Chapter 1

Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Drunk/Drugged, Lesbian, Heterosexual, White Male, Oriental Female, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Teacher/Student, Big Breasts, School, .

Desc: Drama Sex Story: Chapter 1 - His dreams burst, Terry finds himself in a run-down Tokyo apartment drawing pornography when the beautiful but troubled Mika comes into his life and leaves him unable to forget her. In not quite the same Tokyo, Sakura lusts after her teacher helplessly, unaware that her best friend bears the same helpless crush on her, the two wrapped up in a chain of unrequited desire. Two stories, intertwined through the act of creation... then again, maybe it's not just two...

If New York was the city that never slept, then Terry thought Tokyo was the city that never dreamed. Its denizens pulsed through the neon veins of the city, on their way to work and back, or another kind of work: the work of being fashionable, or up-to-date, or whatever. Harajuku and Akibahara were as businesslike and devoid of passion as any office building. That youthful swelling of imagination, of constant cultural renewal that you saw in other cities (if only at the fringes) was absent. This wasn't all a bad thing — Terry had lived in Baltimore for a couple years, and a city that didn't dream was better than one with nightmares. Still, he felt stifled, like the city was sucking up his soul.

But that was probably all bullshit. He was just blaming the city for his own miserable life.

Terry sat in his cramped bedroom, staring at a blank piece of paper. A saccharine J-Pop song invade his room through the weak walls. He was trying to draw a naked girl — more specifically a nude version of a character from a popular anime series he had never watched — but it wasn't coming out right. Every drawing was frightening, not erotic — the girl looked monstrous.

Naomichi knocked on his door, and then opened it without waiting for a reply. "Hey man, how are those pages coming?"

"They're not," Terry said. He pointed to the wastebasket, overflowing with discarded drafts.

"Dude, stop masturbating and just draw it," said Naomichi.

"Those aren't tissues, they're pieces of paper."

"Really? Paper seems a little coarse to me."

Terry might have laughed if he was in a better mood, but right now Naomichi just irritated him. His partner was everything he feared he was becoming — overweight, chubby and bespectacled, obsessed with anime, video games, and sex. Naomichi's clothes perpetually smelled, and Terry had never heard him taking them to the laundromat. He was a thirteen-year-old trapped in a thirty-two-year-old's body. And circumstance forced Terry to work with him.

"Seriously, can we do something else?" said Terry. "I'm just not feeling this girl."

"Of course you're not feeling her. She's a drawing."

Terry supposed that expression didn't translate over into Japanese. "I mean, I'm having trouble drawing her. Can we just go back to doing Gurren Lagann? I can draw those girls fine."

"Look, you get to pick the next project," said Naomichi. "But I want to do this series, and you should to. It's new and hot and it'll sell a ton. Our doujin could be one of the first on the market."

"So it doesn't have to be good?" said Terry.

"None of this has to be good. It's pornography, not fine art. Just draw what people want to jack off to and they won't nitpick."

Naomichi grabbed the pack of pocky he had left his room to get and returned back to drawing his half of the doujinshi. Terry tried once again to draw, focusing on the pictures of the girl Naomichi had given him. They just kept looking younger. Terry wondered whether his work was staving off the urges of some pedophile, helpfully directing his desire away from real, flesh-and-blood teenage girls. Or maybe this kind of thing only excaberated desire. He didn't know; both made sense.

Terry's pencil idly wandere across the page. He discovered after a few minutes of drawing that he was sketching his high school girlfriend, Sarah Tamblin. She was a sweet girl, who thought that because Terry was an artist he was some kind of pure-hearte soul. But he was just another teenage boy, and she was just another teenage girl, and after a year of dating he had given up on being a gentleman and snaked his hand up her skirt and she had slapped him so hard it left a mark and that was that. Her handprint only took minutes to fade, but Terry had wanted it to last forever.

He drew her with a schoolgirl uniform. They had both gone to public school, but he was so used to drawing schoolgirls that the uniform grew unconciously. He stopped to look down at what he had done. It was Sarah, but it wasn't, it was a manga girl with big pleading eyes and a small demure mouth and blemish-free skin.

Terry wondered at this drawing, which had suddenly turned into a character. Who was this girl? Why was she smiling? What would she be ten years from now, what had she been ten years ago? He had given birth on the page, but all he had created was body and not mind.

But he was wasting time. He should get back to this new doujin, even if he wasn't enthusiastic about it. Terry set the drawing of the girl who looked like Sarah aside, but not before scrawling on the bottom: "SAKURA TANIGAWA."

Other than looks, there weren't many similarities between Sarah Tamblin and Sakura Tanigawa, but one of the few was that both were virgins at age eighteen. Sakura hadn't preserved her cherry out of any kind of prudish reluctance, but simply because the boys around her (and they were, after all, nothing but boys) were so stupid, immature, and for the most part just plain ugly. Her eyes were set on only one man, who was on a completely different level from these children, and who just happened to teach her English class.

Sakura was a B student in every other class, but even though she rarely payed attention to the material in English class, once she was at home she threw herself into it, hoping desperately to impress Mr. Bradshaw. And it worked, or so it thought.

"Very good," Mr. Bradshaw said to her in English as he handed back her test, a sterling blue "92" written on the top corner. "To tell you the truth, you know English better than a lot of Americans."

Sakura flushed. "Thank you very much, Mr. Bradshaw," she said in English. She still had a fresh-off-the-boat accent, but her grammar and vocalbulary were near-perfect. An unexpected benefit of her love.

And it was love — not some stupid schoolgirl crush. She had found the gaijin handsome from her first day of high school, and over the year she learned of his sense of humour, his compassion, his obvious intelligence, and fell deeply in love. He was her ideal man, really. Sakura had left Mr. Bradshaw a love letter in second year, in faltering but very explicit English, and handed it in between the sheets of her homework. He had never responded to it in any way. At first she was crushed, sure it was a rejection because she was ugly or irritating. Sure, it was against the rules to sleep with your students, but why would you fly halfway around the world to teach English unless you wanted to score with some young, nubile Japanese girls? He must be sleeping with the prettier girls, and had no time to fit her into his schedule. Sakura had spent the weekend after that crying and moping, her friend Natsumi holding and comforting her as best she could.

Over time she had come to believe that Mr. Bradshaw was just that pure-minded. No stories, not even rumours, of affairs with students had ever surfaced — and these things were fairly common at her school. So Sakura bided her time. She was already eighteen, and had turned from a gawky teenager into an adult woman with long legs and full, ruby lips and C-cup breasts (one of the biggest in her class). In a few months she would finish high school and they would no longer be student and teacher but just a man and a woman. She would have him then.

Until then she would just smile, wear her skirt high, and keep studying.

Three hours later, Terry had only done three pages of the doujin he was supposed to be working on, and they were crap. Every sex scene he drew looked the same, just with the names and hairstyles changed. Every artist has moments where they suspect that they're a total hack, but Terry was pretty sure those moments weren't supposed to last six months. On the other hand, he kept returning to his sketch of Sakura Tanigawa, adding in background and thinking up the story this girl belonged in. She was a schoolgirl, of course — some conventions had to be followed. He decided she was in love with her English teacher. Her foreign English teacher. He realized it was kind of masturbatory, but who would know? To the few who even paid attention to the byline he was Taro Ozuma, just another Japanese artist.

Naomichi emerged from his dank room, experimentally stretching his legs. "How's it going over there, Terry?"

"It's, uh, going. I'm almost out of paper, of all things." He thought of a way to kill some time. "Actually, I think I might head down to the store now.|

"I can do it, man. You're way behind on your pages." Even though they were supposed to be partners, Naomichi acted like a disappointed boss most of the time.

"Come on, the art store's right on the corner," Terry said, faintly angry that he had to plead. "And stretching my legs could do me good. Get the creative juices flowing."

"It's a bad excuse for a break," said Naomichi. "But I guess I can't force you to work. Just make sure it's done by the end of the week. And get some ink too, I don't think what we have will be enough for this one."

Terry knew he shouldn't resent Naomichi. It was only because of him that Terry could stay in Japan, and it was only because of him and his job (usher at a movie theatre) that they made rent and food every month. Terry, on the other hand, was practically a charity case. But with the tight quarters and tight deadlines bickering and resentment sprung up like weeds.

After descending several floors of his apartment building, deciding to take the stairs rather than the temperamental elevator, Terry burst out into the the sunny, crowded street. He was used to the stares that came with being a blonde-haired white guy in Japan, as well as the bubble of space around him on even the most crowded subway car. He walked down to the small art store on the corner and got some decent paper and ink. Terry wondered if and how he could get out of his present situation and start being able to afford the fancy pens and tools he saw in the glass display case.

He paid for the paper after convincing the cashier she didn't have to try and speak English with him. Terry left the store and headed home, or what passed for home nowaays. Usually when he walked in the city he was on autopilot, his mind far away while his feet took him mechanically from point A to point B, but perhaps to stall he took a look around this time. And that was when he saw her.

Terry's first impression was that she was beautiful. That was the one thing about her he'd never question. She had long, reddish-brown hair, a modelesque face, and a slender but curvy body. Her skin looked like porcelain. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen talking into a sewer grate.

Looking at her closely, she did appear a bit dishevelled. Her hair was sweaty and damp, her white blouse had a number of mystrious stains on it, and it and her black skirt was wrinkled and dishevelled. Everyone on the street walked on by, taking only a glance at the crazy, beautiful woman. Terry stopped and stared.

A Japanese man in a suit bumped into him and gave him an earful about holding people up. Terry didn't listen, so the man went into a further rant about foreigners. Terry walked forward and looked down at the girl, who stared into the sewer intently.

"What are you doing?" he finally got the nerve to say.

She looked up. "There's a kid down there. There's a kid down there and he's getting hurt."

"Oh my god, are you sure?" Mark shoved past her to look through the great. He didn't hear or see anything.

"Can't you see her?" the girl asked.


The girl shuddered. "Oh God, not again." She then recoiled suddenly, standing up and backing off. She backed into a woman who swore at her and then continued on her way. "You have to get me inside."

"What?" Terry said.

"If I stay out here they'll get me," she said, jerking an accusing finger at the air. "Please, can you get me inside? Somewhere with no holes..."

Terry didn't know what to do, but his instincts wanted him to help a pretty girl in distress, even if that distress was insane. "Uh, sure, yeah. You can come up to my place."

She rushed into his arms, holding him like a talisman against the darkness. "Thank you so much. You won't regret it, I swear."

They entered Terry's apartment building, and she instantly looked less scared and more cognizant of what was going on around her. "You here on vacation?" she said.

"No, work visa. I'm a freelance artist."

"Ooh, an artist," she said with a giggle. "Probably some genius American. Can you draw me?"

Terry wanted to say that he'd been drawing girls like her for months. Instead, he just said "Maybe. My name's Terry, by the way."

"Te-ri," she said, trying the syllables on her tongue. "Like in Teriyaki. My name's Mika. Mika Otori."

Terry wondered where he had heard that name before.

Natsumi's parents had the most loving relationship she had ever seen. After twenty years of marriage they still loved the sound of each others' voices, danced spontaneously in the kitchen, and had frequent and vocal sex that made Natsumi very uncomfortable. That wasn't to say that they never fought or were unhappy, just that there was an obvious passion and love that carried them through it. They loved her too, and were kinder than most parents, but it was obvious that their main interest was in each other, and she was just the product of that, a spillover of their love given solid form.

When she asked her mom the secret to having a marriage like that, she said it was simply: she had married her best friend. Natsumi wanted to follow her advice. The only problem was that her best friend was a girl.

Being in love was, Natsumi had decided, incredibly frustrating. She had math homework to do, but every time she stared at the clusters of numbers all she could think of was Sakura. It was impossible to focus on much else besides her raven-haired maiden, with the shapely legs and the slender body and that ravishing smile and the breasts, by God the breasts...

And there she went again. One thought about Sakura and Natsumi found her hand halfway down her panties. This had to stop. She wasn't going to graduate if she couldn't focus on her homework.

Leaving math aside for now, Natsumi turned to her computer and checked the program she used for chat. Sakura was on and, like a moth drawn to flame, Natsumi went to talk to her.

SuperNatsumi: hey beautiful

SuperNatsumi: what are you up to?

girldustin: i'm starting a novel

SuperNatsumi: wow, you're a lot more productive than me

girldustin: not really

girldustin: i'll probably give this up after the first chapter

girldustin: just like all the other ones

SuperNatsumi: what's it about?

girldustin: it's kind of a romance thing

girldustin: about an american who comes to japan and ends up drawing hentai

girldustin: and he meets this girl who's like a model

girldustin: but she has a lot of issues

girldustin: which i haven't exactly figured out yet

SuperNatsumi: hmm, a romance about an older gaijin

SuperNatsumi: i wonder where this is coming from?

girldustin: :D

girldustin: did you see him today tho?

girldustin: hotter than usual, even

girldustin: i could eat breakfast off that man

SuperNatsumi: like what, toast or something?

girldustin: no, i mean a full western breakfast

girldustin: fried eggs and bacon and maple syrup

girldustin: yum yum

SuperNatsumi: i dunno if mr. bradshaw would like having fried egg on him

girldustin: well tough

girldustin: he deserves it for being so unobtainable

girldustin: he's like

girldustin: what's the male equivalent of a cocktease?

SuperNatsumi: a cunttease?

girldustin: wow, my girl natsumi is picking up some dirty words

SuperNatsumi: I know i've gone through this spiel b4

SuperNatsumi: but i really think you shouldn't be so fixated on this guy

SuperNatsumi: i mean, he's a teacher, and a gaijin to boot

SuperNatsumi: he probably has a big-titted american girl back home

girldustin: just you watch

girldustin: i'm going to get him

Natsumi sighed and cast her head back, looking at the ceiling. Such was her punishment — to be so close to the girl she loved that she got to hear him dishing about the man she loved constantly. Every word she said about Bradshaw was like a knife in the gut, but Natsumi smiled and tried to pull through. Just act like everything is normal. The worst thing to do would be to lose Sakura's friendship. So she kept up the smile, even when it felt like a straightjacket.

Natsumi changed the subject away from Bradshaw and asked Sakura for help on her math homework.

Terry had taken Mika up to his apartment, having to practically carry her up the stairs, and sat her down on the couch. She was asleep within a minute. Naomichi emerged from his room, carrying a bag of chips whose crumbs formed a kind of Van Dyke around his mouth. "Dude. I send you out for ink and you bring back an unconcious chick?"

"She was in bad shape out there," Terry said. "It looked like she was hallucinating something. I decided to take her in before she got hurt."

"Well, I think you managed to find the hottest crazy girl in Tokyo. Just keep an eye on her, okay? Don't want her stealing our stuff."

"We don't really have much worth stealing."

"Which is why it's important we hold onto it," Naomichi said. "Now give me the stuff and go get your pages done."

Fortunately, Terry's bedroom door opened up into the combined living room/kitchen (it wasn't a big apartment) and he could sit at his work desk and still see Mika laying across their ratty old couch. She looked serene, almost angelic, pink lips flat against her ivory face, chest slowly rising and falling with her breath. Grudgingly, Terry returned to his work.

He was surprised to find himself caught up in a storm of ink and creation. The images and words almost leaped from his head to the page. Terry was delighted, and sure he would be done this today, until he noticed that somehow the centrepiece of the comic, the flat-chested moe girl from a show he hadn't seen, had slowly morphed into the vixen that lay on the couch across from him. The early pages could still be mistaken for the character, but they were mostly completely unusable. He crumpled the offending pages up and angrily tossed them into the wastebin. He felt like such an amateur, unable to concentrate on a simple — moronic, even — project. Terry pounded the thin wall, which shook and rattled.

The noise seemed to revive Mika, who cracked open sky-blue eyes to stare across the room at him. She slowly sat up, her long hair falling back into a straight line, and tried to rub the sleep out of her eyes. "Oh my god, I am so sorry. You brought me in off the street, right? You didn't really need to do that."

"Uh, don't worry about it," Terry said. "I'm just a Good Samaritan."

"A what?"

"Guess that's a Western thing," he said.

"Anyway, like I said, I'm sorry for causing a scene," Mika said. "I'm on these sleeping pills, you see, and at first they were great but now they're starting to give me hallucinations, and it's getting worse. I think it's the sleeping pills, at least — I'm not taking anything else."

Terry didn't know what to say. "You should probably get off those pills then. Er, if you don't mind me saying so."

Mika got up and started walking around the cramped apartment. Naomichi's door was still sealed shut. She wandered past Terry into his room. "So what do you do, besides rescuing girls all day?"

Terry turned around and frantically tried to stop her from seeing his room, but it was too late. His dank bedroom was practically a temple to hentai. In addition to the sketches sprawled out across his desk there was a small stack of the work he and Naomichi had finished and self-published, and a larger stack of other hentai comics, done by the best in the business — it always paid to check in on the competition. There was also a bookcase stacked with comics and DVDs both Japanese and American. Terry knew it made him look like a freak.

Mika had no immediate reaction. She idly looked through the pages he had sketched, and paused at one page — a full-page splash with the moe character, spread eagle before the reader, being slowly penetrated by her generic male lover. The dialogue was standard: a flushed girl proclaiming "N-no ... that place is dirty...", the man grunting "I can't stop ... my hips are moving on their own..." Desire overcoming inhibition, or pseudo-rape, depending on how you looked at it. Terry nervously awaited Mika's reaction, already bracing himself.

She cracked a smile. "I used to love these comics."

"You did?"

"My brother had a big stack of them and I would steal them from his room and rub myself sore," Mika said. "I always wondered why the girls put up such a fuss. It looked like a lot of fun to me."

Terry shrugged. "It's the convention. Readers want a girl that's innocent."

"Well, no wonder they have to turn to fiction then," she laughed.

"You still read these? Me and my partner have a couple we haven't been able to sell..."

"Wow, you drew this?" Mika said. "Pretty good. But no thanks, I moved on to yaoi and then moved on to real-life boys."

Terry sighed over-dramatically. "Another reader lost to man-on-man action. Maybe we should go into that. Good money from the female crowd."

She flipped through the first volume of Tail Chaser. "You know, Teriyaki, I think you deserve a reward for your good work."

"Oh no, I couldn't."

Mika walked up to Terry until she was inches from his face, and he could feel the warmth radiating off her. She pressed a finger to his lips. "You don't want to refuse. I think you need a little inspiration."

Terry didn't stay anything, stunned. Mika sank to her knees and rubbed her face against his crotch, feline, coaxing his dick to hardness. It didn't take long — he was coming off a long dry spell. Terry's cock grew turgid, basking in the warmth up against his jeans.

Mika removed his pants, letting them fall down and pool around his ankles. His boxer shorts soon followed, leaving his cock jutting out into the air at full mass. Mika licked her lips. "I guess it's true, Americans really are bigger."

She leaned forward and flitted her tongue out experimentally, like she was trying to catch a snowflake, and with the tip of her soft wet tongue touched and caressed the head of Terry's cock. Mika slid her tongue up and down the length of his cock, dipping down to suck one of his balls in his mouth, leaving a warm coat of saliva on it before travelling back up the shaft.

Then Mika shuffled forward on her knees and took the head of Terry's cock into her mouth. He let out an involuntary gasp. Mika slowly started to bob her head up and down, drawing out the sensation, her skilled tongue wrapping around Terry's hard shaft. The sensations of her mouth were overwhelming, and Terry felt his knees getting weak. Whoever this girl was, she could sure give a blowjob.

Terry thought he was going to come quickly, but Mika drew it out, pulling back when he was on the edge, keeping total control of him the entire time. The expression on her face was not affection or arousal, but the concentration a professional shows when doing their job. Terry didn't really notice that though, just stared down at her ruby lips wrapped around his shaft and felt her soft pink tongue coaxing him to dreamland.

"Oh, Mika ... ugh ... coming..." She didn't pull away. Terry's hips jerked forward and he shuddered with pleasure as he shot jet after jet of cum down her mouth. There was a lot built-up after several months of only his right hand as lover, but Mika gulped it all down without saying a word.

Terry stumbled back from the impact of his orgasm and sat down on his bed. "Mika, that was uh ... wow..."

Mika stood up and brushed some precum of her lips. "Glad you enjoyed it." She stood up, dusted off her skirt, and left the room."

"Wait!" Terry said, but by the time he got to her feet she was already gone.

Hayato usually didn't come to this type of place, but Yui had invited him so many times and he was feeling too lousy to be alone. The bar was dark, lit only by flickering red lamps that made the whole place look like a zombie movie. The foreign industrial music didn't help. Yui was sitting at the bar talking with some punk in his twenties. Hayato hadn't seen Yui outside of school before, and her outfit, or what there was of it, stopped him in his tracks. She was wearing a black leather tank top that clung to her chest like a lover, and ended right above her bellybutton. Her pants were ex-pants, cut into shorts with a knife that cut jaggedly. She was wearing a dog collar and jade earings that dangled like hanged men. Her hair, dyed honey blonde, was carefully gelled into a forest of flaccid spikes, cascading down in layers until it hit the back of her neck.

She spotted him before he could get over it, and waved cheerfully. "Hayato! You finally made it! Come down and have a seat."

Hayato sat down on a neighbouring bar stool. "Hi Yui. You sure we can be here?"

"Don't worry, they never card," she said. "Hey! A gin and tonic for my friend here." The bartender, a tough-looking bald guy, slid a glass of clear liquid at Hayato. "So what brings you down to this den of iniquity after all of my prodding."

"Oh, you know, the usual," he said with a sigh. "Natsumi."

Yui's face twisted into a scowl momentarily. "You're still going after that dyke? I've told you it's a lost cause, man."

"She's not gay, Yui."

"Dude, my gay-dar has never been wrong before, and let me tell you you're barking up the wrong tree."

Hayato gulped down his drink. He still wasn't used to the taste of alcohol, but he managed to force it down. "It's just so confusing. Like one day she'll be all nice to me and say she wants to hang out more, and then when I offer to take her out somewhere she just snaps at me and says she has other plans. I don't understand it."

"Well, that's women for you," Yui said. "We're bitches." Hayato wasn't sure whether she was being sarcastic or not.

Hayato ordered another drink and continued complaining about Natsumi, while Yui listened and nodded to him patiently, thinking to herself that boys could be pretty frustrating too.

It was the dim embers of early morning. Terry had been up all night. At 4:30 AM he had finally finished sketching his pages, which had progressed from "crap" to "the same old crap", the latter of which was perfectly acceptable to the hentai-buying public. His real name wouldn't be on it, so mediocrity was acceptable. He decided to start inking tomorrow, but even then he couldn't sleep. He had a story germinating in his head, which grew like a child but much faster, inflating until it had to be pushed out. His pen was lightning here, much more skilled than it had been on the doujinshi, and he had sketched out ten pages of the untitled comic within the hour.

It was an original, a story about a love pentagon involving four high school students and their teacher. It was sort of contrived, of course, but there was a lot of potential for drama. It would be pornography of course — he doubted it was good enough to sell otherwise, and his mind was in a pornographic mode anyway — but it would be good pornography, with a plot and characters that weren't filler. And of course, it was about high school students who all looked great and were magically eighteen, but there were some things you couldn't cange.

Weirdly, all those "of course, but"s didn't hamper his enthusiasm.

Terry had only done about a third of the first chapter, but his mind was racing ahead. He realized that he needed a sex scene for the first issue, to grab the reader's attention, but he didn't want any of his characters to fuck so soon. It would rush the story.

The solution didn't take long coming to him — masturbation. (This was so often the solution to Terry's problems.) You didn't see much masturbation in hentai for some reason, but Terry personally thought that an attractive woman bringing herself to orgasm was one of the most beautiful things in the world. He just hoped he could portray it on the page.

The hours were catching up with Terry. His drawings, a black-and-white sea, seemed to swim beneath him. He found himself closing his eyes, then his head jerking forward and sudden awakeness after a few seconds of micro-sleep. He knew he needed to go to bed. The inking and the masturbation scene could wait for tomorrow.

Terry stumbled across the few feet between his desk and his bed, and slumped down across the mattress, not bothering to change clothes. Just before he passed out, he had the sudden realization that he needed to see Mika again.

Yui was too frustrated to sleep.

She couldn't explain her interest in a goody-two-shoes like Hayato. It had started with just toying around with him, accosting him in high school hallways and teasing him about his glasses or his attempts to grow a beard. It hadn't bothered him, which intruiged Yui. If things were reversed, she knew she would have punched him in the face.

It had taken a long time to stop denying that she was in love with him. The class delinquent in love with the straight-A student ... how much more cliché could you get?

But he was pretty cute, she guessed.

Yui tossed her covers aside and slipped her pyjama bottoms off. If she wasn't going to get any sleep, she may as well have some fun.

Yui ran her hands up and down her legs, her fingertips gently greeting her thighs, warming herself up for what was to come next. She twisted a shoulder up and shucked off the bra she wore to bed. She felt her pert breasts and already hard nipples -- rigid, she supposed, from thinking about Hayato. Yui cupped one of her own breasts and tenderly carressed it, enjoying the sensations it created.

Almost of its own accord her right hand slid up her thigh and to her longing pussy. Yui slid her fingers across her bush, lightly pulling on the sensitive roots, and then slipped through her black pussy hairs to brush her fingertips over her clit. She liked teasing herself, enjoying the swelling and receding of pleasure. Yui thought of her body as a musical instrument, one that she was the master of.

She traced her pussy lips with her fingers, feeling the ache for more slowly grow inside of her. She needed a fantasy. Hayato sprung instantly into her mind: he was here, in this room, with her. She was trying to convince him to fuck her. He wanted to, but his inhibitions held him back, and she was carefully seducing him, corrupting him, bringing him over to her side.

In the fantasy, Hayato leaned over and kissed Yui, and she felt a jolt through her body like this was really happening. She slipped a finger into her pussy, and another quickly joined it. She drove her digits between her inner walls, and with her other hand stroked her clit, each time eliciting more pleasure, a greater flash of bliss. Yui wished she had more hands — to hold and carress her breasts, sticking up into the air, pert nipples like antannae longing for any kind of connection, one to shove a finger up her ass, still more to run down her flanks and legs and massage her feet and treat her whole body like a sexual organ, built to deliver the most mind-blowing orgasm imaginable.

Her fantasy Hayato tried to fill the gap, caressing her breasts, rolling the nipples between his fingers with childlike discovery. She would be leaning forward, undressing him, rippin the clothes from his perfect body, revealing washboard abs, powerful thighs, and a stiff, large cock.

The pleasure was addictive, always pulling Yui forth for more, causing her to strum her clit and finger-fuck herself ever harder. When in her fantasy Hayato paused between her legs, long and thick shaft dangling close to her entrance, he hesitating and her urging him on — that was when she knew that her fingers would be a laughable simulacrum for his cock. In her mind Hayato's cock was a monster, poised to split her open and send her to Nirvana.

Yui rolled over and clumsily felt around for the edge of her bed, and the drawer underneath it. She rolled it open and found her most cherished posession — a large black vibator, always hard, unlike the men it ostensibly replaced. She switched it on and felt its buzz. She dragged the shaking head across her clit briefly, gasping at the sensation, and then slowly slid the artificial cock into her cunt.

The pleasure forced her eyes to screw shut, and she drove the vibrator into her with a manic frenzy. In her mind, though, it was Hayato, fucking her the only way he knew how — hard. They were gasping and swearing like pornstars, grunting out their pleasure. "Harder ... harder..." she moaned out loud, and her hand obeyed, savagely fucking her with the vibrator.

Yui barely contained her scream, having to instead bite down on her pillow as she came. Her whole body spasmed and she lost all sense of reality. For a moment she believed she really was with Hayato, plowing her relentlessly as she orgasmed, but eventually she had to retreat to reality.

Yui switched off the vibrator and dumped it in its drawer, putting it away until it would be needed again. There was a part of her that hated herself for how hard she had just come. How many times had she mouthed off, either to her friends or to pushy boys, that she didn't need a man? And now the mere thought of one was making her legs quake. It was a little disgusting.

She got up and walked to the window of her apartment, looking out at the city below. At night, Tokyo was significantly less populated, and the usually frantic pace of the city had slowed to a stroll. She wondered if anyone could see her standing in the window — flushed red, nipples hard and pussy sopping, hair dishevelled, looking just fucked. She hoped they could, for some reason.

But the city wouldn't care. Tokyo, unlike any of its inhabitants, was immune to love.


Akibahara — Tokyo electronics district, the nerd capital of the world.

anime — Japanese animation.

doujinshi — A fan-drawn comic using the characters of an established property (usually an anime or video game series). Frequently, although not always, pornographic. Japanese law allows these to be sold as long as the print run is under 1000.

gaijin — Usually derogatory word for a foreigner.

Harajuku — Fashionable district of Tokyo.

hentai — Japanese drawn pornography. This comes in different forms — animation, comics, video games — but for this

manga — The Japanese word for comics, used in English to describe Japanese comics.

moe — Pronounced "moh-ey" and impossible to really understand if you've seen sunlight in the last year. A cute/helpless character archetype.

yaoi — Hentai centring around gay male sex, mostly aimed at women.

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