I lay on my back, my head resting on a black satin pillow shaped like an oversized boxing glove. Comfy, cozy. And naked. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, spreading my legs and exposing the tender lips of my pussy, hot and moist.
âLetâs get ready to rrrrrumbleâ¦â I said, twirling my Rs like a professional ring announcer.
The nude man watching me grinned, then joined me on the bed, which was square-shaped like a boxing ring with ropes and stanchions. I reached back and grabbed onto the golden ropes surrounding the bed, parting my lips in anticipation and surrendering myself to the expertise of his bare hands.
They were everywhere at once, caressing and stroking me, sliding over my thighs, then gently untying the thin silk belt holding together my short red kimono. I tightened my stomach, muscles straining while I pulled on the golden cords. Tingling, gripped with a hunger for his touch, I pulled harder. He sensed my need and rubbed his palms against my hard nipples, sending me into a dizzying spiral, somewhere, everywhere. I loved the feeling. I wanted more.
âReady for the next round?â he whispered, never letting up with his hands.
âYesâ¦yes!â I cried out.
Kissing, fondling, massaging all over my body, this was only the beginning of the game. A game that rocked my world and sent me to new heights of sights, sounds, and smells, not to mention great sex.
It was called the love hotel.
I learned about the intimacy and excitement of the love hotel on an extended business trip to Japan. It was a typical can-the-Nikkei-go-any-higher day Americans working in the Land of the Rising Sun know all too well. After a long morning of âyen highs and dollar lows,â Steve, a tall, ruggedly handsome American coworker Iâd met on my first day in Tokyo, suggested we go out to lunch.
Why not? I needed a break. Working for a big advertising company handling talent for Japanese commercials wasnât all glam. Did you see Lost in Translation? Then you know what I mean. I was the liaison between the actor who wouldnât-be-caught-dead-in-his-skivvies-on-American-TV-but-in-Japan-anything-goes and the Japanese director with the hard-on for every blond ingenue I sent his way.
Speaking of hard-onsâ¦
I noticed Steve eyeing my rear when he thought I wasnât looking. I returned the favor. The man had a set of buns that made my sex-o-meter soar up higher than the Nikkei. Here was a man who knew women admired him, and understood all too well the raw lust in my eyes. I welcomed him being the object of my imaginings, and by the time he brushed up against my breasts and promptly uttered, âExcuse me,â my body was yearning with the most delicious hunger, my pussy wet and ready, begging for satisfaction.
Arm in arm, we headed out to lunch, leaving the office behind. It had been a difficult morning; the Japanese director was upset because he hadnât been advised of a change in the shooting schedule to accommodate the lead actorâs request to go deep-sea fishing in Thailand. His long, straight black hair flying around his face, his eyes blazing behind his dark glasses, he had ranted on for an hour, frightening the young OL or Office Lady who worked for me.
Enter Steve, calming him down and giving me pointers on how to deal with him. Standing close to me, his hot breath on my neck making me shiver with a pleasant tremor that extended down to my pink-polished toes, he had explained the director was behaving in a manner expected of him to save face, similar to the way Japanese workers scurried around the office, always in a hurry even if they werenât. Giving the appearance of urgency, he said, was an important tradition in a Japanese office.
Steve was a veteran adman, having lived in Japan for several years, and he knew how to handle the difficulties of the job. But what impressed me more was that he took the time to help me. Iâd always considered what I did in my job an artâcoordinating the production, being on location during the shoot, then following through with postproduction. Steve helped me take it one step further by showing me how to break down the barriers Iâd faced since coming to Japan. I respected him, but I was also wildly attracted to him. Did he feel the same way about me? Although he was gaijin, a foreigner like me, he followed the ways of the Japanese. Taking his time, not acting on impulse, conferring with the team before making a decision. Did he also follow their ways in the art of love?
Was he unattainable?
I was determined to find out.
Light perspiration dampened my sheer white silk blouse and a sweet smell wafted up from between my legs. I took a sniff and a scent of another kind made my heart beat faster. A pleasant musky smell, the scent of a man, so unlike the rose menthol odor all the rage among the men in my Tokyo office. It came from a gum that made them smell like roses after they chewed it. Seemed Japanese women preferred men who smelled like an indoor flower garden. I, on the other hand, favored raw male pheromones to rev up my libido. And Steveâs did the job to the max.