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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 2 [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.
Richard Rivers
12/97
A JOURNEY TO THE EAST
Day 2, Monday:
The night before, when we had stood side by side to each
other and experienced a moment of closeness, Megumi's
manner had changed abruptly, as if she had suddenly come to
her senses. She quietly took her leave of me, almost before I
knew what she was saying, and I found myself standing alone
on the bridge watching the sun set, wishing she were still
beside me.
In the morning she had been all business, smiling and
friendly but somehow distant, as if a shadowy veil had fallen
between us; it was nothing I could pin down: I had only
known her for two days. Now I sat on the low stone bench
letting the sun warm me, resting my eyes after several hours
work. Megumi was reviewing my progress as I waited. She
would deliver my results to Mr Ogawa that afternoon and
report back to me his opinions so I had no choice but to sit
back and relax until that had taken place.
Japan, I thought: how strange after thirty years to finally
come here and not be able to see any of it outside this estate.
As an American of Japanese descent, Japan had tantalized me
all my life, yet I had never come. Opportunities had presented
themselves many times but something always held me back:
the time was never quite right, the trips were always deferred.
The mythic quality of Japan grew out of the idyllic stories my
father told me in childhood. They had been embellished in
my imagination until the place came to represent everything
that was unattainable and remote, at once desirable and
hopelessly incomprehensible. Refusing to consummate my
desire only strengthened it, like an erotic longing, becoming
more poignant as its object receded before me as if in a
dream.
The day I arrived in Tokyo--only two nights ago--exhausted
from the long flight but too excited to sleep I had simply
wandered the city aimlessly, boarding the subway and getting
off at random, losing myself in the crowds. How odd for the
first time in my life to be surrounded by people the same race
as myself, yet here I was truly the foreigner, out of place.
Back home I thought of myself as an American, nothing
more, and it bothered me when people assumed that I was a
foreigner, asking me if I knew English, or where I came from.
I felt as if I lived behind a mask, this Asian face, which hid a
person underneath who was just like everybody else, or at
least wanted to be. As I walked the crowded streets of Tokyo
I felt like an impostor, a spy behind enemy lines with an
almost perfect disguise. My only flaw is I don't speak a word
of Japanese; it worried me that someone might stop and speak
to me, ask for directions and expose me. My father had
warned me too: not being able to speak the language was a
great disadvantage to me, much greater than if I looked like a
westerner; as an Americanized Japanese I would be regarded
with scorn, as less than zero.
***
Megumi made her way down the path towards where I sat; in
her hand the briefcase she carried looked so out of place with
her flowing robe and wooden sandals.
"Good afternoon Mr Sato," she said as she sat beside me on
the bench and lay the case on the ground. Folding her hands
in her lap she drew in a deep breath. "You have made a very
good start. I am just now on my way to Mr Ogawa to discuss
your morning's work."
She had her hair up. Escaping, a few downy wisps trailed
against the white skin around her ears and along the side of
her neck. I scarcely listened to her as she summarized my
work, letting my attention wander over her body, down her
graceful throat, delicate as a swan's, to the opening at the
front of her robe where the two small collar bones peeked out
at me, rising and falling as she spoke.
"Mr Ogawa will surely be pleased," she said at length,
bending to retrieve the briefcase. "Will you walk with me to
the far end of the garden while I take this to him?"
"Of course," I said. Rising, I offered her my hand. The touch
of her warm soft skin against mine made me shiver.
We took a different path from the one we had walked the
evening before, one that skirted the far edge of the large pond
and passed into a deeply shaded grove. After walking silently
for some time Megumi stopped and held up her hand.
"Look!" she whispered. I followed the direction of her gaze
back through the trees towards the water. A young girl was
slowly walking along the edge of the pond. Seemingly
unaware of our presence she was looking the other way, out
over the water. We watched her secretly, as if noticing us
might send her scampering back into the forest like a wild
fawn. She wore a dazzling white robe and her hair hung
down the middle of her back in one long braid. "It is Satomi,
Mr Ogawa's daughter," Megumi whispered.
When the young girl had passed from our sight Megumi set
off along the path again. "She is very shy," she said still in a
half whisper. "She knows a stranger is here. Notice how she
was not walking along the regular pathways: she is afraid of
running into you. Only sixteen: in another year or two she
will not be avoiding strange men in the garden any more, she
will be seeking them out." She gave me a sideways glance
and laughed.
When we emerged from the shaded grove Megumi stopped.
"I will go on alone from here Mr Sato. Mr Ogawa's house is
just down the hill. When I have discussed your findings with
him I will return to the library later this afternoon." She
walked a few paces away before turning back to me. "Beware
of the garden Nymph!" she laughed.
I stood enjoying the sight of Megumi's form disappearing
down the hill before turning back. Entering the shaded grove
I slowed my pace, attentively searching for a sign of the
young girl, afraid that I might easily miss her, but also
nervous about meeting her suddenly face to face and startling
her. The path drew near to the pond, still densely shaded by
trees; when I was deepest in shadow I saw her again. With
her back to me she knelt at the water's edge. Leaning out she
was gathering the lilies which floated close to the shore. I
watched as she grasped several of the plants and lay them on
the ground beside her. Each time she leaned over the water
the robe pulled more tightly about her lithe young body; the
soft white bottoms of her bare feet emerged from below the
curve of her hips, her small toes laying on the green grass like
a string of pearls.
I felt deeply aroused watching the girl, as if catching her in
some secret, forbidden act. Her motions were delicate and
purposeful, sensual in their femininity; as I saw her young
hands curl and grasp the plants I imagined their softness, the
feel of them on my own body, grasping, tugging, gently
uprooting. Holding my breath I watched her gather as many
of the lilies as she could reach before she rose and carried
them away, back in the direction of her house.
***
That evening the moon rose over the pond; its soft reflection
danced on the rippling water. I leaned on the stone bridge
looking down, thinking about my day's work: Mr Ogawa was
an exacting employer. He had sent Megumi back with pages
of revisions for me to do and I had worked long past supper
time incorporating his new ideas. Megumi's demeanor had
changed when she returned. Once again she seemed more
distant, formal, not the same woman who had laughed with
me in the garden earlier; I wondered if I had displeased her in
some way, or if Mr Ogawa had spoken badly of me in their
meeting.
Without looking up I became aware of her beside me.
"You are up late Mr Sato," she said.
"Yes," I sighed. "I find it difficult to rest after hard work
sometimes. Strange, isn't it?"
"No, I don't think so," she answered. "The mind becomes
agitated, entangled in the problems of the day. It is best to
seek some peace before sleeping."
"I hope I haven't displeased Mr Ogawa...or you...in any way,"
I said, looking away, embarrassed by my own words.
"Not at all," she said, touching my arm, bringing my attention
back to her. "Actually he was very pleased with your work so
far, impressed even, and he is a difficult man to impress, or to
please." She looked down at the water flowing beneath us.
"Do not be troubled by all his changes and revisions to your
work Mr Sato: that is simply his way. The more he respects
you the more he will push you, test you. I know from
personal experience how difficult he can be, how frustrating
he can make things. You are only here for a week. I have
been with him for years."
"How do you manage?" I asked.
"Oh, I manage," she smiled. "I never let him dominate me.
He is a powerful man, and stubborn. He is used to getting
what he wants, controlling whatever he sees; he scrutinizes
meticulously whatever he notices. My secret is just that I
don't let him see me, the real me, that is. I hide myself from
his notice very carefully so that he thinks he knows me,
thinks he controls me, and he is happy. I too am happy that
way."
"But who gets to see the real you?" I asked.
She laughed. "Ah, Mr Sato, the American. How fast
everything in America goes! You are...what do you call
it...fishing, I believe."
Suddenly the playful side of her had come the fore. I
wondered which was really her; the serious businesswoman
who had spent two hours leaning over my shoulder
instructing me in the changes Mr Ogawa wanted
implemented; or was it the serene one who spoke of beauty,
peacefulness, breathing deeply the scents of the garden; or the
playful creature who stood beside me now: perhaps all three,
perhaps none. I longed to know her better, and I began to
wonder if her real secret was that she hid nothing, living an
honest and simple life, rising above the petty the deceits
afflicting the rest of the world. Suddenly I felt foolish, like a
child, unworthy of her.
"You fascinate me Mr Sato," she said. "Americans do. They
always have, but you even more so; you are so like us in some
ways, when I look at you...but your thoughts, your actions are
not quite of this place. Somehow your Americanness comes
through. I don't know how to describe it." She looked at me
intensely for an instant before returning her gaze to the water
below. "I've never met such an un-Japanese Japanese person
before."
I had nothing to say to that: was she laughing at me? I wasn't
sure.
"I'm sorry she said," placing her hand on my shoulder, "I
didn't mean to offend. I shouldn't make jokes like that." Her
voiced dropped and she became serious. "Forgive me, Mr
Sato."
Her hand slid down my arm and I grasped it in mine,
desperately hoping to maintain the tenuous contact we had
established. I had glimpsed her, the real person, I thought, if
only I was clever enough to figure her out. She had laid
herself out in front of me; I only needed more time, a few
minutes more with her and I might pull back the veil and
understand something of who she was.
"Megumi," I said. "Will you stay here with me? Just a little
while longer."
Her hand slipped from mine and she turned away. "No Mr
Sato," she whispered. "I cannot. Not tonight, or any other
night. I am sorry." Turning in my direction she brushed
passed me leaving in her wake only her sweet fragrance, the
soft rustling sounds of her robe, and the memory of her
musical laughter.
In my desolation I knew I was not worthy of her, too far
beneath her to even hope. The words of my father came back
to me at that moment and I was powerless to stop them from
inundating my consciousness, repeating themselves over and
over again: you will be less than zero.
***
Fin, Part 2 of 7
Richard Rivers 12/97