The Phases of One's Life
Copyright© 2026 by N.D.Tomes
Chapter 34: Beware of Greeks Receiving Gifts – Riko I.1 – Tuesday(17 days til)
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 34: Beware of Greeks Receiving Gifts – Riko I.1 – Tuesday(17 days til) - A controlled corporate attorney wakes tied to her own bed by a naked stranger who knows her name and claims it’s “for your own good.” The young woman has been quietly tangled in her life for months—leaving signs, steering events, and creating a strange current between them. What follows is a tense night of revelations about the firm, the last six months, and unsettling supernatural abilities. Dry, first-person, focused on the emotional shift more than explicit detail.
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Fa/ft Consensual Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Humor Group Sex Interracial Black Female White Male White Female Oriental Female Hispanic Female First Masturbation Oral Sex
My ninth day at the consulate, and I was finally starting to settle into a routine. I shared a two-bedroom apartment with three other women who worked there—nice women, all of them—but the place was almost an hour’s drive away. Anything closer was far too expensive, even for senior officials. We carpooled, which meant we had to leave at the same time every morning. The rush to get ready and out the door was already feeling like its own daily challenge.
The one real bonus of this posting was the weather. Today was perfect. Then I remembered—it was January, the dead of winter back home, and here it was going to hit the eighties. People in Shizukuishi would be preparing for the Winter Festival by now, everything blanketed in snow. Summers here would be a different story—one of my roommates had described them as feeling like swimming through the air, thick with humidity. But today was flawless, and I intended to savor every minute of it.
The rest of the week had to be better than the past two days. Yesterday I’d spent at the jail translating for one of the vice-consuls—such a joy being around people who commit crimes. The day before that I’d processed visas—almost a thousand. Actually closer to sixty-five, but it felt like a thousand. When I’d learned my assignment, the jail hadn’t sounded that bad. The jail had guards around to protect me.
The moment I arrived at the consulate, one of the senior vice-consuls pulled me into his office. He explained that I would be delivering a few gifts to an American woman who had hosted a party about a week before. Originally, a more experienced colleague was supposed to handle it, but she had been called away.
It seemed two male staff members from the consulate had made crude remarks about some of the women at the party. They had spoken in Japanese, assuming no one would understand. I nodded, already picturing the scene.
The vice-consul continued: the woman had grown furious, unleashing a torrent of flawless Japanese—including some impressive swearing. The entire room quickly realized why. But what surprised me most was what came next. After the men left and tempers cooled, she had circulated a story blaming the incident on herself. He didn’t know the exact details, but the men had been part of the state governor’s entourage. By taking responsibility, she had saved everyone from serious embarrassment.
I was just starting to admire how deftly she had handled the situation when he gestured toward the gifts on the table and added, “She’s very small—like you—and probably isn’t violent.”
The remark caught me off guard. As I gathered the packages, he made it worse: “One of the security men described her as ‘Hello Kitty with a chainsaw.’”
He noticed my expression, smiled, and quickly reassured me. “I’m sure she’s calmed down by now. She told that story to let everyone save face.”
That eased my nerves slightly. Trying to sound confident, I said, “The governor was there, so he had security. The Japanese men would have had protection too. There couldn’t have been any real danger.”
The vice-consul smiled again, nodding as he glanced down at his papers. “There were two Japanese security agents and two from the governor’s detail. They all stepped between her and the men. Several off-duty police officers were also at the party—they’re the ones who actually restrained her, I believe.”
“What can you tell me about her?” I asked. “Do we have a write-up? How old, any picture, criminal record...” I added hesitantly.
Catching my tone, he chuckled saying, “They were able to find almost nothing. Just what the security people said and some scant information from the governors office. It’s all in here, he handed me a thin folder. He said there was a short written speech to recite when presenting the gifts and told me to memorize it. My mouth went dry; I couldn’t manage a reply.
As I reached the door, he called after me: “The consulate has already arranged a meeting with her at one o’clock. Be on time. There will be security at the building—just show them the card on the box, and they’ll let you up to her apartment.”
I closed the door behind me, gifts in hand, wondering what exactly I was walking into.
The time to leave came around much too quickly. As I walked to the car—there was a driver assigned to take me to the address—another senior consulate member passed me and saw the gifts in my arms. He asked with a weary expression if those were the gifts for that girl. They were, was my response. He didn’t say anything else—just shook his head saying in a cautious tone, “Good luck.”
I rehearsed the speech the entire drive, which turned out to be very short. The apartment was in a very nice complex. I started to think a teenage girl could not own an apartment in this building. Would her parents be here? A relative? Who would greet me?
I tried to convince the driver to come up with me, but he said he was not allowed. I’m not sure I believed him. When I entered the building it appeared I was expected. I asked at the front desk about the apartment. I showed them the card on the box and my ID. He said they were told someone from the consulate would be stopping by. I asked who lived in the apartment. He asked me who I was supposed to be meeting. He seemed a little suspicious. But I assured him I was only asking if more than Miss Christodoulou would be present. He seemed satisfied and said I could go up, but he didn’t answer. The thought of asking him to accompany me flashed through my head. But I carried on alone, packages in hand, my speech repeating in my head.
The elevator ride—like the day and the drive over—went by too quickly. Before I knew it I was on the fifty-first floor and ready to knock on the door. I ran the speech through my head one more time and knocked. As the door opened I took a little breath and tried to put a serene expression on my face.
The door opened and I was at eye level with a pretty girl whose hair and eye color matched my own. So did the serene expression I hoped was on my face. The thought hit me then: why didn’t I ask for a description of the girl? Then the thought slapped me in the face: why am I just standing here saying nothing!
Shaking myself out of it, I began. Unfortunately I started quite shakily: “I—I am Riko Takahashi, Consular Associate in the Cultural Affairs Section at the Consulate General of Japan. It is my honor to meet you, Christodoulou-san. I come to express our gratitude for your contributions to our nations’ friendship. Ma-May I present this token of appreciation?”
I bowed politely, my hands slightly unsteady as I offered a paulownia box with both hands to the girl. A sealed Ozu Washi letter was also presented. I started to become even more nervous at the girl’s serene confidence. My mind racing—this was not the loud, temperamental woman I’d imagined on the drive over. I braced myself, unsure what to expect next.
The girl bowed politely and took the box with care. Her fingers traced the mizuhiki knot as she eyed it carefully, as if remembering something. I watched, anxiety growing at the silence, my heart pounding.
The girl spoke for the first time, in Japanese in a tone so formal it felt like stepping into an old scroll: “This knotting, verily beautiful it is, Takahashi-san. The double tie of the mizuhiki doth recall the merchant weddings of Edo, symbolizing a bond most strong. And lo, within it forms a spiral shape, which calls to mind the protective charms of Heian antiquity, warding off ill fortune long ago. On this fine day, to receive such a gracious gift from thy consulate honors me greatly.”
The girl, now smiling at me, caught me off guard. Unfortunately, I think it showed. The still-smiling girl said, “Takahashi-san, thou knowest better than I the richness of Japanese culture and history. I consider my life richer for knowing even the little I do.”
My hands tightened around the edge of my suit jacket, my nerves still frayed despite her kind words. The woman’s fluency and historical knowledge were astonishing—I’d swear I was talking with another Japanese woman from centuries past. I still couldn’t shake the consulate’s description of the girl—was this warmth a façade, hiding the temper I’d been told about?
A little shakily and switching to Japanese also, I said, still quite formally, “You are most kind, Christodoulou-san. I am deeply honored to witness your profound appreciation for Japanese culture, and I-I am grateful for your gracious welcome on this significant day.”
The girl—still in Japanese and still speaking quite formally—smiled gently, saying, “Takahashi-san, such warm words bring me great joy from the heart. ‘Tis I who am honored to receive such a thoughtful gift and to share in the rich traditions of Japan through thy kind representation. Pray let us continue to foster this friendship between our nations, yea, ever more.”
A moment passed where we just looked at each other, then she suddenly laughed—a bright, melodic sound that filled the room—her formal demeanor melting away as she switched to a casual tone in Japanese. “Hehe, enough of these stiff greetings, methinks. Let us brew some coffee. Things be in the oven, so we must not let them burn, nay?” She took me by the arm and led me in and to the kitchen. She told me to “take a chair. I’ll pour. It’s no tea ceremony, but we can do that next time thou art here.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.