Detained in NYC
Copyright© 2025 by Midori Greengrass
Chapter 16
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 16 - An artist is caught up in the dragnet.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Ma/Ma NonConsensual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Cuckold Wife Watching White Male Oriental Female Oral Sex AI Generated
Akemi knew, as her husband did, of men’s interest in her. That was part of her life and she dealt with it, took it more seriously than her husband seemed to imagine (he warned, cautioned her) but she didn’t let it bother her, interfere with her happiness, let those men get to her. They were an annoyance but not important to her.
Akemi thought of the manager of the building where her dance classes were. He’d stop her in the lobby to greet her on her way up to the studio. On the day she arrived late, he said, “I think they’re still open”—her painting had lasted longer than expected, then she’d had to go home and change. He was overly friendly, always, almost leering. A big, brooding guy who leaned over her, stepping out from behind his console where he monitored building operations. He’d say, “I don’t know if I’ll be here when you come back.” Someone else might be taking over his shift by then. He looked like he felt bad about that and expected Akemi to as well. As if there were something between them, as if she cared about whether she’d see him again. She saw arrogance; he seemed to be laughing at her. Annoying. Even slightly threatening—that look, the grinning, and his voice like grunting.
But nothing like this. She looked at the cop named Tommy and saw the same interest and knew what he could do to her. She felt the muscles, the skin of her thighs shrink back as if his hands were already there—where he couldn’t see, under her skirt, though his eyes looked like they were trying to, boring through. Akemi wished she hadn’t been wearing that outfit. But she dressed as she liked, wouldn’t let stupid men stop her. Not so far.
Mitchell was having a hard time at work, couldn’t get the machines to work in the language lab. He’d forgotten some of the commands during his time away from the job. He prided himself on his expertise but now had to ask for help, which came slowly. Students took advantage of their teacher’s trouble to slack off from their work, look at their phones, talk together. A boss saw the commotion. Mitchell never felt secure in his job and feared appearing incompetent. He even turned to a student for solace, a friendly woman from somewhere like Romania, early twenties, flounced skirt, wild wiry hair. He explained he was not functioning well that day because he couldn’t sleep the night before.
“Why?” she asked, her big brown eyes swimming, open to him—so frank he felt like averting his—she was stronger than him, awaiting his answer, her wide oval face confronting him directly, nearer than usual in North American culture, sense of social space different.
“Because I had dreams,” he replied.
“Dreams?” she said, interested, eyes opening wider. Was she flirting with him? No, just happy like the rest to focus on anything but the class work, her kindness genuine though, not mocking him, he didn’t think.
Akemi saw the scene in retrospect as if on television, a movie, happening to someone else:
The cadmium red had bled across the palette when she finally noticed the time. Her phone screen glared 2:48 PM—dance class started at 2:30 across town, in the converted textile loft with the sprung floors and perpetually sticky barres. She locked up the studio and walked briskly to her apartment two blocks away, unhurried but deliberate, her movements precise as brushstrokes. She thought of not showering to save time but only for a moment. She wasn’t a New Yorker, didn’t hurry, skip steps, preferred to live even here as she had in Japan, to the extent she could, giving every activity its due. She showered at leisure, letting the water rinse away the flecks of paint crusting her elbows, dried off with measured care, tied her hair up, and changed into a red-orange miniskirt and white stretch dance top with spaghetti straps. Her dance shoes and a spare leotard were packed in a white canvas bag slung over her shoulder.
By the time she reached the subway, rain had begun falling lightly. The sky was a mix of pale blue and grey. She held out her hand on the way up the stairs from the station twenty-five minutes later and felt no drops at all. A good day was continuing. She looked forward to the dance class, the rigorous workout, always came out of it energized. A familiar scent, fried dough from a corner vendor, greeted her, charged her senses, and she slowed her step to take in the scene. The loft building that was her destination carried layers of the city’s past. She imagined the decades of immigrant factory labor; it seeped from the brickwork. Even as a resident of the city by choice, not driven by economic necessity, she could appreciate the bitter irony that the same space now demanded keycards and security checks; per square foot was priced beyond the reach of anyone whose grandparents might have bent over industrial sewing machines, fingers stiff with arthritis. Akemi loved the place. Inside she felt both at home and completely out of her depth, as in the rest of the city. Each day was a learning experience, her painting, the reason she’d moved to the U.S. (along with her decision to marry Mitchell) just part of it.
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