Flash fiction, true stories, letters, and other assorted oddities. This time around, we have a desperate slave and an American couple becoming the attraction in Japan.
Nente, a Galatian Nigerian, was beautiful. She had been a beautiful child and her beauty had increased through her teens. It will take you far said her father, it will be her ruin said her mother.
Now, beneath the chandeliers, her skin took on the hue of honeyed amber. Even after two years Diaz was still very proud of her. He had acquired her from a gay Egyptian, a bit of a fickle queen, in exchange for a Ferrari.
Nente was proud; she rolled dice with a voluptuous bounce. Silicone gel implants massaged her ribs: at twenty-eight those ribs were still spare enough to slash silk. Around the dimly lit baize table six pairs of hooded eyes caressed the bounce. Fingers blindly placed chips. This was good. This was how Diaz liked things.
Standing behind her, he placed a large bejewelled hand on her shoulder: his grip denied comfort, encouraged the bounce. ‘Smile,’ he hissed through the gaps in his teeth. Nente did not resent being leered at by the punters. Diaz had told her it was their right to imagine the lascivious pleasures their winnings might buy. ‘Remember, these tossers are losers so they will never buy you. You are mine.’ She felt the tip of his forefinger follow the pulsing artery beneath her long hair, and shivered.
Released from Diaz’s grip she leant forward. She rolled dice across the green baize while her mind was screaming, ‘double sixes, double sixes’. Throwing double sixes would be strong magic, as strong as drinking the blood of a live chicken. This magic could release her, could strengthen her resolve to escape. Silently she prayed; Ombjauti, mighty one, give poor Nente double sixes, oh great Ombjauti hear poor Nente .
Again Diaz’s hand clasped her shoulder as the dice bounced across the green baize. Imperceptibly the jewelled grip on her shoulder tightened. The dice bounced, nudged each other, trembled together then lay spent.
'Six five,' Nente called above the clatter of chips and babble of voices. ‘Six five,’ she repeated and bared her fine teeth in a fixed smile that did not reach her eyes.
Neither of us can remember what inspired our visit to Silk, other than a routine internet search for things to see and do during our Tokyo vacation. We’re middleclass, middle-aged, mainstream Americans. We don’t normally fuck in front of an audience.
To calm our nerves about the evening, we drank: whiskey in the hotel as we dressed for the excursion; then at Frigo, the Belgian Beer Bar in Nishi Shinjuku. Kathy wore a short dress, cowboy boots, fishnet stockings and garters. She got the attention of the sararimen drinking next to us at Frigo with a flirtatious spread of her legs—revealing her marvelous and clean-shaven pussy. I was flirting with whiskey dick by the time we got to Silk. Self-conscious from the start, upon entry we also discovered we were the only gaijin in the place.
Silk is a Happpu-bar in the heart of Kabukicho, Tokyo’s largest sex district. A Happu-bar is a kind of sex club where people go to fuck in public and/or watch others fuck. The main floor of Silk is a small bar surrounded by several rooms. The rooms are separated, barely, by floor-to-ceiling window panes without glass. The largest of these rooms actually surrounds the bar. From the bar we watched the action in this room for awhile. An attractive older woman and a chubby guy were fucking while a second man sat next to them and occasionally reached over and fondled her breasts. The atmosphere was sexually charged and as soon as they finished up I suggested to Kathy that we take their place. And in we went. We picked out a corner of the large room and started kissing while we undressed. We stripped to all but fishnet stockings and garter (I guess that means I was naked, since only one of us was in fishnet). Our foreplay grew more intense. I forgot about all but Kathy, her beautiful body and hot, wet pussy that she now demanded I enter (my interpretation of her “Fuck me!” exhortation). In the periphery, though, I couldn’t help but notice that the crowd hung on our every move. They were mere inches away and moved up and down with us to get the right visual angle as we changed positions. Inhibitions gone, Kathy came loudly while on top (technically in “cowgirl” and facing the spectators). We changed positions again--now doggie--and the throng was audibly pleased (a collective intake of breath) when I slapped Kathy's ass while enjoying my own powerful orgasm. Spent but not done, Kathy sprawled on her back and pulled my head down on her pussy. My tongue flicked across her clit until she came again, this time even more intense than her first orgasm.
We got dressed, and went back to the bar. Our audience was sprawled out on the couches smoking, as if they'd just fucked. We drank another shot of whiskey, nodded to our new Japanese friends, and made our way out into the Shinjuku night.
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