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Wet

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I’ll be honest. I like my sex a little rough. And very wet. Sure, I started out like most women, wanting Valentines and sweet words, but all along I was waiting for the right moment, that perfect slap on the ass, to teach me what I really needed. For me, enlightenment came the year after college, when I taught English in Japan — a country that understands pleasure is always sweeter when it comes with a little suffering.

My first months in Kyoto brought hardship aplenty. I’d found myself a one-room apartment above a rice shop in a farming village west of the city. At about forty bucks a month, the rent was right, but the room was so cold I could see my breath when I woke up in the morning. Then I had to stumble outside to the toilet, a squat-style affair located by the stairwell. A bath required a ten-minute walk through the rice paddies to the sentô. A long soak in the huge tub was pure luxury, but first I had to endure the gaze of the creepy attendant who watched me undress from his pulpit-like platform with shameless curiosity. Sometimes I wonder how I put up with it all, but at twenty-two I was a romantic and more than ready to renounce the comforts of my wall-to-wall carpet childhood for the sake of intercultural understanding. Indeed, each hardship gave me a voluptuous thrill, as if I were sinking deeper into the embrace of a stern and exacting lover.

But the public bath had its pleasures, too. Beyond the frigid dressing room lay a tropical paradise of gleaming white tile. A semi-circular tub the size of a small hotel pool filled the entire left half of the bathing room. To the right was a row of faucets, where a line of nude women knelt as if in worship, legs tucked beneath them, their heart-shaped ass resting on their feet, Japanese-style. Sometimes I couldn’t help imagining how jealous my male friends back home would be. Wasn’t it every heterosexual guy’s fantasy to be surrounded by naked women caressing their own bodies with soapy-slick hands, eyes closed and lips parted in pleasure?

Of course, I wasn’t supposed to have such thoughts in this temple of bodily purification. Bathing was obviously serious business in Japan. I quickly got the basics down, but as I took my place at an empty faucet each night, I still cast sideways glances at my companions for tips on the proper technique. I noticed that they always sloshed a basinful of hot water over their backs and chests, then went to work with the soap and washcloth, scrubbing each inch of skin with almost religious zeal. Although I tried my best to polish each knee for what seemed like an hour, I could never outlast them.

What filthy things had these prim ladies done to get their bodies so dirty?

This was only one of the forbidden thoughts that swirled through my brain as I sank into the soaking tub at last, my muscles melting to caramel in the steaming water. More distracting still were the sounds drifting over the partition from the men’s side of the bath. I tried to keep my thoughts clean, but with all the splashes and sighs and deep male voices gliding through the mist, it was pretty hopeless.

Of course, I knew most of those low, sexy voices belonged to farmers I’d seen working in the rice paddies, their faces wizened and brown from decades of hard labor. They were hardly fodder for sexual fantasy. Still at least one or two of the guys had to be acceptably young and attractive. Maybe it was the gorgeous college boy I spotted on the train platform each morning? Or the young office worker with the velvety eyes who kept glancing shyly in my direction at the convenience store?

Before long I was dizzy from the heat, the steam, the X-rated images flickering in my head. I closed my eyes and felt the pulsing water caress my flesh like a warm hand, felt my other lips, down there, plump and ready for him, my lover, so handsome and willing to do every dirty thing I could imagine. Those hungry lips would call to him, silently, through the moist, dripping air.

Come. Teach me. Please.

##

He rises from the tub, the water falling from his sculpted torso like a veil, and crosses over to the women’s side of the bath, heedless of the attendant’s jealous scowl. Intent on his goal, he slides the door open and strides right in, although he does hold his towel discreetly over his cock in deference to the other ladies. They titter and hurry to cover themselves with their hands, but he doesn’t even glance their way.

He’s come only for me.

“Get out of the bath,” he orders in gruff Japanese. “You’re still dirty. Obviously you need a lesson on how to wash properly.”

Heart pounding, I climb out of the water and kneel at the closest faucet, my head bowed.

I know I am a very dirty girl, indeed.

The teacher snaps my washcloth open like a whip and soaps it to a lather. The first part of the curriculum involves scrubbing my back vigorously from my shoulders to my buttocks. Each stroke finds an answering twinge in my belly. My pale skin is already flushed from the hot bath, but under his scouring, my flesh blushes to a fiery hue. I am red and wet down there, too, because I can feel my own pussy juice oozing onto my legs. When the teacher reaches my hips, he lays the cloth aside and gives my ass a good kneading with his bare hands, then finishes with a stinging slap, one for each cheek.

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The spanking shoots up my spine like an electric shock. I can’t restrain a low moan, pain mixed with desire.

“I see you’re enjoying the lesson,” he observes coolly, “but you have much study ahead. I’m going to wash the front of you now, but first you must sit up like a proper Japanese lady. Come now, shoulders back, chin up.”

Obediently I square my hunched shoulders, but keep my arms crossed modestly over my chest. Clicking his tongue, the teacher reaches around and grabs my wrists, pulling them apart to reveal my breasts, shimmering with a film of moisture, the nipples pink and erect.

“Let me clean you,” he murmurs. “Let me show you how to do it right.”

He cups my breasts in his soapy hands and rubs me, circling round and round as if he’s polishing two plump apples. My nipples, it seems, are especially filthy for he rolls them between his fingers for the longest time, pinching and tweaking until I’m nearly sobbing with lust. Through half-veiled eyes, I notice the women have gathered around us, their eyes glued to the obscene show. Some even caress their own breasts, mimicking the teacher’s movements.

“Now I want you to lie back and spread your legs. I know you need a very good scrubbing down there.”

What else can I do but obey? Though I’ve always been a good student, always gone for that “A,” I have to admit my desire to please the teacher has never been this strong.

Easing back onto the cool tile, I inch my legs open.

Look how pink and swollen it is! It’s as juicy as a ripe peach! She is dirty, just like the teacher said….

A chorus of female voices echoes through the steam. Flustered and ashamed, I snap my legs closed.

“No chatter during class time, ladies,” the teacher warns sternly. “You there and you, make yourself useful. Hold her legs open so we can continue with our study.”

Two pairs of soft hands force my knees open and press them to the floor.

“Would you like the washcloth now, Sensei?” the woman at my right leg asks respectfully.

“No,” the teacher replies, “there are too many delicate folds down there for a cloth to get clean. For this part of the lesson, I must use my tongue.”

He bends over and gives my swollen slit one lingering lick, like a cat, followed by delicate, probing flicks as he seeks my sweet spot. The way I arch and whimper tells him that he’s found it. He cleans me there—the strokes quickening to a lashing--until I groan and thrash against the hands of my captors.

I’m just about to come when he pulls away. “Time to rinse.”

Before I can protest that perhaps the Honorable Teacher might consider cleaning me like that just a little longer, my exposed pussy is flooded with a basinful of hot water. Tendrils of flame shoot through my belly and I squirm, my body sloshing about on the slick floor.

The teacher seems pleased with my progress, but we have one final lesson.

“It’s time to clean you inside now.” Grinning, he begins to soap up his cock, his member grower longer and fatter with every stroke. In the end he is huge, as thick as a young tree trunk, plump purple veins throbbing through the flesh. It’s a dick straight out of a floating world print.

“I don’t think I can take that thing inside me,” I plead, staring at his cock with undisguised horror.

“Even if something is hard,” he intones wisely, “you can succeed if you want it very much and you try your best.”

I breathe deeply, preparing myself for the ordeal to come. I do want this—very much.

He nods to his assistants who lock their hands under my ass and tilt my hips up to meet him. Nudging my hole gently with the head of his cock, he pushes in with aching slowness.

I can feel him all the way up through my chest, my neck, my skull. I’ve never felt so stretched, so full. My teacher begins to move, swiveling his hips to scour and polish every inch of my insides with his rigid tool. Feminine murmurs of approval and envy rise up around me. I open my eyes to see the other women kneeling closer, their eyes fixed on the place where his cock enters my body. I see, too, that they are masturbating as they watch us. The shy ones rub their washcloths between their legs tentatively, as if it’s all just part of an ordinary bath. The bolder ones dispense with pretense, their fingers dancing shamelessly over their clits. One lady is even brazen enough to tweak her neighbor’s nipple while she strums herself.

I see it all now, everything. We’re all dirty. We all want to cleanse ourselves. And this is Japan, where a group effort always gets the job done best. As if they’ve read my thoughts, the lady on my right begins to stroke my breast. From the left comes a tongue to tease my other nipple. Lips close over mine from above, female lips, meltingly soft. Flesh envelops me everywhere, pulsing with desire, lapping, sucking, pounding into me deeper and harder, until with a cry of release, I am finally clean. And all thanks to his lesson—a little rough, very wet, and just the way l like it.

As I strolled home from the sentô in the moonlight, my flesh still warm and tingling, I knew the chances were slim I’d ever really find myself in the middle of an orgy in a public bath. On the other hand, it was reasonably likely that some day I’d meet an attractive young man who’d be willing to give me a hands-on lesson in Japanese bathing techniques.

In fact, my wish did come true in a peculiarly Japanese way—through an introduction by a go-between, like the marriage meetings of old. Early in the new year, I started a teaching job at a pharmaceutical factory in Shiga. The friendly in-house teacher, Sherry, immediately took me under her wing. She was already engaged to a Japanese guy she’d met in the States and was all for setting me up with someone, too. It just so happened she knew the perfect guy, a Mr. Yamada who worked in the main office in Osaka.

Sherry ran down his vital statistics. Mr. Yamada was 26, went to a good college and had his own apartment. (I imagined his bathroom, small but with a luxurious cedar tub and a traditional lantern in the corner, glowing softly.) He was good-looking and stockier than most Japanese. (A nice broad saddle would be a plus when I got on top and rode him to a lather.) His English was pretty good. (Not a minus, but how much talking would we do anyway?) And he’d traveled to Europe on his own, not in a tour group. (This showed a hunger for adventure that would surely translate well into wild moves on a slippery bathroom floor.)

“How soon can we meet?” I asked her without missing a beat.

That’s how I found myself in a fancy cafe, gazing into the eyes of the fetching Mr. Yamada and wondering how many more formalities we had to endure until we could get naked and rub our soapy bodies together. Mr. Yamada was apparently more patient than I was, but he seemed to have similar ideas because three dates later, he invited me to his place.

The first thing I asked for was a tour—an American custom, I explained. His apartment was very different from mine, with all the modern comforts. An electric heater purred softly in the corner, chasing back the February chill. The dining-kitchen had a Western-style table and chairs; the bedroom was equipped with a bed and dresser. Even the traditional tatami straw-matted living room was transformed into a high tech wonderland by an elaborate entertainment system spread out along three walls.

“Would it be too rude if I asked to see your bath? They’re so different from what we have in America.”

“Of course,” he said in his careful English, slightly baffled by the request, but eager to accommodate the foreign guest’s wishes.

He led me over to a door next to the bedroom and pushed it open.

My heart sank.

I was expecting it to be small, but I hadn’t imagined something this distressingly modern: an all-in-one cubicle fashioned from a seamless expanse of beige plastic. The toilet, sink and shower-bath were crammed together so tightly that if we tried to play out my bathing teacher fantasy, we’d be knocking our heads against the john.

“Thanks, it’s very nice.” I stepped back, forcing my lips into a smile.

Mr. Yamada sensed he’d disappointed me. “Shall we drink coffee? I bought apple pie at the bakery. I hear Americans like such things.”

I nodded, blushing at my own selfishness. The kind invitation to his home was my chance to learn more about him as a person, not lure him into some kinky sex game I’d dreamed up to get myself off on lonely nights in my futon. I silently vowed to be the perfect guest for the rest of the visit, pure in thought and deed.

I was doing a fairly good job of it as we lounged on floor pillows on the tatami listening to jazz and snacking on apple tart. But then Mr. Yamada put down his coffee cup, gazed into my eyes, and leaned over to kiss me.

At first all he did was kiss me, for the longest time, as if some secret rule of etiquette dictated a good host could go no further on the first visit. Yet the languid dance of our tongues was having a surprisingly powerful effect on my body, rather like a soaking in a hot bath. Soon every muscle was so soft and rubbery, I collapsed onto the pillow, pulling him down with me.

Now he did use his hands, gently stroking my cheek, my neck, my breasts, and especially my nipples poking up stiffly through my sweater. The fluid warmth, the exquisite care in his touch got me so turned on, my panties were drenched. I feared I’d be leaving quite a wet spot on his pristine straw mat.

“I want you,” I whispered.

He smiled and pulled a box of tissues and a condom from the nearby bookshelf—how courteous of him to anticipate his guest’s needs before the fact—then undressed us both quickly. He lay back and I straddled him. I was ready to slide right on, but to my surprise he grabbed my hips and pulled me forward so my dripping pussy rested on his taut belly. Instinctively I rocked into him, coating him with my juices. Our bodies made soft sucking sounds as I glided over him, almost as if we were all soaped together in a steamy sentô.

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Mr. Yamada seemed perfectly content to let me massage him with my drooling pussy all afternoon. I was the one who finally lost patience. Rising up on my knees, I shifted backwards, impaling myself on his cock. The seawater smell of female arousal mingled with the sweet, grassy fragrance of **tatami** straw. I realized, with a delicious twinge of guilt that I’d been a very bad girl this afternoon. Because I hadn’t really given up my selfish fantasy at all. I was reaching out for it, hungrily, in all its liquid pleasure. Hotter and wetter than I’d even imagined, it was almost in my grasp.

##

By cherry blossom time I was spending every weekend at Mr. Yamada’s apartment—I was calling him Shinji now--and the sex just kept getting wetter and better. We hadn’t yet taken a real bath together, but I did confess that I liked going to the sentô. My fondness for old-fashioned Japanese things always amused him. He laughed and told me that his grandmother still went to the public bath, but young people only did that on vacation at a hot spring in the mountains or an inn by the sea.

“Is that so?” I replied with an innocent smile.

Naturally, from that moment on, my mind was busy spinning out a naughty scheme. Shinji was so sweet about going along with my every whim, I knew he’d easily agree to a weekend at mountain spa with a rustic coed bath. But I wasn’t so sure about the rough stuff I secretly craved—the gruff orders, the spanking, the sweet humiliations. On the other hand, Japanese men were historically known for their lordly, selfish ways and a rather domineering treatment of the fair sex. Perhaps taking Shinji to a traditional mountain inn would allow him to tap into his inner samurai?

I figured it wouldn’t hurt to do what I could to nudge him in that direction.

After all, the hot spring was almost a national institution of sensual indulgence. For hard-working Japanese, it provided the perfect chance to shrug off the rules of ordinary life by dining on elaborate gourmet meals in their bathrobes, taking endless baths and, ideally, fucking as much as possible. As soon as we got to the inn, Shinji did suddenly seem more intent on hedonistic pleasure. After our nine-course dinner of fish stew, Kobe beef dripping with butter, and fluffy white rice served with jewel-colored pickles, he claimed he was still hungry. He proceeded to push me back on the futon, spread my thighs and feast on my pussy. When he had me so hot I was begging for it, he flipped me over and took me from behind, slamming his cock into me with uncharacteristic abandon. I came so hard, I wondered if I’d be physically capable of getting off again down in the bath, which of course was the intended climax of the trip from the start.

Of course, I hadn’t told Shinji the details of my plan yet. I merely suggested, with a twinkle in my eye, that we go for one last soak together before we went to sleep.

The grand bath was deserted when we arrived, just as I had hoped, although in theory, a few willing lesbians would have made for the perfect translation of my fantasy. Still, I couldn’t have ordered a more beautiful scene. The water was as smooth as glass; wisps of steam hovered like specters in the golden light of the lanterns glowing in each corner of the room.

Shinji shrugged off his cotton robe and went to the faucet to wash off the lingering stickiness of our lovemaking.

Smiling devilishly, I headed straight for the tub.

“Aren’t you going to wash first?” he called after me.

I turned and gave him a bratty smirk. “What if I don’t want to?”

“You must.” He usually laughed at my lapses of etiquette, but this taboo was too strong for the usual indulgence.

I held my foot over the water as if I were about to step in. “I guess I am pretty dirty after what we did tonight, but I’m just not in the mood to do it.”

He frowned. For the first time, I think he was truly angry with me.

“In Japan, you must wash before you get in the bath. It is the proper way.”

“Oh, yeah? Well maybe you’ll just have to teach me how to do it right.”

His frown deepened. I met his gaze defiantly. Then I smiled.

His eyes flickered. I think that’s when he finally got it, because in two long strides he was at my side, grabbing my arm and hauling me back to the faucet. With a downward tug, he forced me to my knees. He quickly filled the wooden basin with steaming water and splashed it over my chest and shoulders. I cried out softly. Kneeling behind me, he wrapped his arms around me, but it was more a punishment than an embrace.

I don’t think I’d ever been so turned on in my life.

“I will wash you now,” he whispered.

“Yes. Teach me how. I’m dirty,” I confessed in a low voice. “My breasts, they’re very dirty. Maybe you have to scrub hard.”

“Is that so?” There was no doubt now he’d caught on to the game. “Why are they so dirty?”

“I let a man kiss them and suck them.”

“Yes, then I think you are very dirty.” He took the bar of soap and began to rub the flat side over my nipples. Pin-pricks of pleasure shot straight to my pussy. A beguiling combination of smooth and hard, it was even better than my fantasy.

“What about between your legs?” he murmured.

“Yes. It’s very dirty. I let a man…take me…from behind.”

“That is dirty. Like an animal. I must clean you there very well.” He picked up the washcloth, draped it over his fingers and pressed it between my pussy lips. His movements were subtle--firm, slow circles over my clit--but the flesh there was already swollen and sore from the earlier fucking. I had to grit my teeth to bear it, but I also found myself pushing into his hand with small rocking motions to intensify the sensation.

“Spread your legs a little. Now we will rinse.” He took a basin of steaming water and splashed it vigorously over my slit. It streamed down my thighs, mingling with my juices. My cunt was on fire, my skin a throbbing scarlet hue. When I imagined how it would go, I was hoping this part would last an hour, but now I wanted him inside me so badly I was shaking.

“Shinji? Can we do it here? Now?”

He took me in his arms again, more tenderly, his erection pressing against the cleft of my ass. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a condom.”

I groaned in disappointment, but I could hardly blame him for the oversight. Still, my primitive life in the countryside had taught me I could adapt to inconvenience when I had to. “Can we go back to the room?”

He paused.

I held my breath.

“No,” he barked, in a very passable impression of an imperious **samurai ** lord.

My heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t the answer I wanted. And it was.

“I am not finished washing you. This place for example. It is still very dirty.” He ran his fingertip between my buttocks to tap the tight ring of my asshole, a caress that sizzled straight to my toes, my teeth, the back of my eyeballs. This had never been part of my fantasy either—but it would be now.

“No. Stop.” In my shame and surprise, the word escaped my lips before I really knew what I was saying.

“No? You don’t want this?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft.

The finger pulled away.

My chest was churning with confusion, desire, regret. What did I really want? For so long I thought it was a good, hard fucking on a wet bathroom floor, but I knew now the longing went deeper. What I really wanted was for Shinji to force me to do… exactly what I wanted. Which didn’t really make sense. Except here, in the humid warmth of the bath, it suddenly did.

“I do want it, Shinji. Please, clean me there.”

I sighed as the finger returned, stroking and teasing my new-found pleasure button. This was exactly what I wanted. Lips grazed my neck, gliding softly over the wet skin, a tender surprise. I discovered I wanted that, too. And then—smack—another surprise, a sharp slap on my vulva, aimed just so to send waves of heat through my tingling clit.

How could it possibly get better than this?

“Yes, oh god, yes,” I moaned, jerking my hips forward to show him I was ready for more.

Shinji made a strange sound, low in his throat. The spanking quickened. On the verge of climax, a weird image flashed into my head: a woman’s nude body, poised on tiptoe at the edge of a tub, one trembling foot stretching higher and farther, until she tipped over into the deep water. And then I was falling, too, a soft howl rising from my throat as I came. The spanking stopped, and Shinji held me tight in one arm, while his other hand diddled my asshole until my deepest shudders subsided.

I expected an embrace, the customary conclusion to our lovemaking, but tonight Shinji had other ideas. Without a word, he pushed me face down on the wet floor and straddled my thighs. Moments later, my ass and back were showered with a spray of hot, pulsing liquid. It wasn’t from a basin, that much was certain.

I hadn’t planned on an ending like this, with me face down on a bathroom floor, drenched with the spunk of my lover, who knelt over me, his dripping cock in his hand. But like a translation, the exact expression was less important than the meaning. This was my dream come true, a scene as wet and dirty as I could ask for.

But, to be honest, I never felt so clean.

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

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