____________________________
| |
/)| KRISTEN'S BOOKSHELF |(\
/ )| DIRECTORIES |( \
__( (|____________________________|) )__
((( \ \ > /_) ( \ < / / )))
(\\\ \ \_/ / \ \_/ / ///)
\ / \ /
\ _/ \_ /
/ / \ \
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o This part of my collection offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. Kristen Becker o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Journey to the East - Part 1 [MF, Mf, asian]
by Richard Rivers (r_rivers@cryogen.com)
(c) 1997
*
This story contains graphic descriptions of sex and should not
be read by anyone under 18, or anyone offended by such
material. Blah Blah Blah...
The story is divided into seven parts, of which this is the first,
describing a week-long stay in Japan. Readers only interested
in graphic descriptions of sex acts should probably wait for
some of the later parts, or better yet, skip this story entirely.
The author does not mind constructive comments. I suppose:
"This is a piece of crap!" is constructive on some level, but
what I have in mind would be more along the lines of
technical pointers or anything that might help future offerings
attain a higher level of craft. Of course compliments are
always welcome: for some reason my posts never show up on
my own server and my stories don't all seem to get reviewed,
so it is nice to know if anybody at all reads any of this.
Richard Rivers
12/97
A JOURNEY TO THE EAST
Day 1, Sunday:
Mr Ogawa gave me a pointed look. "The father a great
cellist, the son a programmer. How can such a thing come to
pass, Mr Sato?" he said. Without waiting for my reply: "Only
in America I suppose," he sighed. "Forgive me this harsh
assessment of your country Mr Sato, but to me that
demonstrates clearly what is wrong with America: you take
something of beauty, of spiritual value even, and within a
generation you transform it into something eminently
practical, utilitarian, but lifeless, spiritually dead. Your
values have been turned on their heads."
His words stung. My father the well-known cellist emigrated
to America before I was born. He devoted himself to the
pursuit of beauty in his music and the arts. The
contemplation of beauty is what drove him he told me many
times as I was growing up, and I had broken his heart by
never showing interest in music or any other art form.
Secretly, I think he regarded me as his one great failure.
Mr Ogawa sensed my discomfort: "Of course you must
realize my observations are colored by envy," he added
somewhat apologetically. "You Americans have come to
dominate the world with those values. Perhaps all this is a
waste after all." He waved his arm at the window
overlooking his elaborate estate. "My retreat here in the
mountains serves me well, spiritually, but it makes no money.
In America this would probably be a bed and breakfast hotel."
"Mr Ogawa," I said. "I would like to go over some of the
details, some of the specifics of my work here..."
"Please, Mr Sato," he interrupted. "I know you must have
questions about your work, but you have only just arrived
from America. Your mind cannot be fresh, and besides,
when I am on retreat I try not to involve myself in the day to
day workings of my business. You will be working with my
personal assistant; she will report your progress to me."
As if on cue a light knocking sounded at the door. Mr Ogawa
rose to open it.
"Mr Sato, I would like you to meet my personal assistant,
Megumi Yoshino."
"I am honored Miss Yoshino," I said, rising to my feet.
"The honor is mine, Mr Sato," she answered, bowing
gracefully. Her accent was slightly British: Oxford or
Cambridge I thought, the range a mellow reedy contralto,
surprisingly full for the delicacy of her tall slender body. Like
Mr Ogawa she dressed in a traditional manner, a simple linen
robe tied at the waist with a belt. Her long hair hung about
her shoulders.
She stepped forward and put her soft cool hand in mine and
squeezed. "Come with me," she said. "You must be tired
from the long trip. I will show you to your room. You should
rest now."
We took our leave of Mr Ogawa and she led me away,
walking before me down a narrow hallway which turned
many times. Gathering the robe in front of her with one hand
she pulled the fabric tightly around her hips, the outlines of
her thighs appearing and disappearing with each step she
took.
The gentle rhythm of her slippers and the soft rustle of her
robe made me think of sleep, how exhausted I was. Yesterday
the twelve hour flight from San Francisco, and today five
hours in a car driving to the mountain retreat had finally
overwhelmed me. When we stopped in front of the final door
Megumi put a hand on my shoulder steadying me.
"You are tired Mr Sato," she said almost in a whisper. "Go
inside. Rest."
***
When I awoke late in the afternoon I realized that I had not
even said good-bye; I had simply thrown myself down, falling
immediately into a deep sleep. Now I made an inspection of
my small room. A futon mattress with a low table next to it
and a small writing desk were the only furnishings; the floor
was covered with tatami mats. Through a door there was a
tiny but modern bathroom, and next to it a closet. The room
made me think of a monk's cell: a place for meditation or
quiet relaxation, not a lot of diversions to trouble the mind
here, yet it was cozy and comfortable. I knew my stay here
would be relaxing and peaceful.
On the writing desk I discovered a note from Megumi written
in a beautiful feminine script. She informed me that she
would be in the garden that afternoon and would look forward
to meeting me. In the closet I would find clothing I could
wear during my stay: Mr Ogawa, while not requiring it of
guests, chose to dress in a more traditional manner when he
was at his estate and it would please him if I did the same.
I showered and changed in to the simple black robe. At first
it felt silly to put on, as if I were preparing for a costume
drama or a martial arts class, but it was so comfortable that I
soon felt completely at ease. With some difficulty I retraced
my way out of the house and found the garden.
The estate of Mr Ogawa lay in a tiny valley high in the
mountains surrounded by dense forest. The ingeniously
designed garden took advantage of a natural stream and
several ponds that collected water in the few flat spots, and
lush, fragrant plants filled it; groves of bamboo and ginkgo
trees shaded the winding paths which traversed it, crossing
stone bridges, leading to hidden alcoves or small wooden
pavilions.
I set off at random, not sure where I might encounter
Megumi. My pace was leisurely. The spring air felt soft and
warm on my skin and the swaying plants sent wafts of their
fragrance to me. I had soon lost myself deep in the maze of
the garden, and as I stopped to get my bearings I noticed a
beautiful rose bush by the side of the path. Its single large
bloom caught my eye. Kneeling, I brought my face close to
inhale its fragrance; the scent brought with it a memory from
my childhood.
It was the summer after my mother had died; I must have
been five or six years old at the time. My father kept a
beautiful garden behind our house. During my mother's long
illness and after her death he lavished so much of his
attention there, pouring out all the love he could no longer
give to his wife. Playing alone one day I happened upon his
most prized rose bush. Drawn by the beauty of the flowers
my young fingers sought out the largest one and plucked it.
As I held it to my face, staring into its depths, curiosity
overcame me: what lay at the center? From what hidden
source could so much beauty spring, I wondered? Probing,
my fingers parted the delicate petals, warm and moist with
the morning's dew. Deeper and deeper I delved into the heart
of the blossom, parting the smaller and smaller petals within.
It was then that I became aware of my father standing some
distance behind me, watching. My instincts told me to run:
he would surely be angry! But something bade me stop, his
face bore a look of such sadness. I felt I dare not move; I dare
not say a word. I silently stood holding the ruined blossom in
my hand as he approached me.
"Kenji, no," he said softly, using my Japanese name. Any
other time I was simply Ken. When my mother had died he
had addressed me as Kenji and I had known right away,
before he had said another word, that she had gone.
"I'm sorry Papa." I was crying.
He squatted next to me and put his arm across my shoulders.
"Don't cry, my little Kenji," he said.
"I'm sorry Papa," I wailed, "but it was so beautiful, I couldn't
help it."
"I know." His voice was soft and soothing. "I know it was.
Some beauty must not be touched Kenji. Some beautiful
things are not for us, not for this world; when we touch them
we destroy them. Such objects you must enjoy from afar, hold
them in your mind only, not your hands; their beauty is too
delicate, too fragile to endure."
A shadow fell. Megumi came close and knelt beside me, the
perfume of her body mingling with that of the rose. "It is
beautiful," she said gently touching the sleeve of my robe.
"Yes," I answered in a whisper, still half lost in memory.
"Come, let us sit and talk." She guided me to my feet.
She had changed into a pink robe made of fine silk that clung
to her, sliding over her as she moved, revealing briefly the
form of her body beneath, elusive, as the shapes fleetingly
seen or imagined in the gently roiling eddies and waves of a
river; the soft fullness of her hips; the graceful curve at the
small of her back. She lead me deeper into the garden until
we reached a small pavilion overlooking one of the ponds.
"Since you will be with us for two weeks I thought I should
tell you a few things about Mr Ogawa and this estate," she
said as we sat down. "He is not your typical businessman as
you may have noticed; he is very interested in matters of
aesthetics, the arts and culture. To him all his money and
power are but means to a higher end. Twice a year he brings
his wife and daughter here to the mountains to live for a
month in relative isolation. Only a few staff members such as
myself accompany him during these times. For him it is not a
vacation; he views this time as essential to his physical and
spiritual well being. He returns to a simple way of life,
dressing in a traditional manner and living according to the
ancient ways." She touched the sleeve of her robe. "We don't
normally dress this way," she laughed. "Only when we are
here."
"You are lucky," she went on. "Not many outsiders have
come here to stay as you are. It is only the pressing nature of
this project that has made him relent. Still, you may not see
much of him; he keeps an office in the guest house but he
rarely comes there. The ancestral family home is located on
the other side of this garden, and he spends most of his time
there in meditation and study. You may meet him, or his
wife and daughter walking here in the garden from time to
time if you come each day."
She turned towards me more fully. "Take full advantage of
this opportunity, Mr Sato. You have much work to do, but
there are many hours in the day. Use the time to your benefit,
as I do; I look on this time as very special and use it for my
own rejuvenation, in my own way." She took a deep breath
and closed her eyes, as if lost in thought.
"How long have you worked for Mr Ogawa?" I asked.
"Four years," she answered. "I know," she laughed at my
expression of surprise. "I'm only twenty eight. I was
studying economics in Britain when we met at a party thrown
by the Japanese ambassador. Mr Ogawa went home and
made some very thorough investigations of me, my family,
everything, before making a most generous offer of
employment. He has taught me many things these past five
years, made me very happy." Her eyes fell: she clearly felt
embarrassed.
I wondered about Megumi and Mr Ogawa: surely there had to
be more to it than that. A wealthy man such as he would not
simply meet a young student at a party and immediately hire
her as his assistant. Even if he wanted her as his mistress he
could arrange that in some other way. Yet she was beautiful,
I thought, maybe too beautiful for him to resist, and he was a
wealthy enough man to have anything, anyone he wanted,
any way he wanted it without bowing to the opinions of
others. Still, doubts crowded my thoughts. She must surely
endure the assumption that her worth to Mr Ogawa was
something other than what it seemed. The scorn of those who
dismissed her as using sex to achieve her position must have
stung her many tomes before. She must know exactly what is
going through my mind, I thought. She is blushing because
of what she knows I am thinking. I became embarrassed
myself: To have condemned so quickly someone who had
only shown me kindness made me feel ashamed.
We sat in silence for a long time looking out over the pond.
"Come," she said, "I will take you to my favorite place," and
she lead me along the winding paths until we reached a large
pond. Across the center an ancient stone bridge stretched,
arcing with perfect symmetry, reflected in the water.
Climbing the rough stones we stopped in the center of the
span.
"Stop here," she whispered. Afternoon was just giving way to
evening: the hour when the light begins to soften bringing out
the richness and contrast of colors, when all the senses are at
their most heightened, the body poised and ready, as in
ancient times when the coming of the night meant the arrival
of the unknown, the mysterious dark. "This is the center, the
heart of garden." Her voice had almost disappeared. "Stand
still. Let your senses open, experience the beauty of this
place."
We stood close, side by side. "Close your eyes," she said.
"Breath in deeply, fill yourself."
I breathed deeply, eyes open wide trying to fill my senses with
the beauty of the place, but mostly with her beauty; as I
gazed on Megumi's body an aching desire welled up within
me.
***
Fin, Part 1of 7
Richard Rivers
12/97