Chapter 10

My thoughts went over what had happened in the aftermath of the All-Asian Sexfight Championship. I was sitting on the couch and started laying out my plan to Mizuho, explaining how our first step was to get rid of the rigid, one-size-fits-all, rule-pushing, aggressive Japanese sexfighting style she’d had been trained to use. Instead, I wanted her unpredictable, mixing techniques to keep opponents guessing: using passive resistance to wear them down by letting them exhaust themselves on futile attacks, or sudden, unexpected attacks, like fingering a clit having been previously clit tribbing.

I told her the more she sexfought under my guidance, the more confident she’d become in switching styles mid-match, making her a versatile threat no one could prepare for. Then I stressed my role: I’d use my black book and scouting network to dig up every opponent’s weakness and strength. She would know what aroused them fastest, what positions they hated, even personal quirks, like if they crumbled under taunts about their bodies.

I went deeper into the mental side, too: convincing her to flaunt more flesh than anyone to intimidate before the fight even started. She would own any room, confidently showing off her body in the most sexy, slutty way. She took it all in like a sponge, nodding eagerly, already visualising the wins that would finance and fulfil my dream of backing a world champ. Hell, I almost believed it was that easy myself.

I settled into the second bedroom as I didn’t want to scare Mizuho off by coming on to her and losing my world 17 sexfighter. I nodded off quickly but was awakened by Mizuho lifting the sheet to climb in with me. She was wearing a transparent black bra and tiny thong from our shopping, and the sheer material of the bra couldn’t hide the dark nipples, while the thong rode high on her slim waist, unable to cover the thick black muff she kept shaved into a one-inch strip five inches long.

She slid in and pressed against my side, her hips shifting as she wrapped an arm around me, and whispered, “Hold me, please. I’m so happy because of you. Today changed everything, the passport, the fights, the chance to compete again without the Association’s chains.”

I could feel her heart beating against my chest, her body warm and trembling slightly. I pulled her in, figuring this closeness would bind her tighter to my plans and felt her warm breath against my face. Next, her lips found, pressing softly at first but then more firmly. Finally, her tongue slipped in to explore my mouth, and I kissed back, my hands sliding over her lean back. Her body shifted closer with her groin riding my thigh.

She broke the kiss for a second, whispering something in Japanese I didn’t understand, as her hand shifted lower to wrap around my cock. Lying beside me, head pointed at my feet, she stroked it, slowly at first. I felt it swell under her touch, growing to its full, veined and rigid eight inches, throbbing in her palm as she tried stroking rhythmically. Her eyes locked on mine, and her flushed cheeks betrayed her arousal.

Mizuho shifted down the bed, her body sliding along mine, until her face hovered over my tool, black hair brushing my thighs. She acted quickly, wrapping her lips around the head of my fuck tube, sucking gently at first until her tongue swirled over the tip to taste the pre-cum beading there. I groaned as she took more of my tool, until half of the eight inches filled her stretched mouth and pressed against the back of her throat.

She moaned around it and pulled back slightly to gasp, “So big,” before diving back down, bobbing her head as her hands stroked the base they couldn’t fit around. Her groans grew louder, muffled by my cock shaft, as she worked it deeper, gagging a little but not stopping. Her words spilt out between slurps: “God, twelve inches, Ahhh, so thick, I can barely take it.” I lay back, enjoying it the non-true praise.

How did I end up in bed with this Japanese? Well, the All-Asian Sexfight Championship had finished. You can read all the matches in Chps 1 to 9 for more background or enjoyment. What follows is its aftermath, as I had sweet-talked the mediocre but wealthiest competitor, Yang Chang, into having me as her coach/manager, and I intended that some of that wealth would be mine.

Deep down, I knew Yang Chan would never reach the top 30, and my greatest dream in life was to have an All Asian sexfighting champion. You may laugh, thinking it was more important to me than money. But it was, and I had too much idle time on my mind.

I went through some of the high ranks who had been eliminated early in this competition and dismissed them. Nha Trung, the 21-year-old Vietnamese and previous title holder, had been an early exit. But the youngest ever title winner was revered in Vietnam, and I wouldn’t be able to pry her loose. The same for Wang Zu from Hong Kong, a 47-year-old who had won the previous 3 titles as she was too established with wealthy backers. The 18-year-old Thai sex machine, Jasmine backers who were too wealthy. Huong Do, the 24-year-old USA Vietnamese centrefold, was just out of the top 10, but she was all show and pretence. Not for me.

That left me with the newcomers. The two Chinese, 23-year-old Wang Fei and 22-year-old Shen Yu, were both outstanding and performed very well in their first major. But they were nouveaux-rich and supported by the Communist regime. They had no need of me.

Like a punter following the form, I narrowed it down. Two stood out: Fu Hai Shoon, a 43-year-old Singaporean Travel Agency clerk, and So Savoeun, a 49-year-old Cambodian Brothel owner. Of course, there was Xuan, but Nga had forced her to announce her retirement from competition.

My mind went into overdrive. Fu Hai Shoon, at the age of 18, had been taken to the Inner Lotus Sexfight Club for Singapore amateurs and became hooked. Now 43, she had competed 10970 times with 300 plus every year and lost 6 times: the last when she was 25. True, it was at a lower level, but during that time, she had scrimped and saved to finance her quest in this year’s All Asian sexfight. On her first Championship she had made the semis. But Singapore’s high society finance was backing another woman, the surgery-enhanced socialite Wan Lay Chen, and so she would be unable to compete in the next Championship due to a lack of money.

The Cambodian, although she was 49 and the oldest competitor, had stated she would still have her figure and be in the top 25 in another 15 years’ time. So, she had the desire, and I had heard whispers that her husband, a high-ranking government minister, had found a younger mistress.

What to do? What to do?

However, I had left my prized black book in the hotel safe back in Jakarta and so, at Yang Chang’s expense of course, I had flown back to Jakarta to get my list of phone numbers and notes and blackmail on the Asian sexfighting scene. The hotel brought back memories of Xuan and her reward fucks when I didn’t go through with Nga’s instructions, and in fact let her escape. Perhaps if I tracked her down and turned up, I would get more of the same reward. But then I thought of Yang Chang and the money. Nobody could turn her into a champion, but I thought I could milk her wealth for a year before she accepted that.

At the hotel lobby, my haste to return to Yang Chang and her money was halted. I had caught a glimpse of something, which on a second look showed to be what I thought it was. It was the 19-year-old Japanese Mizuho Nisimura. She was ranked 17th in the world, but this would be lowered due to her first round defeat of the seed 12.

She was sitting alone in the lobby, looking defeated with tears welling in her eyes and a distant stare that said she’d been through hell. Her tall, lean frame, I remembered her measurements were 5ft6 and 31B-21-31, was slumped in the chair. Mizuho’s black hair was dishevelled and fell over her shoulders as though she had not slept that night. She had sharp Japanese features, high cheekbones and eyes now red-rimmed from crying.

She wore a simple white blouse paired with tight jeans that hugged her narrow hips and long legs, and scuffed black flats. I was surprised, as usually Japanese sponsored fighters travelled in Cosplay uniforms in a group. I recalled she was the estranged daughter of a wealthy company director, was an honours business student at Tokyo University and was sponsored by several Japanese government bodies associated with trade and research.

I had Yang Chang’s money burning a hole in my pocket and was about to rush back to spending her money, but something about her sitting there alone wasn’t right. I had time, so I ambled across and sat beside her. Recognition of who she was, a bit of small talk, a lot of stuff about my role in starting the competition and embellishment of my present role, using my memory, which is only reliable for sexfight statistics and trivia, to bring up some of her best victories, showed that I watched her contests this year, elicited her story.

She had been told to throw the match against Nozomi as the Japanese body wanted to promote Nozomi as the new future of Japanese sexfighting, but she didn’t and won and kicked Nozomi out of the event. As a result, Mizuho was no longer part of the Japanese system of sponsored sexfighters. This meant she would never be given a passport to travel overseas, even if she could somehow dig up personal sponsorship, as all official sponsors were now warned off. In fact, she would have to ask her parents for the airfare home.

All good. My curiosity was cured, and I had gathered some more intel about how ruthlessly the Japanese controlling body operated for my black book. It was time to move on back to Guangzhou and the cash cow, and of course, Yang Chang’s insatiable need for my cock and honied words.

But as I have said, I had always dreamt of managing a world champion. It was my Holy Grail in life, and Yang Chang was not going to give me that. Now, a world 17 who had defeated world 12 and who was only 19, was on the market as she was damaged goods with the Japanese. My mind filled with possibilities.

I went into sympathetic salesman mode. I pointed out how the Japanese association’s iron grip on their fighters was all about brutal, rule-pushing aggression, forcing every fighter into the same mould of raw force and dirty tricks. It worked for most, but for someone like Mizuho, a more all-round competitor with skills in endurance, technique, and varying her tactics to seize on weaknesses, it was holding her back, forcing her to compete in ways that didn’t play to her strengths.

I rattled off a couple of her upset wins, and she nodded her agreement, saying she was chastised for those wins as she had not followed the prescribed method laid down by the Association.

“Do you want to sexfight competitively?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she replied, then sighed. “But the Association has made that impossible now. No sponsorship. Future international travel banned. It can never happen.”

She broke into tears, and I made my decision. “You could become an Australian citizen and travel that way.”

Mizuho laughed bitterly. “I would need to study in Australia, get the necessary qualifications for permanent residence, then wait 3 years to apply for citizenship. And how would I get there with no Japanese passport?”

I played my trump card. “What if I could get you an Australian passport in three days?”

Mizuho’s eyes widened, scepticism mixed with a flicker of hope. “How?” she whispered.

I leant in. “I’ve got a close relationship with Dr Martin at Monash University in Melbourne. I’ve provided him with leads and introductions to some prime Asian talent over the years. The sort of women he needs. He’s got serious pull with the Australian government as they use his Asian staff’s sexual skills to smooth over overseas policy deals, grease the wheels for trade and diplomacy. He owes me big time, and we can have that passport here in three days flat.”

Her eyes lit up, but then dimmed. “But it costs so much to travel or compete. Unless you have sponsorship like the Japanese system or have rich backers, or be super rich like that Chinese no-hoper from Guangzhou, you can’t compete.”

“That’s where I can also help,” I said, leaning back with a supportive look. “I’ve got wealthy amateur contacts that you can sexfight in underground contests for big money stakes. They crave the thrill without the spotlight, due to family pressures or a high public profile. I’ve done it before, and as long as you win, we will get the money we need to compete on the proper circuit.

“But what about the stake money? I haven’t got any.”

“I can provide that.” Of course, I could, as I still had Yang Chang’s money she had left behind for my immediate expenses, as in my hurry to leave Saigon before Nga blamed me for Xuan’s escape, I hadn’t spent it.

She looked doubtful, her dark eyes narrowing as she processed my pitch. “But what if what you are saying is just to build up my hopes?” she asked.

I tried to project total confidence. “If the passport doesn’t arrive in three days after I phone the doctor, I’ll pay for your return trip to Japan myself.” It was an easy promise; I knew Dr Martin would deliver, and if not, Yang Chang’s leftover cash would cover a cheap flight without denting my pocket. Her expression softened, the flicker of hope something I could exploit.

I pulled out my phone, hoping she wouldn’t notice it was a cheap Moto, and got through to Dr Martin. He confirmed the passport setup and said to send a photo to him ASAP. Then, and I am being modest, genius-level inspiration hit. I asked Mizuho what her qualifications were, and she rattled off her honours business degree from Tokyo University.

I turned back to the phone and asked Dr Martin if he could get her into Monash Uni to study for a doctorate. He paused, then laughed and said he’d pull strings for one, and I would owe him.

We headed out to get the passport photos, and Mizuho was ecstatic, going on about how well-regarded Monash Uni was worldwide. Nervously, she asked if I could loan her some money to stay in a backpacker hotel. I shook my head and told her there was a spare room in my rented hotel penthouse suite. It was Yang Chang’s, of course, but she didn’t need to know that, and it upped her impression of me.

I asked her to accompany me to dinner in the hotel’s luxury restaurant, figuring it would seal the deal. She hesitated, glancing down at her simple blouse and jeans. “I only have what I’m wearing and some cosplay outfits from past events,” she said, cheeks flushing. “Nothing suitable for a place like that.”

Opportunity knocked. “No problem,” I replied. “We’ll fix that right now.” We went to a high-end boutique in the hotel mall. I steered her toward the section with short dresses and revealing tops, knowing it was Yang Chang’s money. Luckily, it was cash, not a credit card she had given me, so no records of my purchases.