Chapter 2
It was one of those warm spring days in Tokyo, when the pollution index was down and the sun was shining brightly—for Tokyo is, in fact, more toxic in its atmosphere these industrial days than even Newark, New Jersey—so that driving around Akasaka in Sunny's Datsun was a very pleasant way to kill some time in the late afternoon.
That, Billy was doing.
He had just dropped Sunny off at work—she had a special party to attend to, thus the early starting hour—and was noticing yet another luxury hotel being erected in the district, its girders pointing skyward like so many erect penises, and an army of Japanese workmen scurrying around its premises like so many busy ants. It was a very plush, very chic district that rivaled, and some claimed surpassed, the Ginza as a shopping and entertainment area. Many corporations had their main offices here; so, also did many embassies, and the American was among the latter.
Billy pulled the car into a convenient parking lot near the American Embassy, and found a spot. He got out, locked the car, and entered the building where the Embassy was housed.
It was that time of year; as an alien, he had certain forms to fill out, certain declarations to make,
to ensure that he wouldn't get deported back to good old New York any faster than he wanted to move himself. The previous week, he hadn't been able to get all his things together, and now he had to return to fill out yet another silly form.
"Jive," he said aloud, lighting up a long, mellow-cured Japanese cigar. "Just whitey's dumbass ways, all these dumbass papers to fill out. Makes no difference what I write, it's what I do that counts, anyway. I'd confess to two dozen murders if I had to, just to stick around and dig these crazy cherry blossoms, anyway."
Billy liked Japan, and he dug Tokyo. He was making contacts, living free and easy (from Sunny's money, it must be said), and sometimes he'd score some pot or pussy that just happened to come his way. Plenty of time to get his thing together, when he really decided to go after that heavy bread he'd been thinking about for years. In the meantime ...
"Well ... good afternoon, Mister Jones."
He was at the Embassy reception desk, and the girl behind said desk was giving him the careful eyeful, almost winking at him. Maybe his wide-lapel, bush-style jacket, his wine-dark pants with this giant bells cascading over his black pointed shoes, and his white turtleneck shirt had something to do with her apparent friendliness. Her voice was like a low whistle, the bottom register of a flute.
"You remember me?" he said, noncommittally, wondering whether she wasn't trying to cause some land of bureaucratic hassle with him.
"How could I ever forget the way you waved that cigar in my face last week? I thought you were going to put out my eyes, and then I'd have to go on pension."
He glanced around, noticing he was the only guy
in the place. Then, his eyes—and cigar, now extended in his right hand—turned toward the girl again.
Yes ... he was beginning to recall. Something about him getting just a bit agitated, soap boxing a brief speech about how no Japanese had ever called him "nigger." Not really an argument or a "Fuck off, Whitey" kind of pitch, just a minor irritation, caused by something some white dude had mouthed off that had made him speak his piece. And, apparently gesticulating with his cigar at that time, he did vaguely remember getting this white chick uptight.
White?
He wondered about that. She was rather dark-skinned, almost a dark olive; yet, her hair was straight and black, worn down to her shoulders and curled forward around her neck. She wore granny glasses, and he thought he could spot just the merest trace of crow's-feet by her reflective light-brown eyes; yet, she sure didn't look over thirty to him, though it was obvious she was several years older than Sunny. Her face was a symmetrical oval, and her high cheekbones and mocking lips seemed to indicate both class and intelligence. What the hell, he thought, she's probably Jewish, or maybe even of Arabian descent... anyway, she seems to dig
me, she's sure coming on that way.......just another
white cunt who thinks black cock is the worlds best bargain.......
Still, he kind of dug her sense of humor; her comedy, it could be said, was of the black variety.
After he'd broken her up with a comment about his cigar being "a baton, baby, I'm really a frustrated bandleader," she'd given him the new form, and explained what the Embassy wanted. By the time he'd filled it out and returned it to her, a glance
at his watch showed him it was almost five, and they were still the only two people in the outer office. When she smiled up at him from above her glasses, he'd spotted her running her tongue along the right side of her mouth, like a cat licking cream off its Hps.
He could feel a slight tremor in his shorts.
It was going to be a long night without Sunny; she wouldn't be off work until at least one a.m.
On the spur of the moment, he casually said, "I know a coffee house where they've got some soul music on the box. Do you dig coming along ... like, right now?"
She opened her mouth, her tongue suspended between her teeth, and after rolling her eyes around a few times, as if calculating the probable costs of such an encounter, nodded and said, "All right, you're on."
He laughed; if she'd said "Right on" instead, he would have walked right out, feeling that she was patronizing him.
She added, "Wait a minute, while I tell my boss I'm taking off."
She got up like a model being called for the camera —poised with posture. He was surprised to notice how tall she was; her eyes were almost level with his mouth. She disappeared into another office, then came back in less than a minute, her ass twitching slyly in her white pants suit, and he saw that her legs were long and limber, her breasts almost too large for her slender torso. Not that he minded that; he didn't even mind helping her on with her coat, even when she "accidentally" brushed his crotch with her fingertips. It made his erecting cock tremble slightly. Then he did the same to her; that is, as he helped her on with her coat, his hand flicked
out, not one breast, but both in one straight-ahead motion.
"Tit for tat," she said, and rubbed her haunches against his for just a few seconds.
He had to laugh; she was a cool chick, cooler than he'd guessed. She must have been taking her birth control pills in hope that he'd return for that fucking form; no other way.
The coffee house was just a few blocks away, so he walked her there, and they got a booth in a far corner. It was a casual place, dark, with just bare wooden furniture but with records albums of artists like Aretha Franklin and Ray Charles plastered all over the walls. Curtis Mayfield was crooning a blues when they walked in.
In Japan, coffee houses often dispense booze, and this place, called Soul City, was no exception. They both ordered Suntory, a Japanese type of Scotch that, while nothing to compare with Cutty Sark, was still quite satisfactory for local liquor.
She told him she was from Detroit, had been working for the Embassy for about two years, and while she enjoyed living in Japan she rather missed the Motor City sounds. She even knew Chuck Berry, she claimed, and had been introduced to Booker T. on a couple of occasions.
He thought, white chick trying to play hip with me ... maybe I'll sock her something to play hip with later on ... then just walk out on her ... a good fucking lesson for her...
He nodded, smiled, and sipped his Suntory.
Then ...
He almost dropped his glass.
This crazy, white chick had slipped her glass below the table, unzipped his fly, and touched a still-
cold ice cube to the tip of his cock before he knew what was happening.
But, Billy was still one cool dude; he just coughed a couple of times, took a good puff on his cigar, and, while he swiftly snaked his hand beneath the table and grabbed the glass away from her, he blew some thick clouds of smoke right into her face, just to show her what was what.
She didn't even flinch; she didn't even cough. She just blinked her eyes a few times, then murmured, her voice slightly slurred, as if the three Sun-torys she'd downed—the fourth was the one she'd coldcocked him with—had made her slightly drunk, "I'm sorry, Billy, I didn't mean to play dumb games with you ..."
"Then why did you?" he cut in.
She gulped, then said, "You turned me on."
"I did?" He mocked her, his lips curling into a sneer. "Maybe it was my cigar that turned you on instead. Or maybe all these Suntorys you've been socking away." He paused, laughing sardonically, then muttered, "Or maybe you just want some dark meat for a change, instead of all these slant-eyed young studs you must be banging after hours, huh?"
She stared at him coldly for a few seconds. Then, she lowered her head, reached into her purse for a handkerchief, and starting sobbing softly.
Shee-it, he thought, now she's doing her misunderstood civil rights liberal number.......I ought to
just get up and walk right out on her.......
Still .. .
She was a good-looking chick, and he still didn't have anything better to do all that long evening. Why not call her bluff?
He reached over, touching her hair with his hands, feeling the sheen of her strands. He sort of rubbed
her just above the left ear. When she glanced up, he said, very softly but with serious intent, "Let's go."
"Where ... where do you want to go?'
Certainly not Sunny s pad, he thought. He said, "To your place. If I turn you on ... then I want to turn you over."
She smiled, and licked her lips again. She said, "All right." Then, she added, "Billy ... I'm sorry about what I did. Will you ... will you forgive me?"
He patted her head, and said, "If you treat me sweet, baby, then all is forgiven." He folded his hands, bowed toward her like a preacher getting ready to lay down a swinging gospel phrase for the good folks, and added, "A-men."
She lived about a half mile away, in Roppongi, a district just adjacent to Akasaka, in a new, high-rise apartment building with a doorman in attendance, who said not a word as the couple got in the elevator and ascended to her apartment. She unlocked the door, flicked on the light, and as they entered, he noticed the Danish furniture and the abstract paintings and the built-in bar and stereo set in the far corner. The only things Japanese were the tatami mats on the floor and some hand-painted scrolls on the walls.
She pulled out a bottle of Bell's and slipped him some real Scotch, which he sipped and nodded his head in approval.
While she put some B. B. King on the stereo, he slipped off his coat and kicked off his shoes, sprawling his long frame over the sofa. If she wanted to sit with him, she'd have to sit on top of him. He sipped more Scotch, and she returned, sitting down right by his feet. When he noticed that she kept
glancing from his face to his feet, and back again, he said, "What's the matter, got a foot fetish?"
She said, glancing through her glasses, "Why don't you call me by my name, for a change?"
"I would, if you'd bother to tell me, baby."
"I'm sorry, I thought I had."
She told him it was Miriam Henderson.
Maid Miriam, he thought, I'm gonna put you to the test. ...
"Pull off my left sock, will you, Miriam?"
She stared at him; her eyes, though slightly off focus from the liquor, were still bright enough so that he knew she understood what he had said.
Then, without a word, she pulled off his sock.
And, splashed some of her own Scotch on his big toe.
So that she could swing her head on top of that toe and touch her tongue to it.
He grinned; she'd practically read his mind.
He could feel his Number One getting a little excited as she started to lick at his toe, her tongue sliding over his skin very slowly, to be followed by her lips, sucking and masticating at his toe. She was holding on to his ankles with her hands, and she was rubbing at his skin as if washing a child. Great gulping sounds came from her throat as she sucked, and she could feel her own cunt becoming stimulated from her exertions; her own juices began to stir, and she felt that familiar tingle on the surface of her skin.
Billy thought, far out, this crazy chick, really far out ... what'll she suck next, my shoulder blades. ...
She finished.
She stopped sucking his big toe, and raised her
head so their eyes met. She was really looking stoned, and not just on the Scotch, either.
"Take off your clothes and make yourself comfortable," Billy said, handing her a glass of Scotch, then refilling his own glass with the amber liquid.
She tossed off the stuff in one gulp, and, placing the glass on the coffee table, slowly started stripping.
Her jacket came off first, followed by her blouse. She wasn't wearing a bra, and Billy could see that her breasts were indeed queen-size, close to 38C, protruding firm and eager like a pair of Buick bumper guards. Their nipples were quite erectile, and they pointed at him like accusing fingers.
Just for kicks, he unzipped his pants, and let Number One pop out in its steadily erecting glory. Her eyes focused on his cock like a camera, and she started to move toward him, unzipping her pants as she came, so that, by the time she was close to him, all she was wearing was a pair of hot pink pantyhose, giving her skin from the waist down a warm, erotic shading.
"Off with those while you're at it," he said, point-ing at the pantyhose.
With her eyes still staring at his Number One, she Ad as he said, while he climbed out of his pants and shorts. Then, as he stripped off his turtleneck shirt, he got an idea that he figured should really ten this crazy honky chick on past the point of no return.
The bottle of Scotch, about half full, was lying on the coffee table next to the sofa. He picked it up, motioned for her to sit on the sofa by his head—he was now sitting upright—and told her to suck on (or off) the bottle itself, giving her the bottle to
hold in one hand while placing her other hand on his prick.
She smiled, almost stupidly, as she started to make those strange sucking sounds at the Scotch bottle, sucking the alcoholic liquid down her devouring throat. He felt her hand clutching at his cock, her fingers massaging his foreskin and her thumb fondling his tip. He could feel his balls growing bigger, and his Number One erecting at a fine, sensual pace, as her fingers did some walking on his prick and her mouth continued to talk with the bottle of Scotch.
As for Billy—well, while she was doing those things, he just adjusted his frame and moved his head and shoulders so that his mouth was adjacent to her pussy. He sniffed; he detected the faint aroma of French perfume, intermixed with a touch of perspiration and the penetrating fragrance of her pussy juice.
He noticed that she had shaved her pudendum smooth. Perhaps the better to show off her clitoris, large as a child's finger, now waving wildly as if trying to attract his attention. He noticed her vaginal orifice was quite large, like a knife slash, and some of her juice was leaking out, staining the sofa.
Nuzzling her clit with his nose, he licked at her cunt.
He felt her shudder in ecstasy as his tongue connected, slipping effortlessly inside, along her juice membranes. He could feel those membranes really start to move, clutching at his tongue as if wanting to shake hands with it. He could also feel her clit twitching and vibrating, sending its sexual signals coursing like electricity throughout her shuddering body.
Making some sucking sounds himself, similar to
the ones she was still coaxing from the bottle, he reached a hand toward her torso, searching for her tits. He got his hand on one—he couldn't tell from his position which one—and began to tweak her erectile nipple with his thumb, as his fingers moved around the soft flesh of her breast, feeling and fondling, noticing the instantaneous response she was giving him.
Her pussy was really palpitating now, as his tongue was making his version of the French connection, reaming her cunt, while his mouth was sucking down that delicious pussy juice. He gulped several more times, feeling her body really responding to his lips and tongue; then, with one final, pungent sucking movement, he pulled his mouth away from her pussy, let go of her throbbing breast, and withdrew the Scotch bottle from her still-sucking mouth.
"It's time, Miriam," he said softly, looking her straight in the eyes and winking slyly.
She mumbled something; she was really out of it.
"Time for the big show, the main course, the final act," he added, as he flattened himself, back first, on the sofa, feeling the expensive fabric against his skin. His prick was pointing straight upward, like a long black pole, and he smiled as he said, "Come on down and join me, baby ... slide me and ride me, you dig?"
Slowly, carefully, she climbed onto the sofa with him. She crawled along his body on her knees, until she was straddling his crotch, her torso sticking as straight up as his penis. She rubbed her clit against the tip of his cock, and he could see the vibrations begin, as if he was some kind of electric exercising machine, and she was getting ready to plug into his socket.
Down came her cunt.
Down, inch by inch, her lips spreading open slowly, her membranes stretching out to accommodate his completely stiff cock. She could feel him entering her, probing and prodding her, so she sighed and gulped, her mouth making strange sucking motions by itself. He could feel the lovely liquidity of her pussy, its warmth and velvety smoothness closing about him as she came closer ... ever closer. ...
Then ...
She was all the way on, he was all the way in, and her tremendous tits were pressing against his chest, trying to make concave cavities. Her face was flush with his, and he could feel her tongue slipping into his ear and licking, reaming away. She started to raise and lower her body, up and down, in rhythmic, sensual motions; that was fine with him, he'd let her do all the work, and just He back and enjoy the action.
Perspiring, she humped and pumped away, and her fingers rubbed against his shoulder muscles, scraping at his flesh. He had his arms around her shoulders, and he was doing things to her sacroiliac that would have surprised even a masseur. His cock was digging into her cunt, and her membranes were responding orgasmically, as she started coming like an erupting volcano, all fire and liquid and explosive movement.
Billy thought, she's not a bad fuck so far ... not bad at all ... her cunt's a lot tighter than I expected, too ... maybe this bitch might make a good spare tire ... good for a fast fuck when Sun-ny's not available ... provided I handle her cool ... can't let her fuck me up at the Embassy ... got to handle this honky chick with the master's
It was nice, though, just lying back, taking things easy, letting her sweat and strain. When his Number One was good and ready, then he'd pound her steady, really give it to her and make her scream for seconds.
Her orgasms were becoming more intense, and closer together; her tongue was really ripping up his ear, and her fingers were clutching at his curly hair. She was really holding on tight, giving him one wild ride, all screaming and squirming female flesh, demanding satisfaction, shouting for action.
And, when the magic moment arrived, a brief second of relaxation between spasms, his Number One was ready.
Like a boxer letting loose that blasting, jolting stream of sperm he'd prepared especially for her. He ripped into her so hard he almost knocked her loose, as his cock kept on coming and coming, meeting her orgasmic thrusts and overcoming them, driving hard inside her pussy membranes and making her gasp, first with surprise and then with pleasure.
Then, he noticed something strange.
As his sperm slowed down, as his Number One began to retract its landing gear, he discovered that, far from relaxing and cooling it, she was heating up, her intensity increasing, not decreasing. Her chattering cunt lips were still telling that same old story; apparently, she wasn't satisfied with one time, she wanted a repeat performance, for her membranes were clutching at his softening cock, desperately trying to stimulate it into full erection again.
He chuckled out loud, as he felt her desperation, her desire. Well, what the hell? He had all night, didn't he? All night long.