Strings Ch. 02

I had been globetrotting for fun and business for decades, home or abroad my libido urged me into adventures prior, during and after my marriage, often with my partner's active approval and participation. I had been faithful to the four great loves of my life: Laura, Geneen, Candy and Yumiko, but between each relationship I had roamed considerably. A very happy hunting ground had been the major cities of the Far East. After my divorce the centre of my sexual universe eventually settled on Tokyo, more specifically Roppongi, a kaleidoscopic neon lit multi-tiered bar and restaurant district close to the western embassies. It was frequented by myriad foreign nationalities and enthusiastic if barely fluent English speaking Japanese. Then I discovered these petite, demur females were curious to know if the fabled 'white willy' was so much more formidable than the local yellow variety. When I wasn't working, drinking, avoiding Philippina prostitutes and Philippino ladyboys or chasing adorable Japanese nymphs I also discovered the depraved erotic world of Nippon Porn, with degrading new extremes of Bondage Domination and Sado-Masochism, and their wonderful Bukkake movies. This was some years before it was exported to the wider world. I had always been incredibly stirred watching facial cumshots, whether it be a porn movie or my own climax on a willing upturned pretty female face.

The Japanese always seemed to develop themes to an extreme and their porn industry was no different. One evening, in a sex shop with personal video booths I discovered it shared and fed my sordid fantasies. The highly formalised multi facially deposited 'Super Produce' Bukkake movies were my new best friends. Once an uber polite shop assistant helpfully handed me a wanking cube for use in my cubicle. The spongy pink block was about three inches across with a hollowed out orifice for your convenient insertion. Once the cellophane wrap was removed the spongy interior was moist. I tried it but the wanking cube wasn't for me, I preferred my own hand to tease myself on the brink of orgasm for the duration of the movie, which could feature dozens of male ejaculations over the willing or sometimes bound and gagged unwilling kawaii (cute) face of the AV (Adult Video) model. I often emerged with a sore dick and a strained wrist.

Later I stumbled into a magnificent dividend to sex in Japan when I realised there was a whole new demographic that was sexually wanting and side lined in the milling cross cultural pick up bars. The majority of western businessmen were chasing all these Japanese lovelies, but the small population of expat women fervently did not fancy the Japanese male. Professional western women formerly used to commanding male attention in their homelands were unaccustomed to life on the periphery of the meat market. My sparkling new strategy yielded conquests with various Scandinavians, Brits and Yanks.

I particularly recall my own magnificent bukkake finale moments with a white-blonde Finnish air stewardess, and a night of bondage with an English dancing girl. At 4am and non too sober, I was making my way down the hill from Roppongi crossroads to my Hotel in Akasaka, the forecast typhoon had come in from the Pacific and hit Tokyo whilst I had been partying in Motown, my favourite bar in the world. Torrential rain like you never see back home made visibility appalling, and within minutes I was drenched, a word that is partly a translation for bukkake. It was like walking in a power shower and as I progressed down the slope with poor visibility and onto the slippery pavement gradually I saw a tall slender woman up ahead. As I caught up she staggered wildly in her heels, her head was unprotected and her hair was plastered to her skull and neck, with long strands stuck across a pretty face, if she had worn makeup earlier in the evening it had long been washed away. She was utterly soaked in rain and booze.

I asked if she was okay, and offered to help her. She was a Brit and we shared my jacket as an improvised umbrella, one of my arms holding the jacket the other around her shoulders. We crossed over a footbridge and as the jacket slipped off our heads she turned and kissed me, full on, passionately under stair rods of Pacific Ocean water.

A few meters on and I steered her into a narrow alley and in a tight embrace we kissed deeply again, and I touched her breasts. It was incredibly sexy, in darkness, under all that rain, and as she was so responsive I fleetingly considered taking her standing up then and there. But the promise of something special urged me to get her home and see what developed.

My holding back paid off, because when we reached her apartment building she invited me in, through the lobby, paddling wet shoes up the stairs to her miniscule bedsit, which was not much bigger than a capsule hotel room.

I said something about taking our wet clothes off, and began undressing her. Her clothes were small and thin, undressing was more akin to peeling off skin. She complied like a child being readied for bed, raising her long arms for the removal of her top, and letting me turn her around to release lovely, perfectly symmetrical smallish, firm breasts. I stood her up and stroked the sides of her body, over a long narrow waist and then undid her tight wet jeans.

I pulled the jeans over narrow but shapely hips, this girl was in great shape, toned and slim. I eased her onto the bed, took off her high heels and eventually removed her jeans.

I quickly stripped and dumped my sodden clothes on top of hers in a growing puddle on the floor, and kissed her again before I removed her panties. These were as miniscule as her room and completely out of character I pocketed the black g-string panties.

Once naked my skin felt tinglingly fresh, it was only then that I learned her name, Dawn Bonus, and Dawn was gorgeous. She was much taller than my usual partners and didn't have any excess fat on her at all - slim, long toned limbs, narrow waist with perfect curves. Her whole body was firm to my exploring hands and when I complemented her figure, she simply said, 'I'm a dancer.'

We romped around her bed kissing passionately and caressing - well drunken groping in reality, my head was intoxicated with the excitement and the booze. Then she sucked on OG and gently bit down on him. Suddenly alerted out of my dizzy reverie I realised that something a bit more than vanilla was on offer.

I moaned as she mouthed OG and then asked what her fantasies were. I ran through a little list as she continued sucking and closing her teeth half way down my very firm shaft, I was not quite as drunk as her and OG was well up for it. After shaking her head rejecting fantasies of lesbianism, anal sex and urolangia I whispered bondage, and still holding OG in her teeth she nodded affirmation and writhed her body against my legs. Hey presto her ankles were tied together with dressing gown cord and her hands were behind her back tied with my belt, and then she asked to be spanked.

I had a great time with this tall flexible dancer, lots of positions, she was the only woman I was successful in tying her ankles behind her neck, and with her wrists to the headboard her lower body was upturned, spread and utterly exposed. Her body was designed for this, I thought as I licked and fucked away, the first was very easy and enjoyable whilst the latter was tricky to get my balance and position right. It was worth the physical effort, holding that position, which allowed wonderful long, deep thrusts, slowly withdrawing entirely before re-entering again. And between grunts, how she met those thrusts! With what little freedom of movement she had her pelvis pushed up every time I pushed deep. OG was at his rock hard best and slightly desensitised from his own alcoholic fug; we were in for a long session.

It was even more fun when she was spread eagled and stretched and I whacked across her torso with my belt. After leaving a couple of small welts, I asked if she was working tomorrow, and what if I left marks on her body.

'I'll use make up to cover them,' she explained.

At one point I sat on her face, facing her feet and whacked her pussy. There were lots of gasps during our play but the only verbal response I got was when I asked her if she wanted to be hit with the buckle end or the belt end. I must have been more drunk than I realised to have even thought of the question. Anyway she breathlessly whispered 'Belt end' and she was saved from worse savagery as I merrily applied the belt the right way around, thank god.

After a while I dozed off next to her helpless but uncomplaining form, awakening later to release her so we could crash out properly.

When the morning sunshine lit the bedroom, and the din of Tokyo's ubiquitous large black crows announced a new day, Dawn was still asleep next to me, so I stroked and kissed her awake, and then went down on her for a while, alongside her body as she held OG with her left hand. She had a Brazilian pubic hair style and a nicely shaped vagina - no piss flaps or surrounding fatty tissue. She tasted good too as her clitoris and vulva responded to my tonguing.

She was very compliant as the lovemaking developed as I entered her, then moved to side on and finally from behind when she climaxed biting into the pillow. I didn't cum but was getting tired and sweaty I rolled off and we both crashed out again.

Perhaps an hour or two later I re awoke, and again kissed her and stroked her elegant motionless body. OG was in the form of his life as I motioned her legs apart and mounted her again, and for a few minutes she moved and pressed beneath me. Then I propped myself up a little and kissed her, her eyes had been open but at that moment I saw them focus. OG was sliding in and out gently but I slowed down as I looked into those suddenly focused grey eyes. Her pussy was wet but her pelvis stopped the involuntary movements that had met mine.

'Are you Okay?' I asked.

She nodded yes, but her expression seemed more confused than aroused, so I withdrew. Momentarily the pervert in me considered finishing myself onto her, but there was something wrong, it wasn't any physical discomfort that was bothering her, it was waking up, becoming fully conscious with a complete stranger on top of her.

I accepted that I'd had my bonus at dawn, so we snoozed a while and then talked for a few minutes, she had very little recollection of what had happened - even how we had met in the midst of a typhoon.

She did agree to see me again, and we did four days later for a meal. She spoke good Japanese and was quite a nice woman actually, when sober. There was no chance of a second night of passion with her though and I didn't push it. I also returned her G-string. Quite why I took it baffled her and me; I am not a souvenir collector and didn't want her to think I was an oddball.

Frankly I was lucky, how would some women have construed what had happened? Would the police? I consoled myself that I did voluntarily stop when I realised she was just 'waking up' as it were, but the penetrative deed was already done by then and any such pleas to his honour on the bench would have been dourly looked upon. Mind you I was in Japan and women's rights are often poorly served, just look at their porn.

I had enjoyed fabulous spontaneous sex with a stranger and also a brush with what might have been interpreted as non-consensual sex. It left me definitely wiser for the experience.

I did not permanently live in Asia, typically spending ten or so days a month criss-crossing between dull cities like Seoul, or oppressive mainland Chinese metropolises, easy going Manila, racy Hong Kong and the picturesque ambience of Hanoi for example. In between hectic bouts of Asian business trips I commuted in M25 queues around London and endured only a sporadic social life. My leisure time was usually just the Friday night beer and curry with some mates and the thrills and torpid experiences of the roller coaster ride that was supporting Portsmouth football club.

This was a period where my recurring back injuries gradually put paid to my running in ten kilometre and half marathon road races. So to avoid monotonous television and too much drinking I increasingly went to the gym. I would work-out on the machines followed by the sweaty reward of the spa's sauna and stream room.

But by the turn of the century the halcyon days of frequent and varied Asian based fornication hit a hiatus. Single and seriously under-sexed, something had to be done. I was in my mid forties and no longer comfortable in pick up bars - an expensive hobby in time, money and hangovers, very rarely satisfactory, and I did not relish becoming the oldest swinger in town.

Hookers were apparently acceptable for many in similar circumstances, an intuition confirmed by the perplexing variety and proliferation of prostitutes advertising on the internet. I had not specifically ever paid cash for sex, but had experienced massages in the luxury hotels of Asia which had sometimes added an extra special service.

Most notable was in the five star ANA Hotel in Roppongi, it had been a free add-on to the genuine massage. The hints started when the old crow pressed her flat hands either side of OG, over a small white linen towel. Lying on my back or front her leg massages also reached higher up my thighs, beneath the towel edge too, 'You like tickle?' she asked as her sharp little fingernails startled my balls.

I hesitatingly mumbled a clipped confirmation, 'Hai' and pretty soon the cheeky little thing alternated brief wanks between conventional massaging. Taking her time, the build-up was slow, inexorable and exquisite.

I came explosively, although I managed to muffle my usual vocal announcement. She maintained gentle contact along OG's softening shaft before calmly cleaning the mess up with tissue paper. Then she moved around the bed and gave me a head massage to die for. My post orgasmic swoon enhanced tenfold and I drifted off into a brief happy snooze.

I stirred awake when she lifted her hands from my temples. Before she left my room I was given a paper to sign the charge to the room, just a few Yen for the bona fide massage. Had I experienced yet another example of excessive and perfect Japanese service? Or just a randy old Obasan?

Elsewhere in Korea or China the masseurs were decidedly unappealing, often they were blind, old and fat, and once in the Westin Chosun Hotel in Seoul one of this tubby gropers told me I had to lose weight!

Even in the licentious Philippines where I stayed in the Peninsula, the best hotel in Manila, the massage service was very sensual but strictly above board.

I did stray in the brand new Dawoo Hotel in Hanoi, the massage progressed to a question, 'Special massage?' And for a measly few extra Dong my schlong said so long to my sperm in a hard fast pull. That didn't feel like prostitution even though it couldn't be defined as anything but.

Something puts me off paying for it, certainly travelling on expenses and being well paid it wasn't about miserliness. It was all about the girls.

From committed long term relationships to one night stands with strangers I enjoyed giving pleasure as much as receiving it. In fact as I moseyed into middle age I got more from the giving. If my partner for the act responded genuinely to my attentiveness I loved it.

Do whores ever enjoy sex? Is every response fake? The idea of going down on a pussy that has had hundreds of cocks turns me off totally, but it's not all about health, it's fundamentally about satisfaction, hers and mine. Simply put, I doubt I can get it up for a hooker because she doesn't care about the sex.

I had been on a fifteen year escalator of improving income, seniority and job satisfaction, halfway through this period there had been a divorce and from that personal nadir a parallel escalator of sexual freedom had taken off, leading to new relationships and happiness. First with Candy and then Yumiko. Then both career and sex escalators stalled forever.

The first of my challenges that heralded the hiatus years that followed was being 'furloughed' as the United Airlines Human Resources Stasi representative coldly put it. To be furloughed didn't have a cultural resonance for me though. We call it redundancy, and that had the desired impact. What a word redundant is, it's meaning seems to spread beyond losing your job to being rendered a worthless individual of no use to anyone. It was a traumatic time, a direct consequence of the terrorism of September 11th dumping me out on the street like a black bin liner of trash, with no pay off or income. All within ten days of Al Qaida's barbarism. It drastically altered every other part of my life and to this day I dramatically if erroneously claim that's when my hair went grey.

I panic plummeted into the life of many redundantees and became a consultant.

Amongst the many challenges of my new occupation and poverty, I no longer had the luxurious combination of long haul travel and generous expenses. At first I still travelled long haul, utilising a residue of United Airlines staff travel benefits for a few months. I used the privilege for several flights back to at United's global headquarters in the US lobbying for a commission only deal. The offer was to sell their best selling software system to airlines far removed from the instantly depressed US and transatlantic markets. I had won sales awards selling United's product under licence and it was the reason they had recruited me just three months before September 11th 2001. The deal was they would pay me and my colleague $1 a year salary plus commission on sales made in return for access to the staff travel, essential to sell to the Asian, African and South American airlines we had existing sales leads for.

We failed. Head count ruled and I was one of twenty thousand employees hurriedly jettisoned by United's dog eat dog, survival management style. One sixty year old former colleague had been with United his entire career, except during his airforce stint of national service. He was given an hour to clear his desk and was escorted out of the building by a security guard. His comment, 'I thought the worst day of my life was being shot down over North Vietnam, but I was wrong,' summed up Corporate America's ruthless and heartless attitude to anyone unfortunate enough to be employed by them.

'Fuck America,' was my bitter mood.

But I did use my very last free flights on United's network for a long way round flight to Sydney. Fourteen coach class hours to San Fransciso, then four hours sat in the terminal before boarding another flight for fourteen more cramped hours in a 747. The cost of the week was minimal, the flights on United were virtually free and I cashed in my American Express card loyalty points accumulated over years of five star Asian hotel stays to have a free three star hotel overlooking Darling Harbour in Sydney. Down under I negotiated a deal with a small Aussie company to sell their aviation software product to the European airline market.

Back in Blighty the lonely weeks of cold calling every small to medium sized airline I could find beckoned. Of the many challenges, surprisingly, I even missed the office social life and those 'water cooler' moments I had briefly shared with my former colleagues at United Airlines, and the years of gossipy banter tea breaks at British Airways. I spent longer in the gym, regaining lost fitness whilst simultaneously becoming an old git with his favourite locker in the changing room, (locker number one), for its easier access.

And with this miserable new existence there was no comforting sexual outlet. My previous life of swinging, one night stands and one trip stands, foreign romances and office romances (of which I had enjoyed two, both of which became a little awkward subsequently), and slightly dodgy massages had abruptly ended.