Extreme Japan 1

Norio stood upright, the twelve hours he had spent at the office leaving little visible impact on him. His clothes were still un-creased, as if they had been freshly pressed, his hair was in place, briefcase held at his side as he hung on to the rail of the subway car. Only his eyes told how weary he was, not just from today but from the months and years that had gone before. In this, his sixth decade, he was slowing down, wearing out, becoming conscious that there were fewer years ahead than behind him.

The train slowed and stopped at his local station. He waited until the young eager had departed. Why loose your composure in the rush for the exits?

Emerging into the humid wetness of a Tokyo night he left the station and let his feet turn towards the Pachinko arcade. Almost there and in earshot of the falling balls and raucous music he glanced down an alley to his right. Something caught his eye, it was a short figure wreathed in the gloom of the alley.

He stopped and peered into the inky darkness. He could make her out now, she appeared young, strikingly pretty, perhaps late teens, her attire was Kosupure. He’d seen it before, kids dressed like they’d stepped out of a Manga comic, white faced, stylised, curiously compelling to watch. Not very original either, he thought dismissively, a waitress outfit.

“Can I help you young lady?” he enquired.

“Thank you. But perhaps it is I who could help you.” She bowed politely.

So, she was a pros… an escort. Norio couldn’t bring himself to even think the word, the thought repulsed him.

“No thank you.” He said flatly and began to turn away from her.

She stepped towards him. Her features more clearly defined he could see she was in her early twenties, the heavy makeup’s enchantment dispelled by the light from the street.

He found himself asking, “What is your name?”

“Katsumi”

“Well, Katsumi, you would do well to go home this is a respectable neighbourhood.”

Large drops of rain began to fall, the urge to leave became stronger with the knowledge that he was about to get very wet.

He felt her hand on his crotch, but what disturbed him more was that his crotch was responding. It had been years since he had felt it stir and its awakening lit up neural pathways that he had forgotten existed. He opened his mouth to object, but he found himself mute, overpowered by thoughts and feelings that had lain dormant since the death of his wife.

“Please. Come with me.” It was a request but may as well have been an order from his office manager. He complied, meekly, following her deeper into the dingy alley and out of sight of the pavement.

She smiled sweetly at him, the pale mask of her face floating in the darkness in front of him, lips picked out in vivid red, cheeks blushed like a china doll’s. She blinked, ridiculously large false eyelashes adding to the mask like quality of her face. Her hands were on his waistband, unfastening his sharply pressed trousers. Inside she found white boxers and within those a willing partner in their decadent crime.

She dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth. His wife had never done this, nor had he asked her to, the sensation was a revelation to him. Despite himself he felt his hips thrusting towards her, driving his cock into her mouth and down her throat. Every part of his mind told him what he was doing was wrong. Except one part, the part that at this moment mattered more than any other part, the part of him that had been asleep for too long.

He dropped his briefcase, he’d forgotten that he was still holding it. He felt more naked without it than he had with just his trousers around his ankles.

She grabbed his balls, squeezing them in her hands as she encouraged him to fuck her mouth with appreciative moans and wide-eyed glances. He looked down at her and felt his release approaching. He swelled in her mouth. The prelude to his ejaculation was not lost on her, the smile in her eyes told him that. Her mouth was still wrapped around his cock.

In the moment that the golden glow of his orgasm began to bloom, he felt reborn. He was lifted out of the mundane and felt empowered, imbued with new life.

Then his face grew uncomprehending. The glow in his loins replaced by a pain in his inner thigh. The world became distant, Katsumi stood up and bowed to him and with a single word, “Goodbye”, she was gone.

He staggered against the wall, blood pouring from his femoral artery and creased into a pile of limbs on the wet asphalt. Eight pints of blood ran from the long straight wound in his leg and were washed into the drain by the now pouring rain.

Katsumi carefully placed the small, razor sharp knife in it’s scabbard and slipped it into the top of her stocking before relinquishing the enveloping darkness of the alley. She walked serenely into the streetlight and towards the subway station.

This is not the end of Katsumi’s story or the beginning. Would you like me to tell it to you?