Yumi and the Chairman of the Board

(This is a visit to the dark side, as in power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely ... as in treatment of the tribal in-group, as compared to strangers. It is not a pleasant story. Sorry. Aggression and exploitation on the one hand, submission and reluctant acquiescence on the other. But many males, I sense, may at sometime or another have wondered (fantasised?) what it might be like to select a woman at random from a foreign culture, betrothed to another, and use her sexually to his heart's desire – with the husband nearby – and, in the process, discover that the misused wife becomes as aroused and excited as he himself becomes. That's what this is. You have been warned.)

One of the perks of being the Chairman of the board is that up-and-coming business executives who work in your far-flung empire fawn at your feet. Sometimes their wives do to. Sometimes they make their wives fawn.

Japan, this visit, was a pain. It often is. Japanese food, saki and rice and raw fish and seaweed, bowing and scraping and lowering of eyes, drinking and karaoke and always having to prove you are one of the boys. Which is why I make it a habit, whenever I'm in Tokyo, to stay away from the nightspots. Instead, I hire the best suite in the best hotel in the city, and insist on meeting the wives. They aren't sure what to do, nor are the husbands. The reason for this is that Japanese salarimen, as they call themselves, don't normally involve their wives in the business, of their business. Which is what can make it fun, when you do!

I had done so tonight. I'd picked the six youngest, brightest, best looking Japanese executives in our Tokyo Marketing department – figuring if they were impressive their wives would be too – and told them to be in my suite, with their wives, for dinner at eight. I told them I wanted to get to know them better, and that where I came from wives were regarded every bit as important to the make-up of the man, as their professional qualifications. The chosen few had smelled advancement, even promotion, so nodded with enthusiasm. I told them to dress up their pretty ladies. They had. And dress themselves up too. They had. Smart Western suits for the men. Stylish dresses for stylish wives of savvy salarimen who were on their way up in the world, for the lucky ladies. All had turned up, as required. As expected.

One of the wives, in particular, was an absolute knock-out. Just married. Her name was Yumi. (Nice name.) She wore a form-hugging silver jersey dress with a row of pearl buttons down the front. I sat her as far from me as I could during dinner. Same with her husband. I could see they were both disappointed by this. At the end of the meal, when I waved the two of them up to the head of the table – cigars coming out, the port going round, all the usual gaijin crap, (but they were joining in: when the Chairman of the Board says 'jump', you jump!) – their expressions changed.

"So this is your wife?" I said to Taganaki. (That was his name.) He nudged her, but she was already well into her bow. (Well brought up little wife that she was.) "I'd like to borrow her," I said, with my best smile, coming to my feet. I could sense Taganaki swell with anticipated reward. His wife, the chosen one, from all the wives here, by the Chairman of the Board. I nodded to my local chief. He knew what to do.

The music – slow dancing – came on. I called out, over the opening bars of music, to the two rows of faces that were turned respectfully towards me from either side of the long table. "Now we dance," I announced. "Only one rule, you don't dance with your wife!" I took Mrs Taganaki's elbow and steered her towards the tiny patch of dance floor in the middle of the suite. Her husband bowed, possibly thinking he'd made it. First dance by the Chairman was to be with his new bride. With stars in his eyes he made for the next nearest woman and asked her to dance. Wanting to be seen 'fitting in' by the Chairman of the Board, no doubt.

"Come with me, my dear," I said to his wife as a little to her surprise, (though she hid it well,) I led her over the dance floor to a pair of impressive double doors. The doors to the suite's impressive bedroom. I opened them. Another twinge of hesitation as she noted the huge bed in the large room beyond. But again, she controlled it well. My hand, in the small of her back lightly steered her in. As I turned, to close the doors behind us, I noted most of the dinners were already on the tiny dance-floor by the terrace. 'Fitting in' with their Chairman's wishes, (though mostly looking the other way).

Well satisfied, I closed the door behind us. Yumi and me.

The master bedroom was enormous, with a view over Tokyo that was spectacular. One wall was floor to ceiling glass. The drapes were open. The bedside lights were on either side of the large king-sized bed, already turned down. Other than that it was the reflected light from the view, and the moon, close to full, that bathed the room in a soft dreamy light.

"Nice view, huh?" I said to my rather lovely, and appropriately respectful Yumi. Twenty-two or twenty-three years old I reckoned. Lovely face. No, a beautiful face. Soft, chocolate-coloured eyes. Black hair cut neatly, stylishly short. The music came quietly through the door. She nodded: nice view. I wondered if she could speak English, although it didn't matter if she couldn't.

I took her hand. She gave it to me cautiously, held my fingers the way she figured she should, (I guess). I led her to the view. She came, obediently. When she arrived at the window, I said, "Now we'll dance, like the others outside, and I shall get to know you." She clearly did speak English, or at least understood it, for she turned and held out her arms. "No, no, my dear," I said, though was pleased she understood. "This view is too good to waste. We'll face the view and dance so that we both may enjoy it." A puzzled frown came over her picture perfect face, so I turned her to the view, moved behind her, and put my arms around waist.

A pert little rear fitted neatly into my crotch, her shoulders and back against my chest and abdomen; the hair at the top of her head lightly tickled my nose. I moved my arms further round her rather cuddly little body, and started to dance – or rather, I started to move from one foot to another, moving my crotch against a pleasantly tight little ass. She hesitated, but only for a second, then lightly rested her hands on the arms which encircled her, and started to move as I did. What would be going through her mind, in that pretty little head of hers I wondered. 'How far will this go?' no doubt.

I wondered what conclusion she would reach?

I have found, in the past, that there are essentially two ways you can play this sort of thing – if you are in my shoes, that is. You can either be cautious and subtle, think of their feelings, and tread with care; or you can dispense with subtlety altogether, discount their feelings entirely, and do whatever the heck you want. With the highly delectable Yumi I had more or less decided, as soon as I saw her come into the suite on the arm of her husband, that I would do what I wanted. (With her.) She had that effect on a man, you could say.

Although I suspect this is more a philosophical point than an ethical stance, I am also inclined to believe that the more powerful the organisation you are in charge of, the less consideration those working under you, or those supporting those who work under you, need realistically expect – and the multinational group of companies I head is as expansive as the window I was looking through, and as huge as the bed at my back!

"I've always liked Tokyo," I said, stretching the truth just a tad, as I slid the flat of my hand over a rewardingly flat and firmly girlish stomach. (No children yet, quite clearly.) I let it descend towards her pubis, which on her, I discovered when I got there, was aggressively prominent. (She froze when I touched her there, but nothing more, and then relaxed.) My other hand I ran up her front, to her breasts. She froze a second time as my hand reached its target and cupped a surprisingly plump handful. Her feet stopped moving. So did her hips. Her legs had already snapped straight.

I continued to sway to the music as if I hadn't registered the fact that my sweet little newly-wed had stopped, or that I had her breast in one hand and her pubis in the other. I started, absently to work on both. To gently stroke, and cup, and squeeze; to press, caress and fondle.

"Yes indeed. Always liked Tokyo," I repeated, gazing over her head at the view, voice a deep base from years of cigars and many of the better brands of cognac. "Being Chairman of the Board means I have to come a lot," I said, (without elaboration).

As if something was suddenly switched on in her mind – 'Chairman of the Board,' perhaps? – she slowly unfroze, her feet began tentatively to resume their dance, or shuffle, and her hips began to sway, again. I sensed she was forcing herself to relax, join in, take part, as my fingers continued their caresses of her other, more sensitive parts.

"Are you from Tokyo?" I asked, making conversation.

"Yes," she replied.

Her hands had dropped to her sides. I took her breast and gently lifted it against her, finger and thumb where I guessed her nipple might be – to be rewarded by finding that it was. Many Asians pad their bras to make up for what they may feel they'd like to have, but don't ... but Yumi had plenty, in generous store, rendering the need to pad her bra redundant. I took the flimsily covered nipple in my fingers and rolled it gently. I sensed her hips lift up, as if she were going onto tiptoes. (I have always liked them going onto tiptoes. Yumi was behaving as I liked.)

I moved my other hand onto her other breast and repeated the dose, to be rewarded by an arch of the back as well as a stretching of ankles and feet onto tips of no doubt delicate toes. I released the little peas I had brought out of hiding in the centre of her breasts and started to fondle the whole. I mean seriously fondle the whole. I was seeking to arouse this little morsel of young womanhood. I leant my head to her neck, and asked, "Born in Tokyo?" Then I kissed her neck.

She tasted clean, and young, and fresh.

"Yes," she replied, keeping things simple, staring out the window at the night, her hands lying limply by her side as mine continued to work on her pleasantly plump and shapely breasts. Well above average for a Japanese, I had to think, as I let myself move on ...

"Like it?" I ask, moving my fingers to the buttons down the front of her slim knit dress. I start to undo them, commencing at the top and working down.

"Yes, I like it," she replies, her voice clear, referring possibly to Tokyo, or perhaps just being polite. "My parents live here too," she adds, as if feeling it is best that one of us is talking, and deciding it is safer to talk about things other than what's happening between us. Feeling, perhaps, that by bringing in her parents I will remember my own, and, sensing they might not approve, release her from her torment. What else is going through her pretty little Oriental mind? Is she hoping against hope that this large gaijin will look at her unclothed, appreciate her loveliness, and let her go? Or will he want to ... do more with her. To her? If she concludes that I will ... want to do more, with her, (to her) ... what will her view be on that?

I loose all the buttons down the front of her dress, watching our reflection in the window as I do. Easing up the lower part of dress to get at the buttons near the hem, baring her stocking-clad legs ... as I do. I watch as she lets me unbutton her dress, her hands held demurely out the way. I spread it wide. In the reflection, flickering lights breaking through here and there, I see a well shaped young lady in a lightweight bra, a surprisingly brief and wildly scarlet thong, (surprise, surprise!); self-supporting stockings that end six inches lower than the panties begin, affording an appetising view of smooth cream coloured thigh. And a big guy, a gaijin, behind her. Holding open her dress.

"Best you take it off," I say to her, releasing her. I watch as she shrugs of her dress, catches it carefully behind her, and, eyes averted, folds it. She looks about her to see where she might put it. Moves to a nearby chair and places it neatly over the arm. As she straightens she shoots a hooded glance in my direction. I curl my finger, once. (The universal 'come-hither' curl beloved of those in power.) She returns to my side. When she reaches me she faces the window once again. She lets me close in from behind. She lets me put my arms around her. She eases back against me when I pull. I take her in my arms, liking the feel of her skin.

"Put your hands behind my head," I say, looking at her eyes in the glass as they look back at mine, admiring the way she follows my instructions. Her hands reach up and back, elbows high, torso stretched, spine nicely arched, breasts forced upwards and out. I take a breast in each hand and start to move to the music that comes faintly through the door. She starts to move in time with me. Her body is soft and smooth, but firm where it needs to be firm. Stretched and perky breasts have always turn me on! I flick the front fastening bra. I move it aside and cup what is within. Plump breasts that fill my hand.

"So what do you do?" I ask ...

this soft ...

young ...

thing.

"I'm a secretary, in a shipping firm," she replies. Her English pronunciation is pretty good. (Not great, but pretty good.) I gaze at her breasts in the reflection in the window ... and the broad hands that fondle them ... and the way she watches my hands, and the way her own are stretched behind my head, one near an ear.

"Play with my ears, my dear," I tell her, and watch in the window as she starts to. Her fingertips are neat and slender. She finds a lobe and gently strokes. My eyes drift closed. (I love when they play with my ears like this.) I run my hands down her front. The soft smoothness of skin, the slight concavity of stomach, tiny indent of navel, slabs of muscle stretched taught on either side.

My fingertips come to the shoe-string waistband of her wild and unexpected thong, (who would have thought she wore THIS underneath?) They slip inside the narrow band of fabric that heads enticingly South. Her pubis beneath is covered with a light down of hair. I slip my finger into her lower lips and start to explore her. I am intrigued and encouraged at how slick and moist she has already become. She arches her back. I roll her clitoris, once. Then twice. It arches again. I open my eyes.

The reflection of her body in the window is neat, compact. It feels much softer, and is a lot warmer, than it looks in the window. Her eyes, I note, have closed, though her fingertips continue to play with my ear – one of her fingers even appears to be searching for the opening. (Doing her best, the little pet.)

I lean forward ever so slightly, curling round her like a spoon, and slip my middle finger inside her. She is damp. Honey-damp. Her pelvis spreads as my finger runs into her, and her back squirms urgently, rolling her head against my chin. My other hand switches from breast to breast, nipple to nipple. I watch her open lips and hear the tiny gasps. Her lips seem almost swollen as they form an 'O', and groan. I turn her head and put my lips on hers. She squirms around to face me, pulling my head to hers, probing my mouth with her tongue.

The little vixen, really going for it!

We shuffle towards the bed. This lovely little cutie, naked but for her stockings and heels – her thong is at her knees – and me, the Chairman of the Board. When she falls onto the bed, I let her go. She falls on her back, eyes closed, arms reaching out, legs wide. I watch her, standing between her knees. I start to undress. Her eyes flicker open ... Have I gone? Lost interest? No, my little angel, daddy's coming. I drop my trousers and boxers all at once. I see her eyes open wide – for I am masterfully hung.

One of my greatest assets, is my prick. Just like all these Orientals, it is bigger than she'd ever seen before, I felt sure. Her head rolled back, her eyes on the ceiling, then her hands went to her mouth and she screwed up her face.

(Oh No! the little cutie's thinking!)

Oh yes! I am thinking in return.

"Sit up, my dear!" I tell her. And she does.

"Why don't you two get introduced?" I suggest, moving my prick, a mere seventy percent eager, but still a mighty size, in her direction. She gives a tiny bow. (I kid you not: a tiny BOW!) Reaches out two delicate hands and takes my great John Thomas to her lips. I close my eyes, but only after I've watched her mouth move forward to the tip of the thing, her little tongue reach out, and start to taste the tip. Now her lips are around the bulb, the bulb itself is in her mouth. Her tongue is slowly circling it. It feels so hot in there. I reach down a hand, between her legs, still spread – they move, to give me room –I slip my middle finger back inside her. So Hot she is, this Yumi. Both ends of her.

I flex my hips, this pushes my prick further into her mouth. My finger, up to the hilt, twists and turns inside her, looking for the spot. She gasps and groans around my prick – have I found her lower spot? I curl my finger inside her. Her pelvis rolls. My other hand goes behind her head and I thrust my prick hard into her mouth. Right to the back. The softness there revolts. Closes up. She gags. I retreat. She follows. I take a step back, and she comes too, off the bed, (my finger deep inside her). I lower her onto the carpet. Her knees drop from the bed. She is still impaled on my finger ... and penis. I take the finger from her. She keeps my penis, deep in her mouth.

We sway toward the bed. Her back arches, knees staying on the carpet where they are, reaching behind her with a hand she catches herself. Her neck against the edge of the bed. Off balance, back arched, throat stretched, eyes wide and looking up. At me. I take position above her and thrust my prick into her throat. She cries out, her eyes screw shut. I move overhead and start to fuck her mouth. With an effort – manfully done! – she keeps her head angled upwards, the rest of her twisted on the floor, and lets me down her throat.

I don't think she's done this before.

She starts adjusting herself, getting the throat in line with my thrusts, moving her chin up, moving her head up, face up – wide open lips and mouth up, as my prick pumps in and out. The whole knob of my prick delves into the soft, warm tissue of her throat. It stays there, as her throat moves, contracts like a pussy and waits, breath held, until I withdraw, to let her breath. Which I do (she gulps in breath, through the nose, making the palate flutter) – then Grumph ... back into her throat, to let the soft hot tissue there cosset and hold the knob of the great fiery monster. Then out ... Then back in. Then out ... Back in.

I have her breasts in my hands, again. I tweak and pull and stroke and massage the soft warm malleable mounds. Like balloons force-filled with honey. Full and hotly warm. My ministrations makes her torso buck and squirm. One last go, I think, deciding I want to hear her yelp, and see how it sounds, and see what she looks like, while I fuck her properly, with something much bigger than she's ever had before. But first ... her throat and mouth, so accommodatingly helping in the build-up to the main event. In deep ... deeper, once more ... deeper still. I feel the softness deep in her throat. (God she learned quickly, her neck now straight as a swan in distress!) It clutches much of the tip of my prick ... so soft ... a little deeeeeper! "Aarrgh!" She grunts, needing to breath. But ... deeeeeeeper. "Aaiiieee!" She yelps in pain.