It was the day the world changed forever. No one then yet realized the full implications of The Day, and where it would lead us. All we knew was that it happened, but no one knew why, not for a long time, anyway. Well, I shouldn't say no one. Three of us on all of Earth knew what had happened, why it had happened, and who did it.
But this story doesn't begin on that day: it starts a week earlier.
Early that day, I sat in my anthropology class, while the teacher described the Ama people of Japan, mostly found on the Izu Peninsula. They're traditional divers, diving up to seventy-five deep without scuba tanks. The women do most of the work, while the men row the boats and fix the nets. They've been doing it for about two thousand years, and it really is incredible. Women do the diving because they have more body fat, which keeps them warmer underwater than men. Besides, I think every guy would agree that ice cold water for a couple of hours each day isn't a pleasant feeling. It's hard work, but profitable, and Ama women were traditionally considered to be good wives. It was interesting, but I couldn't pay much attention, for two reasons.
Firstly, the Ama traditionally dive wearing only a loin cloth and a broad, beaming smile. This meant that on the giant projector screen at the front of room were thirty-foot tall topless Japanese girls, fresh from the sea, laughing with their friends, and carrying bags of shellfish, but mostly, so far as I was concerned, being extremely topless. They were strong, happy women, totally free, wild, and proud. The way they grinned as they went about their daily tasks was simply irresistible. It looked like paradise. How could you not love a culture like that? They were practically real life mermaids. Why hadn't my European forebears promoted athletic, topless, working women? The Spartans left behind the wrong memes, I silently judged.
This is a bit embarrassing to admit, but at the tender age of nineteen, I still hadn't seen a woman naked. I had seen pictures, of course: hundreds of pictures, usually after dinner in my dorm room with the music turned up and a box of tissues within easy reach. But I had never seen a woman nude in person. I hadn't even had a real girlfriend, except for one girl back in ninth grade whom I dated for about a month, during which time we held hands and kissed a few times. I could be the poster boy for inexperienced college freshmen.
I guess my primary problem was that I was too shy. I focused a lot on my classes and books, and it paid off in terms of grades, but not socially. I didn't really like to put myself out there, and I didn't know how to make new friends. Sometimes it felt like I was just stumbling my way through society. I wasn't much into parties, either. I made friends in classes and in my dorm and in some clubs easily enough, but I could barely work up the nerve to talk to a girl on whom I had a crush. Whenever I thought about asking her out, frightening and illogical scenarios ran through my mind. Would she laugh? Would she be disgusted? Would she terminate our friendship immediately and move to Easter Island in order to ensure the greatest possible distance between us? Probably not that last one, but one could never be too safe...
It certainly didn't help that with my lack of experience, an over-abundance of enthusiasm walked hand-in-hand, courtesy of my dick. I hoped that with age and experience my cock would lose a bit of its over-eagerness. As it was, I couldn't even hug a girl without my manhood hardening, pressing against her soft body, enthusiastically announcing its presence to her, like an attention-starved diva. I wondered whether anyone could tell. Most of my female friends really enjoyed hugging me. Katie even said that I gave the best hugs out of all the guys she knew and called me a real teddy bear. So if they noticed, they didn't seem to mind, at least. But girls don't date teddy bears.
I looked down at my notebook, tearing my eyes away from a perfect pair of petite breasts long enough to take down a note or two. The margins of my anthropology notebook were covered in doodles: a UFO, breasts, maps, and a heart with a single word inside of it: Esther. I sighed deeply and subtly sneaked a peek at the second reason why I found myself unable to concentrate that day.
Her name was Esther Zhang. I had sat next to her the first day of class and had barely squeaked out a hello. She had smiled back, introduced herself, and my heart melted. She wasn't sexy in that typical Jessica Rabbit style. She didn't have ruby red lips or tits of epic proportions or legs up to her neck. She was cute. She was beautiful. She was quiet and shy and maybe a little bit mousy and bookish, but heck, so was I.
I'd be the first to admit that I didn't know enough about her, but the edges of her personality that I had slowly exposed through conversing with her during class indicated that she was my dream girl. She loved chess and Diplomacy. She cooked often, and adored trying new foods and cuisines and recipes. And the way she talked about different cultures with such passion, with such a strong desire to learn more about other peoples ... it was contagious and intoxicating all at the same time. After listening to her expound on a topic, I'd usually take note of it, and check out a book from the library on it the next chance I got, so that I could keep up.
Whenever she looked at me with her large, crescent, dark brown eyes, I felt my whole body warm up. They were full of depth and affection; I could stare into them all day. Her face was rounded, but not plump. Her pink lips were short and full, and I often wondered how their warm softness would feel against me. When she smiled, it was breathtaking, her eyes lighting up with her beaming smile. More often, though, her expression was serious or thoughtful. But she always flashed a lovely smile when she saw me, to my delight, even if I did worry about needing a defibrillator every time she did so. Her black hair, usually worn in a ponytail, went down past her shoulders, with long bangs covering her forehead.
Her skin was the color of freshly cut white peaches, ready to be devoured. The one time I had accidentally brushed my hand against hers, it had felt as soft and smooth as silk. Her hair always had a faint scent of flowers, never enough to be overpowering, or even explicit, but just a lovely background note that you wouldn't notice until it left or you were listening for it. She was tall, too, only about an inch shorter than me, with a willowy build.
As I gazed at her face, focused intently on the PowerPoint presentation at the front of the room, I could feel the butterflies swarming in my stomach, a tiny tempest in my tummy. I wished I were bolder. I wished I could get her to notice me as more than a classmate. I would consider us acquaintances, maybe even friends, on a good day, but I wanted more. I could only hope that she wanted the same.
Right before the end of the class, Professor Woodbury reminded us of our assignment due in two weeks: a paper examining one of the cultures we had studied so far in the course. Looking at the front of the classroom, at half a dozen topless beauties on the beach, I knew right away what my topic would be.
After dinner, with my schedule free for the rest of the night, I went to the library and checked out some books on the Ama to begin my research. I always went down to the very lowest levels of the stacks to read. It wasn't very popular, it was comfortably cool, and I was surrounded by the classical literature section, if I ever needed a study break, although I didn't foresee needing much of a break tonight. When a man grows tired of beautiful nudes, what else is there for him in life? With a stack of books, a notebook, a pen, and a bottle of Reed's ginger beer, I sat down to work.
The hours passed as I absorbed book after book and article after article. No less a figure than Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond, had been intrigued by the Ama, I found out. He included them in You Only Live Twice, and James Bond stays with them while planning his assault on Blofeld's castle. I made a mental note to read that book after classes let out for the summer.
By the end of the night, I felt almost ready to start writing. I liked my topic, I had enough material to fill the seven page requirement, and I had a nice outline already set up. I picked up the last book I had checked out and opened it up. It was a lot larger than the other books. Each page was about a square foot. I opened it, and my eyes went wide.
It hadn't even occurred to me that it would be a photo book. Page after glossy page of pictures lay before me, with only the scrawniest paragraphs of context to mar my eyes' new playground. I savored every page, almost drooling. Soon, secure in the knowledge that almost no one came down to the bottom stacks, I began to stroke myself through my pants. I used my spare hand to flip through the pages as I digested the pictures.
A beautiful Asian woman, wearing only a cyclopean diving mask, cowering behind a rock. Her breasts were full, yet firm. Her wet, black hair clung to her back. Her impressively tight and thick ass, just barely visible, her large eyes looking up in hope or fear towards someone unseen.
Two young women, smiling broadly, sitting on the coast, their bodies covered with dark sand. They wore shorts, bandanas, and nothing else. Their petite breasts were bare, pointing proudly towards the camera, their brown nipples easily visible even under the sand. The two girls were ecstatic, joyous, almost childishly cheerful. They looked like two girls playing, and I suppose they were. It was incredibly sexy to see nude women so happy, so natural, so candid.
.... There is more of this story ...