Detained in NYC
Copyright© 2025 by Midori Greengrass
Chapter 2: Firestorm
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2: Firestorm - 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
The street smelled of car exhaust from the evening commute—neither Akemi nor the man she’d come to visit were part of it. She adjusted the hem of her violet halter top—the one Mitchell always joked made him hard—while staring at the crumpled flyer in her hand. Mitchell liked running his hand along her bare back, playing at the fabric pulled taut, working his hand under it, undoing the tie there.
Mitchell had talked about Nelson for years. “The man who taught me everything,” he’d say, only half-joking, grinning after another tedious ESL lesson. But when Akemi met Nelson at the screening, she hadn’t expected this—the way his fingers lingered on hers when he handed her the flyer, or the slow, deliberate way his eyes traced the curve of her spine as she pretended not to notice.
Now, standing outside his hotel room, she hesitated only a second before knocking. She thought of running away, but the door swung open before her knuckles could connect a third time. Nelson leaned against the frame, sleeves rolled up, a pencil tucked behind his ear. He’d been working on remarks he’d give at the screening that night.
“You’re here.” His voice was quieter than she remembered. He wasn’t young.
“You’re busy.”
“Come in,” he said, faking annoyance at her behavior—coming and then not wanting to stay. She should make up her mind, his irritated laugh said. It was true he didn’t have much time for distractions. His schedule was busy on the four-day film tour. But for this, he’d make time.
Akemi stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind her. “I shouldn’t be here.”
Nelson smirked, tossing the pencil onto the dresser. “No. You really shouldn’t.”
The first kiss was a revelation—his hands gripping her hips, hers clawing at the back of his shirt. She tasted tea and something reckless, something hungry. His mouth moved to her collarbone, teeth scraping skin as she gasped.
It was herbal tea, grass extract or something. Along with his artwork, Nelson was an advocate of healthy living, a sort of guru of the benefits, spiritual and otherwise, of a natural lifestyle—including sex, no doubt. All that hadn’t interested Akemi.
“You’re electric,” he murmured, loosening the halter top. Untying it in back took a moment. He couldn’t see the knot or what his hands were doing. The sequined light-purple fabric clung for a moment before falling, leaving her bare except for the jeans Mitchell had said more than once were his favorites.
She dropped to her knees before he could stop her, fingers working his belt with a hunger she’d forgotten. The moment his cock sprang free, she took him into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks as he groaned. He was thicker than Mitchell, hotter, the pulse of him urgent against her tongue. Nelson cursed, twisting a hand in her hair as she sucked him deeper, gurgling in a way that made his thighs tense.
“Get comfortable.” He hauled her up, flipping her toward the unmade bed, treating her lightly—in a way she wasn’t used to from her husband—also not showing the politeness that was a given with people you don’t know well, like she and him. They’d just met. That easygoing nature, informality, was something she liked about Americans, but this—
Akemi barely had time to grip the sheets before he was inside her, fucking her with a rawness Mitchell never attempted. Each thrust shattered her restraint, her cries smothered against tangled linen. She came first, shaking around him, but Nelson wasn’t far behind. His release was a wildfire between her thighs, his breath ragged against her shoulder.
They lay there for an hour after, mostly silent, only occasional glances passing between them—bound by attraction, but each lost in their own thoughts. Then, without a word, he rolled her onto her knees and took her again from behind, slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing the way her body yielded.
When she dressed in silence, Nelson watched her, fingers drumming lightly on the mattress. “You’ll come back.”
Akemi didn’t answer. There was no need.
But she hadn’t come back, and then he was gone, his tour finished. Only two days had been left.
It had ended there. No contact between them followed, but the memory didn’t fade. More than once, Akemi dreamed of Nelson’s hand between her legs, only to realize it was her own.
~~It had ended there. No contact between them followed but the memory didn’t fade. More than once Akemi dreamed of Nelson’s hand between her legs only to realize it was her own.~~ (deleted duplicate paragraph)
If a change had happened, it wasn’t affecting (corrected from “affecting”). That event had happened like a bubble that comes and goes, an eruption in calm water—no, not a bubble but a wave from out of nowhere—which then recedes, leaving the surface undisturbed again. What went on beneath was unknown, but Akemi assured herself she didn’t have to bother with it, despite the dreams, which left her mouth open. They didn’t come often. Her husband’s friend Nelson didn’t mean anything to her; she barely knew him; in fact, she found him a little arrogant; and she assumed he’d forgotten her easily. Neither would make contact, at least not soon. She didn’t miss him or he, she guessed, her (corrected from “he, she guessed, her”). What had stirred in her later had nothing to do with that well-known artist whom she’d been taken with partly because he was with himself (corrected from “with himself”); she’d fallen for the mystique, she knew. The change was instead in her, and she’d dismissed it as unimportant. Her life, her own artwork, her marriage went on. The bubble-wave disappeared completely, leaving still, dark depths. Currents moved unseen, untroubling for the most part.
Maybe Tommy smelled something on her, a need. Maybe that was why it all happened.
Tommy hadn’t particularly noticed women from Akemi’s homeland before—until curiosity pricked him a week prior. Passing a Japanese bookstore café, his glance snagged on a striking figure by the counter: tall, slim yet voluptuous, draped in darkly alluring cosplay that felt both alien and magnetic. The outfit wasn’t merely theatrical—gothic makeup stark against daylight, the slit in her black gown, satin or polyester or whatever it was, parting carelessly to reveal a thigh—but charged with something that unsettled him. Her quiet self-possession as she nursed a latte, legs curled on the stool, amplified the provocation.
Americans did this now, he knew—called it play, wore it lightly. But the way her ensemble teased felt like a challenge, as if she mocked men like him, over thirty and unequipped to treat such displays as irony. Worse, she seemed affluent, lounging midweek while others worked. Spoiled, he decided, though the thought didn’t dull the pull. His stare lingered through the glass, equal parts irritation and arousal.
~~And then there was the fact that she seemed to have money. What the fuck was she doing in his country hanging out on a weekday morning when everyone else was out at work, earning a living? Spoiled, he thought, his glimpse from the sidewalk through the store front lingering.~~ (deleted redundant paragraph)
He ought to bust that place, he thought, go in and do a raid, demand ID, visa proof. He wanted to, but was on another job then, didn’t have time even if he’d wanted to. His work ran on a schedule he couldn’t deviate from, even with the greater authority granted him and his kind by the new administration in Washington, much appreciated.
That look, the attitude expressed, definitely irked him, but was nothing serious, just a passing, momentary impression. The way her elbow rested on the countertop, her bottom pushed back from the stool—the flowing outfit she wore was low-cut, hung from her chest in smooth folds that reminded one of a curtain at a theater, the opera or something, only black with coruscating highlights. Low. You saw her full creamy cleavage, half her tits at least, it must have been. Then there was her long black hair, so long and straight and wide like a waterfall, and her pouting mouth, dark lipsticked (corrected from “lipsticked”). He couldn’t fault her, yet anger and desire and frustration peaked in him at the sight. He wanted to grab the top folded edge of her black shiny gown— probably not satin, just an imitation—and yank it down her chest. “This is what we’re really talking about,” he’d say. “Cosplay? I’ll show you cosplay.”
In fact, he knew his reaction was overblown and probably had to do with problems between Sophie and him, the dry patch their marriage had reached. That Japanese chick was just a twenty-something having fun, and why shouldn’t she? Nothing wrong with her or her people. And if they had more money and leisure than him to enjoy New York, his city, they must have earned it in theirs. The Japanese reputation for hard work, industry, invention was well known. He admired it. He felt envious, at the sight of that woman dressed up like a sexy Halloween character in the midst of the young, creative types, her peers, her people, doing this and that in the café, bookstore. Imagining all the projects they were probably taking on individually and together, he felt the dullness of his own life. It had bothered him lately.
Her very long black hair. The woman on the street corner’s hadn’t been like that, but his cock had stirred all the same, like a racing heart.
Funny thing was the coffee shop siren hadn’t especially piqued his interest in women from her part of the world. It had flashed into existence for that moment and then flared out. He’d done a little online exploration, that was all, in the days that followed and found mostly anime, silly cute stuff that didn’t interest him along with a few things that did.
When he saw Akemi, he’d just finished another job, dealing with Mexican illegals in a packing house. His work had gone off schedule at the sight of her, his life nearly gone to hell. Had it been busting up already?