Amorous Woman

      The bathhouse was deserted, the water smooth and glassy.  Hot spring baths in Japan usually follow a guiding fantasy, transporting the bather to a rocky grotto, a tropical garden, or terrace with the perfect view of Mount Fuji, even if the mountain itself is an image set in mosaic tile.  This inn was more ambitious than most.  The soaring cross-beamed ceiling, glowing pedestal lanterns, and swimming pool-sized cedar tub brought to mind the cathedral of a cult that worshipped both purity and indulgence. 

      I was more than eager to make my own offering on its altar.

      I dutifully soaped and rinsed my “dirty” parts—under my arms and between my legs--before slipping into the bath with the clean bathing towel I’d brought to cover myself in case I had unexpected company.  Sinking in up to my neck, I swirled my hands in lazy circles through the steaming water, inching ever closer to my final goal hidden away in the secret folds between my legs.  My other hand cupped my breast, the thumb flicking my nipple languidly.  I was in no hurry.  I had all night to bring the ritual to its satisfying climax. 

      Suddenly the sliding door at the entryway rattled on its track and I jerked my hands away, pulling my towel modestly across my breasts. 

      A shadowy male figure stood in the doorway staring into the room.  His head was tilted to the side, as if he couldn’t quite make out what he was seeing through the wisps of steam rising from the water.  A moment later the man stepped back into the hall and closed the door.

      I sighed with relief.  The stranger surely couldn’t have seen what I’d been doing to myself underwater.  Even if he had, he was gone now, never to be seen again.

      I let my hands wander back to their task.  Within moments I’d returned to the pleasure zone.  I often played with myself in our bath at home, but here in this lovely, timeless place, the sensations were even sharper.  The water itself seemed to pulse around me, caressing, teasing, lapping at my pussy, pushing up inside me.  I sighed again, this time with longing.  As always, my fantasy friend answered the call.

      “Good evening, Lydia, my dear, or should I say ‘good morning’?  How nice to be back in this pristine mountain setting.  I hope you’ll allow me to stay and enjoy myself this time.”

      “Come on, you said you’d forgiven me for that.  Now what do you have for me tonight?  Something hot and slippery, I hope.”

      Before he could reply, the door rattled open once more.

      Damn.

      This time the stranger strode confidently into the bath, swinging a large bottle of saké in one hand like a sword.  In the other he carried two square wooden masu cups, stacked one on top of the other.

      It was my new friend, the professor from the bridge on the hiking trail. 

      He nodded cordially in my direction, but didn’t say a word as he set the bottle down by the bath’s edge and went behind the partition to make his preparations.  After some splashing sounds and the slap of water being dashed onto the wooden floor, he emerged without his robe, holding the towel discreetly over his crotch, and stepped into the water.

      Mixed-sex bathing etiquette dictated that I shouldn’t stare, but I let my eyes graze his body for a few seconds before he stepped into the water.  The professor did have a hint of a belly, but he was in good shape for a man of his age, although of course, I hadn’t seen enough naked middle-aged men at close range to make an educated comparison.

      “Good evening,” he said nonchalantly, as if we were meeting on the street fully dressed instead of naked in a hot tub at midnight.

      “I see you didn’t bring your sketchbook this time.”

      His eyes twinkled.  “No, but I was under the mistaken impression that I wouldn’t find anything interesting here tonight.  I did bring some refreshment.  Would you care to join me?”

        “Thanks, but only a little.”  With my other plans on hold, what else did I have to do tonight? 

      The professor smiled and filled my cup half way.  I returned the favor with a more generous hand.  We raised our cups in a kampai.

      “I was hoping I could meet your husband.  Will he be down soon?” my companion asked. 

      I shook my head.  “He’s sleeping.  I think he’s sick.  A flu, maybe.”

      “He should watch out for his health.  He works too hard.”

      “How do you know that?” I blurted out, surprise making me rude once more.

      “All young men work too hard.  They do not understand what is truly important in life until later.  Too late, I wonder?”  The professor settled himself against the edge of the bath at a polite distance and took a sip of saké. “By the way, what brings your husband to Japan?”

      I laughed.  Already the drink was going to my head. “My husband was born here.  He’s Japanese.”

      “Is that so?  Then he must work very hard indeed.  It must be difficult for you, too, to be waiting.  Always waiting, no?”

      “Exactly.  That’s all I do….”  The words slipped out before I could stop myself.  It had been a long time since anyone, even Chieko, gave me sympathy for my troubles.

      “Perhaps you know the saying:  tsutta sakana ni esa o yaranai.”

      I cocked my head.  I’d caught the words “fish” and “do not give.”

      “Don’t bother feeding worms to the fish you’ve already caught,” the professor translated in fluent, American-accented English.

      “Don’t tell me,” I said in the same language, “you lived in the States for ten years and you’ve been indulging my bad Japanese all this time for laughs.”

      “Your Japanese is truly very good,” he insisted, eyebrows raised at my accusation.  This, of course, earned him extra points.  “And I did spend a few years at the University of Michigan.  The winters are very cold there, but I developed a fondness for the local cherry preserves.”

      “I’m from the east coast, so I don’t know Michigan, but I imagine there’s a lot of beautiful country out there.”

      “There is indeed.  More saké?”

      I knew I shouldn’t, but it was tasty stuff.  I glanced at the name on the label.  “Onigoroshi?  Doesn’t that mean ‘demon slayer’?”

      “Why, yes.  Your Japanese is very good.  An appropriate drink for the setting, don’t you agree?”

      “Okay, you talked me into it.  I’ll take another tiny bit.  I have a few demons to slay myself.”

      He laughed and poured, a bit more this time. 

      “And by the way, you’re right,” I said, after a long swallow.  “I haven’t been eating too many worms recently.”

      He nodded agreeably.  “I think you understand in Japan we all must be patient and endure in our lives.  That is why we come to a place like this, so we can relax for a short while, and perhaps find a few worms to eat?  This is the real Japan.  The city is where we worship our false gods.  The recent turn in the stock market has shown us how deceitful they are.”

      “Don’t you think it will bounce back like it did in America?”  Yuji thought it was likely to recover once the shock had passed.

      “I do not, but I was never a believer in such things.  Only here, deep in the mountains, can we Japanese find our soul.  So, you see, I must come to this place to get in touch with a part of myself I cannot feel in the city.”

      I finished my saké and sighed.  I wished I knew where I could find my soul.

      The professor held up the bottle, eyebrows raised in a question.  I nodded.  A little more demon-slaying liquor might save me from that familiar tug of discontent.

      “Here’s to getting in touch with hidden feelings.  That’s definitely why I came here.”  I raised my cup with a giggle, confident the professor wouldn’t get the reference to my earlier self-pleasuring activities.  He’d probably just think I was drunk.  Which, it occurred to me, I was.

      He gazed at me for a moment, brow wrinkled, then said, “Yes, I fear I was disturbing you at this effort—of getting in touch with your feelings--when I came in.”

      I froze.

      Oh, god, he did see.  Now what do I do?

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied, blushing.

      He nodded, though less in agreement, than acknowledgment of that lie.  Our eyes met.  Now I did see desire there, or the faint, glowing embers of it.  I also saw curiosity, and maybe something close to compassion.

      I clutched the bathing towel tighter to my chest, not that such a skimpy thing would provide much protection if I really needed it.  Okay, so he saw me playing with myself in the public bath.  It probably wasn’t the first time that had happened in the history of this place, but it was clearly time to put an end to our party.  I should get out of the water and rush back to take my place beside Yuji’s unconscious body.  It was the only proper thing a wife could do if she was prudent, loyal, and happy in her marriage.

      And if she wasn’t?

      Without a word, the professor reached over to refill my cup.  I didn’t protest.  I’d have one more drink to get up the courage to get out of the bath—I was for all practical purposes naked--then I’d march straight back to the room. 

      “Of course, the mountains are my work as well,” the professor continued.  “I am always watching, observing.  And yet I must wonder, as all anthropologists do, if my presence does not change the course of events from what they otherwise might be.  That would be a shame indeed.”  His eyes flickered.

      Through the cottony haze of the alcohol, I suddenly understood exactly what he was asking, which was what I suppose you’d say to any attractive and more-or-less willing member of the opposite sex you caught masturbating in a hot tub.  Should I go away and let you finish in private or stay and help out?

      I studied his face as I considered my reply.  The cute, rounded features were only icing on the cake.  What really intrigued me were his eyes, intelligent, attentive, and yes, thirsty.  Yet there was something calming in his gaze, too, as if he were stroking me with a piece of soft fur.  Sure, I was drunk, but in this case it meant I could see the truth more clearly.  He liked to watch.  I liked being watched.  Maybe the kamisama still cared about me after all?

      “But I thought your specialty was mountain demons, Sensei.” I gave him my best “suck up to the professor at the department reception” smile.  “Do you do research on women, too?” 

      “I am open to every opportunity,” he said smoothly.  “But be assured, my intent is never to interfere, only observe what is before me.”

      I set my empty cup down at the side of the tub.

      I suppose you could call it sorcery, the way my flesh suddenly seemed to soften and flow, transforming me from a good wife—although was I ever truly a “good” wife to Yuji?—into a silky, sinuous seductress.  With a provocative smile, I inched the bathing towel slowly over my chest, rising up just far enough that my breasts floated like white lilies on the surface of the water.  My nipples immediately tightened in the cool air.

      The professor stared, as if his eyes were bound to the movement of my hands with steel cable.  I’d forgotten how much I loved to have a man in my power.

      I took my breasts in both hands, lifting them in offering.

      He swallowed visibly.

      At first, I was just showing off for him, rolling my nipples between my fingers, licking my thumbs to stroke them over the sensitive tips.  But soon enough, I let one hand creep between my legs beneath the cover of the water, just as if he’d never come to interrupt me.  Except, of course, there was a real man sitting across from me, his face suspended in the ghostly vapors hovering over the bath.  From his hooded eyes and faint grimace, I knew he was touching himself, too, lost in his own dream. 

      Is this how it would be if my old friend took on human form—his eyes dazed by the vision of my pleasure?  But now that he was here, I wanted more than his gaze, I wanted to feel him, his hands and lips and cock all at once, claiming me, filling me.

      “Will you touch me?” I asked in English, the language of selfishness.

      The professor’s face twisted into a frown.  He wanted to touch me, I could tell, but something held him back.  Was it professional ethics or some less lofty obligation like a wife?  I decided not to ask.

      “It is best….” He swallowed again. “…If I do not.”

      But I thought it best he did.

      I rose to my feet, the water gliding from my body like a silk robe.  My skin tingled from mild sting of the wintry air, but inside I was still warm from the long soak, my flesh plumped, glowing, hungry. 

      The professor’s eyes widened and leapt toward me, but his body remained frozen in place.

      On impulse, I turned and bent over the edge of the bath, doggy-style, a primal position most men found irresistible.

      I glanced back over my shoulder.  As if drawn by leash, he moved closer.

      I had, finally, made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.   

**** 

      Warm hands grasped my hips, sliding over the wet flesh, tracing the curve of my back down over my buttocks.  Taking a cheek in each hand, the professor squeezed and stroked and raked his fingers over the skin in soft, tingling circles.

      I moaned appreciatively, not sure if I should reach down and touch my clit or wait for him to do the honors.  Not that he was in any hurry to move things in that direction.  He seemed more interested in exploring the valley of my ass, moving lower and deeper with each feathery, teasing caress.  I opened my legs wider and arched up, happy to do what I could to assist his research.

      Then the professor began tapping my asshole lightly as if he were playing a little drum.  A searing spasm of pleasure shot through my body and I yelped in surprise.

      “Shall I stop?” he asked with concern.

      “Oh, no,” I stuttered.  “Please, I…”

      “…Find pleasure in it?” the professor finished for me.

      “Yes.”  Could he see how very much I did?

      He made a low grunt of assent and continued to stroke my cleft, paying special attention to the ring of muscle around the hole.  The sensations were so exquisite, so engulfing, my whole body trembled.

      “Is it the custom for your husband to touch you back here?” the professor inquired, his voice husky.

      “No.  He never does.”  I sensed this was the answer he wanted, although in this case, it was also the truth.

        “Such a pity to ignore what we can surely call the seat of human pleasure,” he murmured.

      A pun?  I almost laughed, but was distracted by a new sensation, his hands pulling my ass cheeks wide.  I braced for his touch, but felt only warmth, as if a feeble sun were shining on that hidden place for the very first time.  I could tell he was staring at me, studying me.  Dozens of men had seen my vulva, but this was the first time my ass—in truth, my most secret part--had gotten such professional attention.  I squirmed uneasily.

      The professor guessed my thoughts.  “Do not be ashamed.  You are very beautiful.  So clean and pink and beautiful.”

      I felt my asshole plump up, reveling in the compliments.

      His finger grazed the opening.  I whimpered and wiggled like a little dog happily greeting her master.  Could it be I had second clit hiding back there undiscovered all these years? 

      I’m going to come this way.  I’m actually going to come just by having a professor play with my asshole. 

      “May I kiss you here?”

        How could I pass that up?

      “Yes, please.”

      I gasped at the contact, the pillow-soft warmth pressing against that exquisitely sensitive area.  The first kiss was chaste, a smack of lips against my tiny mouth.  Then came the tongue, rolling over my ass crack like molten silk.  My knees buckled.  I clutched at the smooth, damp floor, nearly sobbing with desire.

      He circled closer to the sweet spot, his tongue flicking and gliding.

      “Now push open,” he commanded softly.

      I moaned again in shame and desire.  Had I ever done anything more perverse—or more exciting?

      “It’s dirty,” I whispered, but I felt the body part under discussion flutter seductively.  My tongue might protest, but my asshole certainly liked the idea. 

      And so I pushed, gingerly at first, then harder, opening myself wider and wider, hungry to be seen, filled, loved.  My pussy and clit ached in sympathy, longing for his touch.  His lips were on me again, and I fought to keep myself open through the hot, ticklish sensation as he kissed me French-style, the tip of his tongue darting into the opening, in and out, in and out.  I could feel it in my toes, my teeth, and most of all, in my cunt, which throbbed and drooled with envy. 

      “Touch me in the front, too.  Please?”

      The professor pulled away, taking the warmth and softness with him.  My body stiffened in regret.

      “You are the expert,” he whispered.  “I would not presume.”

      I groaned, too desperate to argue that this was no time to be modest about his abilities.  But maybe it did make sense to let him concentrate on his specialty while I focused on mine.  I slipped my hand between my legs just as he resumed his attentions to my behind.  The whole lower half of my body hummed in stereo, front and backside burning, tingling, spinning round and round the twin poles of my finger and his tongue.

      Still I wanted more.  Surely he did, too?  Given his connoisseur’s enthusiasm for analingus, butt-fucking would very likely be another of his areas of expertise.

      “Please, Sensei.  Would you make love to me…back there?”
 
      He paused in his work.  “I would like that very much …” he faltered, “But it is not my role to interfere.  I must only pleasure you in a manner your husband does not.”

      My husband?  Why did he have to bring that up at a time like this?  But the image that flashed into my head like a warning was not Yuji’s face.  Instead, I saw the figure of the starving demon at the bridge, grasping at something warm and sweet, careless of the cost. 

      I knew exactly how the creature felt.

      The professor laid a soothing hand on my back.  He seemed to understand.

      “I will try my best to make you happy.  Remember this is all a dream.  The brief dream of a spring night.”

      He parted my cleft gently.  I opened myself to his tongue, his promises.

      Because of course, the professor was right.  It was just like a dream.  My lover had no name.  He didn’t even have a face now.  He was nothing but sensation, a fantasy man like all the others. 

      And my fantasy man always knows exactly what I want.  He knows to tease my crack with cat-like lapping motions while my finger finds its rhythm on my clit again.  When I push my asshole open, he understands that I’m begging for more of those quick tongue stabs that fill me with molten pleasure and prickly shame all tangled up together in a delirious brew.  He senses from the way my thighs shake, from the helpless mewing sounds in my throat that the pressure is building inside me.  So he stops for an instant, then rolls his tongue up and down my ass crack, because he knows it will drive me crazy, but I love it, too.  He won’t touch me anywhere else, but that’s exactly what’s turning me on—constriction as art—and it is, because my whole being, my whole life, is his tongue buried in my ass.  I know my orgasm is near and he does, too, because he’s flicking my taut lips back there, up and down, just like I’m flicking my own clit and then, finally, I feel it coming, pounding hard on sharp, burning hooves, galloping up from my asshole, exploding from my throat in a sobbing whinny of ecstasy.

      And when my fantasy lover stands and shoots hot spunk all over my back and ass with an otherworldly cry, when he wipes me clean with tender strokes of the bathing towel, even then, after my own pleasure has faded, I tell myself it’s a dream.  The kind I’ve had a thousand times before.  A horny housewife lets a complete stranger lick her ass in a hot spring bath.  It’s a fantasy, of course.

      What else could it be? 

**** 

      It was all just a dream.

      And I’ll never do it again.

      Never.

      My footsteps were softer, less certain, on the journey back to real life.

      Denial, regret, fear of discovery.  An unfaithful wife was supposed to feel all of these things, and I did.  A little.

      But what I really felt as I glided down the silent hallway was something quite different.  Pure exhilaration.  There were other ways to satisfy my desire.  I could still come with a man I didn’t love.  I could be free, for one hour, then slip back into my old life as easily as I slipped back into my yukata and left the bath without a backward glance.  Yet, even then part of me knew my encounter with the professor was something more:  the first step of a journey, a baptism into a new life.

Amorous Woman [Amorous Woman at Amazon/ISBN: 1905619170] is the story of an American woman’s love affair with Japan and her sensual encounters with the sexy men and women she meets along the way.  First-time novelist Donna George Storey, a widely published erotica writer who holds a Ph.D. in Japanese literature, modeled her novel after Ihara Saikaku’s classic 17th century novel of the pleasure quarters that was banned during WWII as a danger to public morals. Lusty, wise-cracking Lydia—the modern Amorous Woman--experiences every flavor of erotic pleasure Japan has to offer from illicit encounters in hot spring baths to fantasy orgies straight from manga porn.  Described by critics as “rich with sensual detail, humor, and emotional complexity,” “hard to put down,” and “literary erotica at its best,” the novel will change your image of Japan—and erotica—forever.  Learn more at www.DonnaGeorgeStorey.com.  View the provocative book trailer, including a titillating collection of erotic prints, on YouTube.