing nervously at the door of 
Emiko's apartment.  When she eventually answered my knock, she was 
barefoot and swathed in a white terry robe.  She looked younger 
and tinier than ever.  

    As she let me in, she waited for me to slip off my shoes, and 
then said, "I was just about to take a bath, as you can see."  She 
gestured toward the bedroom.  "I've laid out everything you'll 
need.  See if it fits."

    Smiling thinly, she then went off into the bathroom, leaving 
me to contemplate the outfit lying on the bed.  It wasn't the 
classic French maid's uniform, but sort of a midwestern, middle 
class analogue: short-sleeved white cotton blouse (heavily 
starched), black pleated mini-skirt, black ribbon "secretary's 
tie," and a tiny white apron.  I was a trifle surprised that Emiko 
would be so bold -- and so perceptive.  My nipples were stiff, my 
pussy moist, and my clit beginning to throb as I took off my 
clothes.  She'd said this was "everything" I'd need.  I'd already 
guessed that I wouldn't be wearing shoes inside, and I now supposed 
that she didn't mean for me to wear stockings or bra or panties 
either, since she hadn't provided any.  I thought briefly about 
wearing my own, but decided that wouldn't be "playing the game," 
as it were.

    Though embarrassed, I did put on the uniform and nothing else.  
It fit very well, though the skirt was scandalously short; it ended 
no more than 3 inches below my crotch.  It was just "decent" as 
long as I was standing straight and still, but bent or moving....

    But then Emiko called to me through the open bathroom door.  I 
could feel myself blushing furiously as I hastened to answer her 
summons.  My breasts were wobbling inside the starched blouse, and 
my unprotected nipples were tingling from the friction.

    The bathroom was Edwardian in style -- rather old fashioned, 
but still very chic.  Emiko was lying in a big claw-foot tub, just 
soaking in clear, hot water.  Her body was boyishly slim, her 
breasts smaller than I'd expected -- long, dark nipples on two 
barely perceptible mounds.  She had no pubic hair.

    She gazed at me, cocking her head and pursing her lips in 
thought.  At length, she nodded and said, "Up on your toes.  You 
won't be wearing shoes here, but I want to see how your legs would 
look if you did."

    I braced my right hand on the pedestal sink and levered 
myself up onto my toes.  I stayed there, a bit precariously, my 
legs quivering.  She looked at me for a long moment, then sighed, 
closed her eyes, and settled back in the water.  I wasn't sure 
what to do, so I remained standing there.  

    Time passed, 4 or 5 minutes, maybe.  It was a test, and I did 
so want to pass.  It was a strain, standing there on my toes, but 
it was exciting, too.

    Finally, she looked over at me once again.  She sniffed.  "I 
can smell you from here, my girl," she said.  "Come closer."

    I tottered over, legs trembling.  (I was surprised my pussy 
didn't squish.)  

    "You're very turned on."

    I nodded.
  
    "Speak when you're spoken to."

    "Yes....  Sorry."

    "And you will address me as 'Miss,' while you're my maid."

    "I'm s-sorry, Miss.  Yes, I'm very turned on, very wet."

    "Show me."

    I raised my skirt with my left hand and touched my pussy with 
my right.  I dipped my forefinger inside, wiggled it around, and 
pulled it out, glistening wetly.

    "Lick your finger clean."

    Hesitantly, I obeyed.

    "How does it taste?"

    Um....  Rather bland, Miss, a bit salty...."

    "Hmmm.  When you're aroused, your cunt odor is very strong -- 
not like the delicate perfume of a Japanese girl."

    I flashed back some 15 years, remembering a humiliating test 
they often made me undergo: matching panties to cunts just by 
smell.  Every one I missed I had to carry wadded up in my mouth 
for an hour.  I wondered if I should tell Miss Emiko about that....

    Oh, god!  What was I thinking?  What was happening here?  I 
was Dr. Catherine Cardiff, assistant professor, and she was my 
subordinate, yet I slipped so easily into the role of the 
underling.  I needed to get a grip....  This is just a game, a 
bit of play-acting, a lark.... 

    She interrupted my thoughts.  "You're also much too hairy, but 
we can deal with that later.  Right now, play with yourself with 
two fingers -- but don't cum.  Stay up on your toes, play with 
your sloppy cunt, and don't cum."

    So I played with myself as she watched.  It was hard to keep 
from cumming, and I started to sweat from the strain.  My cunt 
started to stink worse.  She inhaled deeply again, smiled with 
satisfaction, and began to finger her own pussy.  For several 
minutes we finger-fucked ourselves, sometimes in unison and 
sometimes in counterpoint.  But, all the while, she was free, and 
I was constrained.  Finally, she went rigid for a moment and then 
relaxed.  My own orgasm kept building, getting nearer and nearer, 
despite my efforts to suppress it.  I couldn't look at her any 
more -- I needed to concentrate all my faculties just to keep 
my orgasm at bay.

    I was nearly frantic by the time she roused herself and 
ordered me to stop masturbating and go wait for her in the 
bedroom.  I was so turned on that I staggered drunkenly, but I 
did stay on my toes and managed to make it down the hall to the 
next room, where I collapsed in a heap on the bed.

    By the time Emiko had dried off and followed, I was sitting 
up and relatively composed.  She paused in the doorway, frowning.  
Then she shook her head, ruefully, as if at an errant child.

    "Who told you to sit?"

    I hopped up, blushing and mumbling apologies.

    She handed me a bottle of herbal lotion, stretched out on 
the bed, and told me to give her a good massage.

    I worked over her naked, golden body for a long time, 
moisturizing and massaging, becoming familiar with every nook 
and cranny.  If my cunt was rank and stinking, her aroma was 
wonderful, night-blooming jasmine with a hint of sandalwood.  
Her slender legs were deceptively well-muscled; no wonder she 
was able to run me ragged on the tennis court. 

    The longer I worked, the hotter and wetter my cunt felt and 
the harder it was for me to breathe.  At last, she waved me away.

    "I've got a long list of chores for you, but you look just 
about at the end of your tether -- and I don't want you dripping 
all over the place, either.  So go ahead and get yourself off 
first.  But don't dawdle."

    I lifted my skirt and caressed my cunt.  

    "No," she said.  "Afterwards, you're going to be hand washing 
my lingerie and then scrubbing the toilet and the bathroom floor.  
I don't want you messing up your uniform, so you may as well take 
it off right now."

    So I stripped again, this time under her watchful eye.  I 
wondered what SHE thought of MY body.  I blushed to realize that 
I had to show myself to her, buck naked.  My body was nothing to 
be ashamed of, exactly, but I was 4 or 5 pounds heavier than I 
liked, and my skin tone looked almost pasty next to hers.

    But I dutifully stripped and began diddling my cunt...and then 
paused.  Though I was in heat and aching to cum, this was somehow 
not right.  It was no more outrageous than most of what I'd already 
had to do, but....

    "I-I just can't," I sobbed.  I huddled into my outer clothes, 
gathered up my purse and my underwear, and bolted from the 
apartment.  Emiko merely watched, silent and still.      

		******************************             

    The following week was almost unbearably stressful.  I might 
have put it all behind me, if she weren't my assistant.  As it 
was, though, we had to come into frequent contact.  Emiko's 
attitude was cool and correct, but I sensed an almost subliminal 
undertone of disdain.  I finally couldn't stand it any longer, 
and, hoping we might discuss things, I asked her to come to my 
office after her last class Friday.     

    So, late Friday afternoon found me sitting nervously in my 
office, pretending to do research.  There was a knock on the door 
-- not loud, not timid, but sort of noncommital.

    I looked up.  "Ah, yes.  Come in."

    "You wanted to see me?" Emiko seemed very laid back.

    "Um, yes.  Sit down.  Well, about last week-end, I wanted 
to say...um...that I'm s-sorry...."  But she began squirming 
pointedly. 
 
    "What's the matter?"     
           
    "This chair is very uncomfortable."  She looked me directly 
in the eye.  "I think yours must be much nicer...."  She let it 
hang there between us.

    "Oh, well, then.  Let's just switch."

    She settled into my comfy executive-style chair, and I started 
to sit down on the straight, armless side chair.

    "No," she said.  "That chair's too uncomfortable.  Standing 
would be better."

    I stood.

    "Yes?  Go on.  'About last week-end'?"  

    "I...wanted to apologize.  I-um never meant to offend...."

    She held up her hand.  "The offense occurred when you suddenly 
said, 'I just can't!' and defaulted on your debt (I believe they 
call it 'welshing').  At that moment, exactly how were you dressed? 
Hmm?" 

    I could feel myself blushing.  "I...was n-naked."

    "Then, don't you think you ought to be naked for your apology?"

    Ohmigod!  Naked here, in my office?  I shivered, but I nodded.  
(What else could I do?  Compromise was impossible; either I did it 
or I didn't.  And if I refused, she'd simply walk out....)  I took 
off my shoes, and began unbuttoning my blouse.

    She cleared her throat and said, smoothly, "I didn't hear you."

    "I-I'm s-sorry..., Miss.  Yes, I suppose I should be n-naked."  
(Oh, god, my panties were already wet.) 

    So I stripped myself.  No big deal, I tried to tell myself; 
after all, she had already seen me naked.  But I was trembling, 
all the same.  

    When I was naked, she picked up my keys and locked the rest of 
my things in the horizontal file.  Then she sat back and awaited 
my halting apology.  Half way through it, I remembered that, even 
an hour ago, I was intending a civilized, adult discussion -- and 
now here I was, naked and blushing and groveling like a child.  
When I'd finished begging for her forgiveness, Emiko just sat 
silently for a bit, regarding me with a blank expression.  Then 
she frowned and nodded.

    "I think you need a little 'quiet time' for medition," she 
said.  "Kneel down there...hands on your head."  She got up, 
opened the office door, pressed in the lock button, and snapped 
off the light.  "Stay right there; I'll be back."  And she left.

    I knelt there, thoroughly frightened, though it was too late 
for students to be around and too early for the cleaning crew.  
But I was not trembling just from fright, I realized, as the scent 
of my arousal began to permeate the office.  I hoped I wouldn't 
stain the carpet.

    But I was straight, dammit...at least I had been ever since I 
was old enough to know the difference.  I'd just never met Mr. 
Right.  In college and grad school, I was maybe too picky...and, 
since then, my "prospects" had dwindled to gays, nerds, alcoholics, 
and married men.  

    After a while, alone with my thoughts, my pride began to 
reassert itself.  It had been 15 years since Japan, after all, 
almost half my life.  And I didn't need that sort of thing any 
more; I was an adult now.  In the interim, I'd had a lot of 
accomplishments...academic accomplishments.  Why was I kneeling, 
naked, in my office, cowering before a girl who was my physical 
and social and academic inferior?  Of course, I couldn't do 
anything now, but she'd be back....  I could surprise and 
overpower her, get my keys back, regain my clothes and my 
equilibrium....  

    But what if she knew karate or jujitsu or whatever?  What if 
she escaped and just left me here to be discovered by a janitor 
and, later, to have to try to explain to the Dean why I shouldn't 
be fired for "moral turpitude."

    No, maybe I should just bide my time and wait for a better 
chance.  (And that wasn't merely an evasion or "special pleading" 
or convenient excuse....  Was it?)
  
		******************************               

    I'd been kneeling there, in the slowly darkening office, for 
an hour and 53 minutes (according to the luminous dial of my desk 
clock), when I heard footsteps in the corridor -- and knew it was 
her.  I didn't know whether to be apprehensive or relieved.

    Emiko opened the door and stuck her head inside the office.  
She sniffed loudly and chuckled.  "Wait about 5 minutes and come 
on down to the faculty lot.  The building is empty now, but it 
won't be long before the janitorial staff begins work."

    "L-like this?  NAKED?"

    "Yes.  It's dark out.  But I'd advise you not to dawdle." 

    And then she was gone.

    I staggered to my feet and stood leaning on the desk for a few 
minutes, trying to get my leg muscles unknotted.  Then, full of 
exciting misgivings, I left the office, letting the door lock 
behind me.  I'd crossed the Rubicon.  Moving stiffly, I broke into 
a sort of staggering run.  

    Down the corridor to the elevators...a moment of indecision.... 
No, better use the stairs....  So then down the stairs, taking two 
or three at a time, my tits bouncing.  Five flights, then a pause 
at the bottom to gather my courage, a quick look round, then a dash 
for the western side of the building and the exits nearest the 
faculty lot.  

    It was quite dark out -- except for the parking lot, which was 
exceedingly well-lit (dammit!), and right in the middle of it sat 
Emiko, behind the wheel of my car.  With a pro forma glance to 
either side, I scampered out onto the still warm blacktop and up 
to the passenger side door.  Locked!  Double dammit! 

    Through the glass, I could see Emiko watching me and looking 
very calm.  I was getting frantic, though, desperately wanting to 
scream at her to let me in, but not daring to raise my voice and 
risk attracting attention.  After what seemed like forever, she 
lowered the window an inch.

    "Damn!  Let me in!"  She just looked at me, impassively.  
"Please!"  Nothing.  "Please, Emiko-san, please let me in....  
I-I'll be a-a...a good g-girl for you...a good maid....  Anything, 
everything...for as long as you want.  Please...."

    Hearing the lock click, I pulled frantically on the door, but 
it still wouldn't budge.  Oh, god!  I was sweating and shivering at 
the same time -- scared to death, with nipples erect.

    "Back seat."

    I hesitated a few seconds, only dimly aware of what Emiko's 
words meant.  Then I wrenched the rear door open and huddled inside.  

    "There's a garment on the seat," she said, as she drove out of 
the lot.  "Put it on if you want."

    I couldn't see much by the dim street lights (and I certainly 
didn't want to turn on the car's overhead dome light), but it 
didn't matter; I pulled on the garment gratefully.  I could tell 
that it was sleeveless, very coarse, and very short.  It would be 
impossible for me to run, bend, or sit modestly, even if I had 
been wearing panties.  Eventually, by the garish lights of a cheap 
strip mall, I could see it was a loose smock of pink burlap.  It 
rasped across my nipples whenever I moved.  

    We were headed west.  "Wh-where are we going, Miss?"

    "A major reason why you have such a fetid swamp between 
your legs is that unsanitary mass of hair.  We're going to a 
professional to get that taken care of." 
 
    At length, we arrived at a rather nondescript cottage on the 
far west side, and I soon found myself trembling naked in front of 
a large black woman in corn rows and purple lipstick.  Her name 
was "Shaneel," but there was nothing soft about her.      

    Shaneel gave me a painful waxing, followed by an inhibitor 
treatment that left me with a maddening itch that I wasn't allowed 
to scratch.  She seemed to enjoy seeing me cringe and hearing me 
whimper.  No money changed hands.  I would repay Shaneel for the 
various cosmetic treatments that she was to give me from time to 
time by personal service, doing grunt work in her shop as required.

    We spent that night at my house, Emiko sleeping in my bed -- 
in what had been my bed -- while I slept on the floor.  On Saturday 
morning we went shopping at a distant mall.  I was wearing only the 
pink burlap smock.  Being barefoot, I had to wait outside each of 
the stores Emiko visited.

    I spent most of Saturday naked, scrubbing her apartment until 
it was meticulously clean.  She would be moving into my house, and 
she wanted to make sure she got her security deposit back.  Late 
that afternoon, I had to go grocery shopping at a bodega across 
town.  I was dressed in smock and "zori" (flip-flops) and was much 
admired by the greasy louts hanging around the store.  I fixed 
dinner for Emiko and me and ate mine from a bowl, crouching on the 
floor beside her chair...of course.   

    On Sunday, we moved her belongings.  It took only two trips. 

    That evening, she presented me with a gift as I knelt at her 
feet.  It was a puka clam shell necklace of small white shells, 
with a tiny silver-gilt medallion engraved with the stylized 
Japanese chrysanthemum.  As she was putting it on me, she said, 
quietly, "You're not an Imperial whore, exactly, but it's right 
that you wear their mark."  She fiddled with the clasp a moment.  
"The shells are strung on a tough, stainless steel wire, and I've 
sealed the clasp with a drop of super-glue.  You could take the 
necklace off, but you'd destroy it in the process."

    She was sitting on the couch, her midnight blue kimono agape 
and her exquisite body, like a blush pearl, open to my gaze.    

    "Now, stand at attention and listen to me while I tell you 
just how things are going to be...."

    So I stood there, on my toes, sweating from the exertion and 
the humiliation, naked (except for the necklace, of course), my 
cunt drooling.  And I looked and listened as Emiko toyed with 
herself and described what the future would hold for us.  

    She would enforce a strict discipline.  I would sleep in the 
    tiny spare room, on a thin futon, naked, of course.  Every 
    morning, after awakening, I would play with myself until right 
    on the edge of an orgasm -- and then I must stop...or face 
    the consequences.

    (My clit seems to be twice normal size...and throbbing.  She 
fingered herself and smiled mischievously.  I trembled, for I 
was so close to cumming uncontrollably.  And I didn't have 
permission....)

    Every morning, after masturbating right to the brink, I would 
    have to hurry to the Master (!) bedroom and into Emiko's bed, 
    and wake her up by tonguing her pussy.  I must then give her 
    as many orgasms as she wants, and all the while my poor cunt 
    is screaming at me.

    (I was intoxicated by her words and the images they invoked.  
As I continued to listen, my brain began multi-tasking, 
extrapolating and embroidering her pronouncements into the 
continuing story of my humiliation.) 

    After my mouth has satisfied her sufficiently, I stagger off 
    to the bathroom and squat on the toilet rim.  I have to hold 
    my pee until she comes in to supervise me.  And she usually 
    starts running the bath water, causing me unbelievable agonies, 
    before finally giving me permission to piss.  If I have an 
    "accident" -- now or at any time during the day -- I will have 
    to start wearing a diaper or a catheter. 

    When she's in the tub, I must kneel on the bathroom floor and 
    watch her bathe.  I am allowed to wash myself only after my 
    workouts at the gym -- she says my body odor helps mask the 
    stench from my cunt.  I can shower at the gym, and I may 
    masturbate as much as I want while I'm in the shower...though 
    other women may walk in and catch me at any time.  

    (I'm not sure whether the fear of being caught will enhance or 
retard my orgasms.)  

    After her bath, I continue to watch her.  Her hair is too 
    simple and her makeup too subtle to require my help.  But 
    perhaps someday I'll be allowed to assist.  While she dresses, 
    I put on the outfit she has already selected for me.  My own 
    hair and makeup are conservatively done, as usual.  My clothes 
    ditto, at least outwardly.  But, underneath....

    Underneath, I must wear a tight t-shirt, but no bra...a 
    butterfly vibrator, but no panties...and, during my period, 
    a tampon coated with ginger, chili-pepper, or the like. 

    Emiko would play with the remote control to my butterfly, on 
    and off, on and off, throughout the day, tormenting my poor, 
    swollen clit.  She might do it a dozen times in a school day 
    -- sometimes more, but rarely less -- and NEVER let me cum.  

    In my office, my comfortable chair is reserved for guests.  I 
    use a hard chair, with a bristly door mat as a cushion, on 
    which I must sit bare-bottomed, my skirt pulled up around my 
    waist.  The furniture is arranged so that no one is able to 
    see that I am half-naked, but I am still fearful...and horny.

    Throughout the day, while I'm on campus, I have to drink lots 
    of water.  So, regardless of how much I sweat (and it's 
    plenty), I wind up with a full bladder...repeatedly.  And she 
    has an uncanny ability to withhold permission to pee until I 
    just barely have time to scurry off to the ladies' room and 
    into a stall, remove my shoes, kiss the toilet seat (as I am 
    required to do), and squat on the rim....

    She plans all my meals and rigidly enforces my consumption of 
    nearly 4000 calories a day -- most of which I sweat off during 
    my daily run, regular grueling workouts at the gym, and 
    occasional visits to the beach and the tennis court.  I had 
    always been quite physically fit (in a girly sort of way), but 
    gradually begin to bulk up....  And my sex-drive, meanwhile, 
    increases exponentially.  Emiko could joke that this regimen 
    must have my testosterone flowing like a torrent. 

    Wherever I am, I will always be dancing on the brink of an 
    orgasm.  

    She will not unduly risk exposing me to a career-threatening 
    scandal, but refuses to allow me any other limits or any 
    privacy at all.  There will be frequent parties, with guests 
    -- always Japanese guests...both men and women -- for me to 
    "entertain."  She promises that none of them will have any 
    connection to the university, but that all of them WILL be 
    demanding...imaginative...voracious.... 
   
		******************************                

    Emiko-san fell silent then and just regarded me for what 
seemed a long time.  I was trembling.  My breathing was ragged.

    At last, she lay back on the couch and beckoned me to her.  My 
lips brushed her belly and quested lower.  Jasmine and sandalwood 
caressed my nostrils.

    I was content.  Finally, after 15 years, I knew my place and 
had regained it.  I had come to realize that all my possessions 
and accomplishments were transient baubles.  This, too, was 
impermanent, of course.  Emiko would have her degree in less than 
three years.  And what would happen then?  I had no idea, but I 
could think about that tomorrow.  Today, I was content to be 
content.