Spider

I left Tokyo to get away from trouble--thrilling, addictive, going-nowhere sex with a married guy.  I lined up a few English teaching jobs in Kyoto, rented a studio in a “mansion” apartment building in the western district, and planned to spend my free time contemplating life’s transience at picturesque temples.  No more desperate quickies in public restrooms, no more butt fucking in hot spring baths after midnight, no more blowjobs in a private compartment in the shinkansen.  Unfortunately, I forgot to add “no letting gorgeous neighbors tie me up and screw me silly” to the list, but I didn’t think of that until I was already in a bind again.

      Oddly enough, my fall from virtue started when I went outside to do my laundry.  The cold-water hook-up for the washing machine was located next to my front door, and I always began by hosing off the week’s accumulation of dust from the lid. That’s what I was doing when I first met Ito.

      Actually, what I was really doing when I met Ito was screaming my head off in terror.  Because when I sprayed away some cottony cobwebs behind the washer, I suddenly made the acquaintance of a new neighbor I was none too happy to see--a very large spider.  A fucking huge spider, as large as my outstretched hand, its hairy legs as fat as fingers.

      I screamed and jumped about three feet in the air, screamed again and aimed the hose, my only weapon handy, directly at the spider’s swollen brown body.  This turned out to be a mistake, because the creature rocketed about six feet across the pathway and vanished in the weeds.  No doubt it was already plotting a counter-attack.  And it knew just where to find me.

      I was still whimpering when I heard a deep voice drifting down from the balcony above.

      “Dô shitan desu ka?”  What’s the matter?

      I looked up and saw a slim male figure leaning against the railing, cigarette in his hand.  His name was Ito, although I wouldn’t learn that for a few days, and I wouldn’t call him by his first name, Toshima, until we’d already had several rounds of very hot sex.  But at that moment, my heart pounding, my breath coming fast, I silently called him the most gorgeous hunk of eye candy I’d seen in some time. 

      “It was a spider,” I replied in quivering Japanese.  “Really big.  This big.”  I held out my hand, the fingers clawed in a spidery pose.

      Ito arched an eyebrow.  “A spider?”

      “A very scary spider.”  A “tarantula” was more like it, but I didn’t have my dictionary handy to check for the Japanese word.

      I admit part of me hoped he’d come down and help me out.  It wouldn’t have been the first time my beseeching blue eyes had lured an attractive Japanese man to my side.  But Ito just gave me a cool smile.  Far from offering to help a maiden in distress, he seemed to take genuine pleasure in watching me squirm.  

## 

      For the next few days, I made a habit of peeking behind the washing machine before I went inside my apartment.  I searched my room, too, my body tensed as I scanned every corner and crevice for a sign of that hideous, eight-legged monster.  More than once I woke up to a tickling sensation moving over my chest, but since I never found any real spiders in my bed, I convinced myself that bit of trouble was gone for good.

      I did see Ito again, though, by the mailboxes after my Wednesday night English class at Hitachi.  I assumed from the salaryman’s suit and tie that he was coming home from work.  He looked tired and older than he had in his Sunday morning jeans--on first meeting he’d struck me more like an insolent college student than an office worker drone--but when he saw me, a mischievous light switched on his dark eyes.

      “See anything scary lately?” he asked.

      “Not until now.”  My Japanese was good enough for flirting when I wasn’t frightened out of my wits.

      He grinned.  And invited me out for fried noodles at the grill near the subway station.

      I was tempted to say no.  After all, he’d laughed at me in my moment of need.  But somehow I couldn’t refuse him then, or the time after that when he asked me to join him at a karaoké box with some friends or the invitation to dinner at a Chinese place near Kawaramachi Sanjo.  Yes, the attraction was physical.  It was hard to resist those swooping, velvet eyes and the lush black hair.  His shapely ass and muscular arms called out for some tactile exploration as well, and after a beer or two, I even came to see the charm of that mocking smile.

      But Ito did one thing that turned me on more than any of the other guys I’d dated here.  He would only speak to me in Japanese.  I was used to being the honorable English sensei, even in bed, but now I was the one to flounder for the right word while he watched calmly, always the expert, always in control.  He even corrected my mistakes—none too gently at times--but I found I enjoyed this linguistic domination, or at least my body did.  After an evening struggling through a conversation with Ito, my panties were so wet, I was sure he could smell me.

      I was definitely ready to skip the Zen meditation for a little Sumo wrestling on my futon, but even after our third date, Ito merely gave me a curt bow of goodnight and headed up the stairs to his place.  That left me to go home alone, change my damp underwear, and lounge in front of Sony Music TV while I tried to decide whether to masturbate or just fall asleep hungry.

      Then came the knock at the door.  Deliverymen and proselytizing Mormons usually kept to the daylight hours, and I wasn’t expecting any visitors.  Still, I dutifully went to the intercom and asked in my most polite Japanese who it was. 

      “Boku da yo.  Ito.”

      So much for the new pair of dry panties.  Just the sound of that low, gruff voice had me gushing.  I quickly pulled my cotton bathrobe over my nightshirt and opened the door.

      “I forgot something,” he said.  “May I come in?”

      He’d never set foot in my apartment--what could he have forgotten?

      I didn’t have to wonder for long.  In two steps, Ito pushed me up against the wall of the entryway.  I was surprised at the power of his lean body.  I was trapped, enveloped, his arms and legs wrapped all around me as if he had more than one pair of each.  Our gazes locked.  His eyes glittered in the shadows, and I would have been trembling if I hadn’t been too stunned to move. 

      But Ito was moving now, his fingers soft and teasing.  First he touched my cheek, an oddly tender gesture that sent electric jolts straight to my pussy.  His hand slid over my neck and shoulder, snaking under the collar of the robe, pinching my nipple through my shirt.  Wherever he touched me the skin grew warm and slick, as if he were wrapping my flesh in bands of hot, wet silk.  His other hand slipped through the robe from below, cupping my ass, probing the crack gently.

      I let out a soft moan.

      He smiled and wiggled a finger under the elastic of my panties to stroke my swollen pussy lips.  I caught my breath as he found my clit.  Ito had left the door half open—just the sort of edgy sex game I’d vowed to give up--yet the more he strummed, the more I liked the idea of doing it right there against the wall of my genkan for all of Kyoto to see.

      “Do you always get this wet so fast?” he asked, holding up a glistening finger.

      Before I could argue it was all his fault, he started painting my lips with my own juices, squinting in concentration as if he were applying real make-up, a bright red geisha’s pout.  Only then did he lean forward and kiss me, our first kiss, tasting of Chinese spices, beer and my own desire. 

      He pulled away first.  “I could tell you needed this all evening.  Please accept my apologies for not helping sooner.  Until next time, ne?” he said and left without even bothering to close the door behind him. 

      I wasn’t sure whether to curse him or laugh, but at least he had settled my plans for the rest of the evening.  Masturbate it would be.  I stumbled back into the room, rolled onto my futon and hiked my nightshirt up under my arms.  Ito was right.  I was very wet.  My whole body was covered with a thin film of sweat, and my hands skidded over my breasts, palming the nipples, flicking them with my thumbs, sliding farther down to rub my swollen clit.  The faint click-clicking sound of aroused pussy filled my ears, and I couldn’t resist licking the sticky juice, slowly and submissively, as if I were sucking his fingers instead of my own.  Suddenly my hands did seem thicker and stronger, gliding over my body with a will of their own, not so much to pleasure me, but to remind me that I’d been wrapped up like a package in invisible bonds that pressed gently into my skin, softening me for the feast to come.  

## 

      Mataserareta.  “You kept me waiting in frustration.”  Just saying the word is torture enough, but when you live in Japan, you come to learn how waiting weaves its way into the fabric of life to the point that they really do need a special word for it.  I was used to waiting for Yoshida, that’s par for the course when you’re boning a married guy, but Ito was a free man, or so he told me.   Yet for almost a week after our very promising encounter in my entryway, he simply disappeared. 

      The wait was definitely frustrating, but I had a feeling he’d be back for more.

      I was right.

      I’d just returned from my evening class in Otsu, and even before I put my key in the lock, I sensed a presence inside.  Heart pounding, I cracked the door and peeked into the dark room.  Dark that is except for the glowing tip of a cigarette and a male silhouette outlined against the city lights that glittered through the window beyond.

      I snapped on the light.  Ito regarded me calmly from my futon, which I left lying open “thousand year style” like the careless housekeeper I was.

      “You scared me.”  My pulse was still racing, but for a different reason now.

      “You look pretty when you’re scared.”  He made the Japanese “come here” gesture that looks oddly like an American goodbye.

      The proper response, of course, was a few choice observations like “you have some fucking nerve ignoring me for a week then breaking into my apartment like a pervert.”  But I wasn’t quite sure how to say “fucking nerve” in Japanese and my dictionary was buried at the bottom of my book bag.  Besides, I was curious to see what his next move would be.

      Docile as any well-bred Japanese miss, I sat down beside him.  The mattress was warm and I wondered how long he’d been lurking here.

      Ito ran his hand down my back, a business-like gesture. “Is this shirt important to you?  Expensive?”

      “Not particularly, it’s just something I wear for work.”  I frowned, not quite following the turn of conversation.

      He nodded and reached toward the low table next to the bed.  I noticed a bottle of saké sitting next to one of my Japanese teacups.  Ito dipped his fingers in the cup and anointed each breast with a few drops of the chilled liquid.  My nipples immediately tightened into points.  Farther down, the secret muscles in my belly clenched in sympathy, as if Ito’s cold fingers had crept up under my skirt, too.

      “Hey, stop, you’re going to ruin it,” I protested. 

      A smile playing over his lips, Ito took part of the collar in each hand and pulled.  Hard.

      I cried out at the sound of tearing cloth, buttons flying.

      “I think I already have ruined it.  Sorry.”

      “Fuck you,” I shot back in English.

      In spite of his claim that his English was poor, Ito seemed to understand perfectly. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

      Of course, I did.

      Lying beneath him, my legs trapped between his, his hard cock pressing against me through his jeans, the fate of one boring white blouse didn’t seem so important after all. 

      But there was still more waiting to endure.  Ito stroked and sucked my breasts for what seemed like hours until I was whimpering and arching up against him, the heat of my longing forced inward until my whole body melted, soaking the sheet beneath me with sweat and pussy juice.  At last, he moved lower, wrapping his arm under my thighs to hold my legs together while he flicked my clit with the tip of his tongue.  I instinctively tried to open my legs, but Ito tightened his hold.

      “Don’t move.  Don’t make a sound,” he whispered.

      I bit back a groan.  It wasn’t so easy to be still or quiet with that magic tongue sending sizzling jolts of pleasure up my spine.  In fact, I suspected I was about to be doing some serious moaning and thrashing very soon. 

      “Is it okay if I come?” I bleated out. 

      Ito looked up at me, his lips and chin glistening.  “That was a mistake.”

      I thought I’d used the right words--in Japanese you say “go” instead of “come”--but I wasn’t exactly focused on proper grammar. “Did I say it wrong?”

      “The problem is you shouldn’t have asked at all,” Ito said with a tight smile.  He sat up and lit another cigarette.

      I knew we weren’t talking Japanese Culture, because my married lover always liked a warning so he could slip inside in time for the grand finale.  Ito was making up his own rules, but I was too horny to submit so easily this time.  Besides, he owed me something for that shirt.

      I crawled over to him and rested my hand on the obvious tent pole in his jeans.  “If I promise to be good now, will you fuck me?”

      He stared down at me with narrowed eyes.

      “I’ll do anything you want,” I added.  It’s easy to abase yourself in Japanese.

      Ito took a long drag on his cigarette.  “All right.  Get me the belt of your bathrobe.  I’ll need those stockings you were wearing and something else—a scarf or another pair of stockings will do.”

      With my wrists bound over my head and my thighs and ankles lashed together with the pantyhose, I was more at his mercy than ever, but I did get a front row seat for a strip show that didn’t disappoint.  Ito was even tastier naked, with sculpted shoulders, a smooth, golden chest, and an uncut cock jutting out, all hard and ready.  If I hadn’t been tied up, I couldn’t have resisted wrapping my hand around him, licking the swollen head, taking him deep into my mouth.  As I lay there, drooling, it occurred to me oral sex might be all we could manage anyway.  How could he fuck me with my legs tied so tightly together?

      Ito, on the other hand, had no doubts.  He fished a condom from his jeans’ pocket, straddled me, and pushed his cock down between my thighs.  Shifting his hips a bit to get the right position, he slid right inside.

      The constriction was definitely a plus.  His shaft pressed up against my clit and my cunt was so compressed and swollen, I could feel the knob of his cock stretching me as he thrust in and out through my tingling hole.  Ito was a real Mr. Octopus, bending to suckle one breast, twisting the other nipple between his fingers.  In no time at all, the orgasm he’d chased away came creeping back, a coil of heat glowing and growing in my belly.  I wasn’t going to ask permission this time.  I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed down my cries as my pleasure exploded, straining against the bonds, shooting up through my chest to blow my skull open as wide and black as the midnight sky. 

      Afterwards we lay twined together, the discarded pantyhose, belt, and my ripped blouse piled around us.

      “I thought you’d forgotten me,” I confessed, an easy thing to do now that he was curled around me, his smile much sweeter in his post-come gratitude.

      “That’s another mistake,” he said lazily, stroking my hair.  “I think about you all the time.  It was hard for me to wait, but I know surprises excite you.  And that excites me.”

      I couldn’t help smiling, secretly, into his shoulder. 

      He was as caught up in this as I was. 

## 

      Two days later Ito showed up at my door with a gift tied up in a traditional wrapping cloth.

      I smiled until I saw what was inside:  a coil of golden rope, with the sweet fragrance of new-mown hay.  “Thanks, but what do I do with it?”

      “Do you know shibari?” he asked with the familiar gleam in his eye. 

      “Is that like those porn pictures where they tie women up so they look like they’re caught in a spider’s web?” I replied, hoping my saucy tone would hide the fact my pulse was racing.

      “I forgot that you’re scared of spiders.  You shouldn’t be.  They bring good luck.”

      “That thing wasn’t a spider, it was a tarantula.”  Since our first meeting, I’d looked up the Japanese name—jorôgumo—the prostitute spider, a word that suddenly seemed prophetic.

        “Big spiders bring more luck.”

      I laughed uncomfortably.  “I’m not so sure about that.”

      He lifted his eyebrows.  “Let me teach you.”

      I hesitated.  If I really meant to get away from kinky sex, now was the time to draw the line.  I couldn’t deny, however, that Ito was a good teacher.  My Japanese had already improved a lot, and I was curious what else he could teach me about ropes, and worlds where the rules were different, and maybe even big, scary spiders.
      Besides, I was so turned on by the idea of him tying me up, I was already creaming in my pants.

      And so, just as he commanded, I peeled my clothes off and sat on the futon, my back straight, my legs folded under me in proper Japanese style.  With a nod of approval, Ito wrapped the doubled rope around my waist and then pulled the loose ends through the loop to make a belt.

      “Lie back and bring your knees to your chest.” 

      As if in a dream, I watched him wrap the rope around my bent leg several times, binding my thigh to my shin.  Next he tied it crosswise underneath my bent knee.  The bonds were softer than I expected and made a surprisingly pretty picture, too, layers of golden rope crisscrossing over my pale skin.

“Give me your hand.” 

      I reached toward him, my arm trembling faintly in anticipation.  He circled more rope around my wrist and secured it to my knee.  My right leg and wrist received the same careful treatment, so that in the end I was lying flat on my back, legs spread wide in a fuck-me position.  Ito was obviously enjoying this view.  Under the heat of his steady gaze, I felt my pussy lips swelling and blushing deep red, and then, to my embarrassment, came a gush of hot juices, trickling down my slit, pooling under my ass.

      Ito brushed a finger gently along the slick cleft.  “It’s better if you close your eyes.  Spiders might look ugly, but they feel nice.”

      I swallowed hard.  What had I gotten myself into?  But at this point I was literally in no position to refuse.  I closed my eyes.

      For a moment, there was nothing, just the cool air on my exposed flesh, but then I felt a feathery sensation creeping slowly from the edge of the rope down my thigh.  Of course it was just his fingers—a joke—but then the image of the spider’s thick brown legs flashed against my eyelids.  My stomach tightened.  I realized I’d been holding my breath.

      The fingers moved lower, teasing the crack of my ass.  I’d let lovers touch me there before, but they’d always been quick to put something inside—a finger, a cock.  Ito’s hand hovered, soft and achingly slow, his fingers tapping and dancing over the moist, exquisitely sensitive skin.  I squirmed instinctively, like a little dog happy to please her master, begging for more. 

      “Have you changed your mind about spiders yet?”

       I moaned, the best answer my rubbery lips could manage. 

      As before, the punishment was swift.  In the next moment the spider—and the delicious sensation--was gone.

      “I do like it.  Oh, please, do it again.”  If he wanted me to beg, I’d do it.  I’d do anything to have those fingers back.

      “No, I think the spider’s hungry now.”

      I tensed, imagining a bite, but instead I felt a pillowy softness pressing against my asshole.  Not fingers this time, it was lips, kissing me gently in that forbidden place.  I almost giggled—did spiders kiss ass? —but then came the hot tongue, rolling over my crack like molten silk, darting French-style into the small, lipless mouth.  The laugh faded into a sigh.  I could feel that tingling heat in my toes, my teeth, my clit.  My whole body was dissolving into syrup.  In that tiny corner of my brain still capable of thought, I remembered that this is exactly what spiders do--reduce their prey’s body to a soup then suck up the sweet juices, leaving only the shell behind.

      Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go after all.

      It got even better.  The spider fingers returned, crawling lightly across my belly, over the mossy hill of my mons to my clit.

      “That’s really good.  Spiders feel nice,” I babbled, my limbs twitching helplessly in Ito’s golden web.  Caught between the tickling fingers and the lapping tongue, I had nowhere to go but up, leaping, twirling, spinning as I climaxed in quivering spasms.  My moans were so loud, I’m sure I disturbed a few neighbors this time around, too.

      When I opened my eyes, Ito was smiling down at me, just like the first day I saw him.  He leaned over and touched his lips to mine.  Now it was my turn to feast on him, his saliva mixed with a new, faintly earthy flavor. 

      Yes, I moved to Kyoto to get away from crazy sex.  This meant, I imagined, a life of celibacy or at best a tepid rebound relationship, lights out, missionary position only.  Fortunately, Ito was waiting here to remind me that if you’re open to new things, life in a foreign land can be full of surprises.  And some of those surprises are very nice indeed.

      Besides, thanks to him, I did see spiders differently after that night.  They still got my pulse racing—especially the big ones—but I never tried to harm them again.  I’d smile and watch them scuttle to safety, remembering how luck comes in the strangest guises.

Donna George Storey sets your imagination on fire with her world class erotica! For more, be sure to visit the online home of Donna George Storey