Seduction of a Japanese Wife Pt. 02

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Babes

Author’s note: If you have not read the previous story of this tale, please do so. You will better understand the characters of this tale, their way of speaking, and some of the mannerisms and customs unique to Japan. Forgive me if there are parts of this story that differ from your knowledge and understanding of Japan and its people.

The standard discloser applies in that everyone is eighteen-years or older and all characters being purely fictional. Constructive comments and suggestions are always welcomed. Please enjoy the telling of the tale.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In Japan, a young woman is expected to be innocent and proper, observant of the numerous etiquette rules, and the epitome of Japanese feminine virtues. She is indoctrinated from an early age to defer to males, her seniors, and her superiors to the point where it is second nature to her. When she marries, she is further expected to be submissive, obedient, and devoted in the caring for her spouse no matter what sacrifice she must endure on his behalf.

It was this fundamental mindset that enabled me to seduce Kiyomi, the beautiful but much-neglected housewife of Ichiro, my proverbial absent-minded and geeky college instructor. When faced with the distinct possibility that her husband might be dismissed due to his personal and academic shortcomings, Kiyomi desperately sought to prevent her ingrate husband from losing face. Although unwillingly at first, she gave her petite but luscious body to me, her husband’s superior, to ensure that her spouse did not fall into disgrace.

However, in the process of discharging the obligation expected of a dutiful wife, Kiyomi discovered the world of “pillowing” (the Japanese euphemism for sex). Long denied by her neglectful spouse, she succumbed to her unfulfilled emotional needs and then the craving of her physical needs. As such, Kiyomi came to accept me as her secret lover and sensei (teacher/master) in a forbidden romance and all sexual matters.

However, carrying on a secret affair with a “gaijin” (foreigner) who was head of the language department of a prestigious university was a daunting for any Japanese woman, much less a married one. While I assisted in the matter by sending Ichiro on various research trips to the United States, there were only so many coincidental meetings that a faithful wife could have with her husband’s foreign superior without drawing unwanted attention. It went without saying that our subsequent trysts created a stressful quandary for Kiyomi.

“Oh, Damon-sama, it is not proper for a wife to experience so much pleasure in the embrace of a man who is not her husband,” Kiyomi sighed deeply in frustration after one of our trysts. “I should be content with the quick kisses and fleeting caresses that we share, but I am so shameless for I brazenly desire more.

“Under your tutelage, I have learned the art of giving a…how do you say it…ah, ‘blow job.’ It gives me great pleasure feeling your manhood fill my mouth and throat, and to see that I please you by doing so. And as for the cream of your loins that floods my mouth, it is so ‘oishi’ (delicious). Ummm, how the taste of you lingers delightfully in my mouth long after I have left you…ummm.

“I have placed myself on the ‘pill’ so that I can further pleasure you as you teach me the ways of…sexual…satisfaction. As instructed, I wear no undergarments so that you may have easy access to my body should the opportunity present itself. I never imagined that a man’s touch could inflame me so, making my heart beat so loudly that others must surely know of my brazen excitement.

“Ooh, how my breath catches in my throat when you so manly…so ‘un-Japanese’… pull apart of the folds of my kimono to release my much too bountiful breasts. Oh, Damon-sama, you cannot know how I have been told since I was young that my bosom is much too large for a proper lady – yet, with you, they seem so right. How my embarrassingly large nipples throb fiercely for hours after leaving you, longing for more of your lips, teeth, and fingers.

“I am so ashamed that I have become enamored with your…’quickies!’ Ooh, Damon-sama, when you take charge of me and bending me over, hastily push my dress or kimono up my back. To be entered so suddenly and taken so vigorously makes the wincing pain is so…exquisite. As my knees weaken and my breath quickens with your lustful and virile use of me that I cannot help but feel like a desired woman…

“But our risk is great. There are so many eyes, ears, and wagging tongue. Our rather unusually close relationship…especially when Ichiro happens to be away…draws the attention of many around us. Ooh, Damon-sama, you are my sensei and I am your obedient student; yet, I fear that one day we shall be discovered to our shame and disgrace. What are we to do?”

Surprisingly, the answer to our dilemma was found in a rather unique Japanese institution – the “love hotel.” To avoid the social humiliation of being caught violating the complex etiquette system that permeated all aspects of izmir escort daily life, Japanese solution was incredibly simple – if others didn’t know what you did, there was no cause for shame.

These highly discrete establishments complied fully with this tenet by limiting, if not eliminating, any interaction between their guests and the hotel staff. As a result, an ambiance of customer anonymity was created, enabling their Japanese clientele to satisfy out their erotic desires by providing the utmost privacy.

The hotel that I had chosen looked like a very ordinary low-rise apartment building from the outside to avoid drawing unwanted attention to what went on within its windowless walls. Room selection, entry arrangements, other desired amenities, and payment were done online via a created persona. A unique access code allowed entry into the hotel’s parking structure and then raised the garage door of your designated stall. Upon exiting the car, another code allowed access to a short entryway and unlocked the selected private suite. No one would know who occupied the room or what we did in its confines; thus, allowing us to do something socially unacceptable without anyone knowing.

“Oh my, this is not what I had expected, Damon-sama. How delightfully ‘quaint,'” Kiyomi murmured as we slipped off our footwear before entering our apartment. I knew that my choice of a traditional ambiance with a lot of wood, bamboo, tatami (straw mat flooring), sparse but functional furnishing, and tasteful floral arrangements would please my lover. “I am transported to my younger days of learning the tea ceremony and ikebana (flower arrangement) at my grandmother’s in the country.”

“Kiyomi, it is not tea that we will be partaking of but the sake of the finest quality which should be chilling on ice in the holder at that low-rise table. But, before we imbibe in some relaxing liquid, I wish us to be more comfortable. It would please me greatly if you would change from your lovely kimono since I would dislike wrinkling it in our enjoyment. There is a garment in that box that I wish you to wear…a present from me. Please change into it.”

At one time, Kiyomi would have been shocked and balked at such a request; however, our stolen moments had taught her how her clothing could become quite mussed to give her a disheveled appearance which was unacceptable. She also knew that disrobing in front of me gave me immeasurable viewing pleasure. So, with a slight nod that hid a subtle smile, Kiyomi acquiesced to my request and began undoing her tasteful kimono layer by layer.

With measured movements, Kiyomi slowly disrobed in what seemed like a century-old almost-stylized manner that gradually revealed her snow-white nape, throat, and upper chest in a most enticing way. The binding decorative silk of her broad obi was unwound from around her trim waist; her dark green and sedate external kimono was removed next; and then her pale green under-robe was shed; each was neatly folded and set aside. Once free from the restraint of her kimono robes, Kiyomi’s abundant bosom surged against the thin one-piece cotton liner that was held in place by several simple ties.

Tucking her liner under her knees as she knelt, Kiyomi opened my present and gasped loudly upon seeing its contents, her hand flying to cover her open mouth. She then held up a flimsy garment similar to her liner except that it was made of translucent material trimmed with thin satin and was a vibrant red. Kiyomi blushed before saying, “Damon-sama, this is so…unusual. I don’t know if I…it is so sheer that it would be like wearing…nothing.” Then with a slight pause of uncertainty, she demurely murmured, “And red is the color of…”

I knew that no proper Japanese woman would wear a red kimono undergarment that for centuries had been commonly associated with the loose and immoral women of the night. I also knew that Kiyomi was reluctant because the flimsy garment would readily expose size her in the most un-Japanese way by shamelessly flaunting instead of downplaying her physical attributes and unspoken sexuality.

“Kiyomi, the material and especially the color of what you hold is to remind you of the passion and pleasure that you have hidden within you. It pleases me and will serve to introduce you to your next phase of instruction. Now, please put it on and become a different woman within the confines of this love hotel suite.”

With a fleeting glance at me, Kiyomi bowed in acquiesce as she whispered, “Hai (yes), Damon-sama.” Untying her liner, she revealed her breathtaking snow-white nudity, and I had to stop myself from gawking in lusty appreciation. The red liner was slipped on, and its sheer material flowed like water over the curves of her petite form, clinging to and highlighting her full breasts, hanging sensuously off her large purple-red nipples, and then pooling over the black silk of her womanliness tucked between her soft inner thighs.

With gently closed eyes, Kiyomi shivered at the feathery caress of the soft material bayındır escort and after a moment of absorbing the ambiance of her clothing, instinctively reached to undo her put-up hair. However, before she could release ebony tresses, I stopped her, enjoying a single lock of ebony hair that drifted freely to contrast with her snow-white skin. When she gathered herself to look demurely at me, I saw my repressed and neglected housewife transformed into my enticingly submissive but willing mistress.

“Change me, Kiyomi-chan,” I uttered as I stood before her with my chin pointed towards the soft cotton robe that was neatly folded at the base of a wooden valet.

“Hai, Damon-sama,” she replied as with practiced fingers, Kiyomi quickly and effortlessly undressed me. Her almond shaped eyes widening slightly in appreciation when my fleshy katana thrust proudly from my groin once freed from my restraining boxers. Her dainty hand flew to hold me, absently stroking me as she temptingly licked her delicate lips. However, before her head could complete its downward descent, Kiyomi caught herself and reining in her urges, finished dressing me in my cotton robe. After securely tucking my erection in the folds of my kimono, she bowed deeply.

“Dozo (please),” Kiyomi murmured as she gestured for me to be seated on the zabutons (large flat cushions) behind a small low table and then reached for a small ceramic flask of chilled fine sake. Shifting to kneel beside me and composing herself, she deftly filled a small ceramic cup that she had placed before me.

“Kiyomi, I do not believe in drinking alone. Please – please, pour yourself some sake.”

I knew that Kiyomi was about to object, but a slight raising of my eyebrow silenced any protest and she hastened to pour a cup for herself. Meeting my raised cup, Kiyomi followed my lead as she sipped deeply. The chilled sake was delicately sweet and incredibly smooth as it slid down our throats. It also was deceptively intoxicating for the non-drinker, and with each sip, Kiyomi’s bodily tension, mental reservations, and along with her long-held inhibitions so were washed away.

“Oh, Damon-sama, I feel…so hot…and…different,” Kiyomi sighed heavily as she leaned against my chest after two sake flasks had been drained. Oblivious that her flimsy robe had slipped from her and that her ample breasts swayed freely, Kiyomi pushed open the folds of my robe to caress my hairy chest in fascination. “My, you are so virile…so manly…unlike Ichiro who is hairless like a little boy. Touching you so boldly makes me feel…”

Sliding her hand behind my head, Kiyomi pulled my face to hers to passionately kiss me. Her tongue invaded my mouth to duel with mine in a wild frenzy to unspoken desire. Tilting her head back slightly to utter a breathy, “Wanton. I am so shameless with you. And in my desire for you, I take such unseemly liberties without asking my sensei’s permission.”

As she pressed me back, Kiyomi spun around to blaze a hot wet path down my body before mumbling, “This place… this crimson robe… the sake…oh, Damon-sama, you have transformed me into a ‘yujo’ (a woman of pleasure, prostitute) who plied her services to gaijin in the teahouses of the port cities.”

With that said, Kiyomi dropped her head to my lap and wrapped her delicate lips about my egg-like penis head, giving me one hell of a deep-throat head job as she devoured my rock-hard shaft. To think that just a few months ago I had seduced my lover and introduced her as to how to pleasure a man with her mouth. Now, fellatio had become second-nature and gave her as much pleasure as it did me.

“Ooh, how I love your manhood in my mouth,” Kiyomi uttered before resuming her furious sucking on my cock. While her petite hand slid easily up and down my saliva-coat cock that thrust rigidly into the air, Kiyomi gasped for “Ooh, how I have come to savor the taste of your manhood and the seed of your loins.”

However, as Kiyomi resumed her eye-opening blow job, I pulled her on top of me with my head wedged between her inner thighs to gaze upon her twisting femininity. The sight of her clench butthole winking lewdly at me reminded me of a carnal urge that I had suppressed when I first seduced my Asian housewife. Due to a lack of time or privacy. I had failed to fulfill to consummate that desire in our subsequent trysts

“Damon-sama, what are you doing to me? Are you…” Kiyomi jerked and emitted a sharp squeal when I firmly clutched and spread her spongy buttocks to ream her sweet tush with my stiff rasping tongue.

“You cannot surrender to your inner yujo unless you are well-versed giving erotic pleasure in all ways to your lord and master, Kiyomi-chan. No orifice or body part should be denied me, Kiyomi. It is time that you to complete your pillowing education by surrendering your last virginity.”

A shrill whine escaped her lips as Kiyomi realized my erotic intent when I squeezed fingertip into her brown pucker. “Dame (stop), dame, oh, please, Damon-sama!”

I bayraklı escort had learned that in true Japanese feminine manner, Kiyomi’s entreaties for me to “stop” were often a sham to save face held and were not representative of her actual desires. Her previous protests to stop eventually gave way to groans of desire as unexpected pleasure as, slowly but surely, her body betrayed her true desire. However, this time her plea was somehow different as she fervently struggled in distress.

As she sought to compose herself, Kiyomi’s angst was a strange combination of my displeasure that was clearly registered on my face, her own embarrassment of her denial, and some aspect yet to be revealed. With downcast eyes, she knelt with her legs pressed together and a palm on the outside of each knee, and perform ‘dogeza’ (ritualized bowing of atonement). Bowing until her forehead lightly touched the floor, Kiyomi uttered in a trembling voice, “Watashi o yurushite kudasai” (please forgive me), Damon-sama. I have shamed myself for acting so improperly. It’s just that…”

The tears trickled out of the corners of almond-shaped eyes washed away my anger, I murmured, “What, Kiyomi-chan? Tell me.” When she tried but then balked, I let out a loud sigh and sternly uttered, “Tell me, Kiyomi.”

The tone of my voice was like the crack of a whip, and Kiyomi quickly straighten. Then not wishing to further anger or disappoint me, she hesitantly mumbled, “‘Chikan’ is the Japanese term to describe the molestation of young girls, normally school girls on crowded public transit trains. Commuters are crammed so tightly into the train cars is such that one cannot move, and this gives certain men the opportunity to take advantage of young girls.

“People around the victim are often aware of what is happening, but none will help. Most feel that it is the girl’s fault for tempting men or for allowing such a thing happen to her. The authorities who are seldom inclined to do anything for a victim who may have never see her assailant, and making an accusation exposes the victim to shame, scorn, and humiliation.”

“Kiyomi, were you a victim of chikan?”

“Hai, Damon-sama, I was. For much of my schooling, my female classmates and I were aware of chikan and resolved not to fall prey to such perverse men. We traveled as a group that would not hesitate of voice our collected alarm should any of us be in danger of becoming a victim. However, the month before graduation I was required to live with my ailing grandmother and had to commute to school alone. Given my rather petite but buxom figure and rather shy demeanor, it went without saying that I drew the unwanted attention of those males who practiced chikan.

“I remember vividly my first time. The conductors were pushing more passengers into an already packed train car that would take me to my school. We were so crowded that I could not move as I was crushed against the back of the man in front of me, and hem in by the man on either side of me and especially the one behind me. With one of my hands holding the ceiling rung and the other clasping my books to me, I didn’t suspect how vulnerable I would be.

“The train shook and jostled the packed passengers, and I thought that touching against another could not be helped. However, that was until I felt the hand of the man in front of me reach back to grope my… ‘womanhood’…through my school skirt. Shocked, I jerked back and away from his violating fingers. However, if anything, my struggles invited the attention of the men around me, and I was pressed even tighter. Those on either side of me averted their faces so that I could not identify them, but their hands found me, and slyly at first and then boldly began to fondle my breasts.

This, however, made me press against the groin of the man who was behind me, and I whimpered pitifully when I felt his hands grip and squeeze my ‘oshiri’ (buttocks). As I uttered a futile protest, the back of my skirt was lifted and the man’s hand quickly slipped under my panties. I squirmed futilely as I tried to evade the violating hands but my efforts only caused the four men to press further against me, preventing me from moving. Although I cried out to be left alone, those around us paid any attention to me or secretly watched my molestation.

The loud rattling of the train swallowed my shrill whine of surprise and objection when suddenly a finger was slid between my oshiri and pressed against my komon (anus), making me rise to the balls of my feet. Despite my frantic squirming, a persistent finger continued to worm its way further into me, taking my breath away so I could not cry out. Just then the car bell rang indicating that approach of the next train station. In a flash, I was ushered out and left feeling totally dazed and violated, yet unable to identify my chikan assailants.”

“Kiyomi, why didn’t you tell your family or your friends?”

“I was sickened and greatly shamed at being violated, Damon-sama. I could not understand what had happened to me and in a way, felt that it was my fault. You must understand, Damon-sama, that Japanese girls are taught not to draw unwanted attention to themselves and not to express anger against an adult male, even an offending one. And at the time, I felt…helpless.

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