(This is the follow on from Akari and the Australian. I do suggest reading that account first. Thanks again to Rotorhead450 who endlessly advises, edits and corrects!)
Chapter 1
My name is Conrad Ostle Jr. My friends call me Cord. I am 54 years old. I was born in the sixties. At that time my family were of such standing in London that the Ostle children (there are four of us) could never be seen to get a job. Employment was an admittance of financial crisis. It was low class. Desperate. Dirty. The Ostle family stole so much from conquered civilizations outside of England over the centuries that our wealth was ensured for a thousand years. We children were indoctrinated to carry on the family pride on that matter.
However, I've learned to keep a low-profile since the folk of England began pulling down statues of colonial heroes of the past, their names tarnished with plunder and human trafficking. We don't have any recorded history of slavery, thank goodness, but it's fair to say illegitimate treasure acquisition was a specialty of my ancestors. These days many families are selling off estate lands, turning homes into museums, cutting off ties with the past. History is what the people who wrote it say it was, and there are new authors in town.
Through it all, the Ostle family held firm on their wealth. We still have our properties, our bonds, our shares in old money institutions. And rather than 'work', I've spent a lifetime in education, allowing me to interact with the common world without being wholly part of it. I hold the position of Professor, International Studies in Business. Yes, business. I convinced my family that one must understand a religion fully if you are to argue for or against it; and for many people, business is a religion - of which the Ostle Estate is agnostic, if not antagonistic.
I married a young Richmond girl, the right trophy wife for my trophy family. Stunningly blonde, with a small slender body and pert breasts. Her name was Stella. Her smile was an aphrodisiac. Her wit was sharp and playful. Her look was perfectly 'music-festival'. She'd had plenty of men before we met, but not ordinary people. Stella slept with rock bands and race drivers and politicians. None of them were rich, not properly rich like me - although it wasn't just my money that lured Stella and kept her - we got on naughtily well.
I had the wealth of an icon of industry, yet the politics of a social and ecological rebel. I had time to play, and could afford to sponsor people along. Stella and I travelled the world, following whims. We did post-grad courses in New York, Singapore and Tokyo. Stella went on a trip with Greenpeace to protest whaling near Antarctica, I did a visiting semester at a sister university in Moscow. We married in Vegas, just the two of us, much to the disgust of my mother - but we allowed our families to hold a debaucherous reception for us.
And the sex. Oh, the sex. Stella was a pocket-sized dynamo, a fucking-machine. If sex was a course at university, Stella would have been dux. Think of something, any sex you can. Stella tried it, and excelled. Animate or inanimate, human or non-human. As a best example, I can explain to you the exact logistics required to get a horse to successfully ejaculate into a small blonde girl. That's how wicked Stella could be. Her hips were never wide, but the gap between her thighs was massive.
Which is why I didn't take seriously her comedic speech at the final of her three fortieth birthday parties - announcing her retirement from sex.
"For those who have been at parties at the Ostle beach villa or on holiday with Cord and I," she grinned to the gathering of mostly her own friends, and definitely not any our family, "You probably know that I'm the greatest fuck the south of England has ever seen."
The drunken crowd cheered wildly at the unexpected, brazen declaration.
"Behind every successful woman is a good man, and Cord has helped and supported me to do things to people that blew their minds."
"Not just their minds," a yell came from the back.
"Of course," Stella grinned. "Guys cum just watching me fuck. I've had guys lined around the corner waiting their turn with the Master. I'm the only woman ever to be tailed by agents from the RSPCA! I'm the Muhammad Ali of fucking. The Patrick Ewing of fucking. The Michael Schumacher of fucking."
It was classic brazen Stella. And she still looked great. With her kit off, she was nothing over thirty.
"But what do those great men have in common?" Stella asked to the raucous tables.
"Who the fuck is Patrick Ewing?" one person asked, but was ignored.
"They all had a piece of you?" suggested another.
"Nope. Next?"
"You like fucking black guys?" someone yelled out.
"That doesn't even make sense," Stella ribbed back. "One more?"
"They are all dead?"
"I don't think any of them are dead," Stella scrunched up her face. "No, listen. None of them stopped at the top of their game. All of them played on too long. Past their prime. They all tarnished their legacy by not walking away when they were still number one. When they finished, they were forced to finish. Washed up. Gone. Respect diminished. That's not going to happen to me."
Stella let it sink in for a few moments.
"I hereby announce my retirement from sex, effective immediately. I've had a great career and I'm absolutely on top of my game. Right now, today, I am the best fuck around, and I'm walking away."
The back and forth between Stella and the crowd went on for some time. It was great theatre, perfect for Stella to make a splash at her own fortieth birthday party. And even if she meant it, I assumed she meant it was the end of our parties and the group sex, not the end of all sex forever.
You can imagine my surprise and disgust when we got home and I found that there was no getting into my wife's pussy that night. Or the next night. Nor the following week, nor the following month, nor the following year. Stella had shut the world out of her cunt, and that meant me as well. She had been deadly serious about her retirement.
"But you're retiring both of us by doing that!" I complained bitterly. "You're making that decision for me."
"No, I'm not."
"Oh, so I can go and fuck some other girls, can I?"
"Of course not. You know I hate cheating. Everything we have ever done has been together and that can't change now!"
"So? What exactly is the solution?"
"Cord, it's just sex. I'm not obliged to do it am I? I'm forty, you're forty-five. It's time for our next life-stage. We can't keep doing it forever, right?"
"But you are... in perfect condition for fucking still. There is no need to stop yet."
"That was my point darling. People shouldn't play on past their prime."
"Stella, this is not a game. It's our life. My life."
"Exactly!" Stella smiled and kissed me. "And this is the next stage of that. Your wife still loves you, baby."
That was nine years ago.
You can imagine the angst and frustration I've been through since. Especially working onsite at university, surrounded by young women carrying themselves as Stella used to; an unending reminder of what I miss. Thankfully my age gap with them averted the danger of a dalliance. Experimental university girls will go with older men, but not old men. As soon as I turned fifty, I wasn't even flirting material. I hoped it was respect for age, but I suspect it was disregard for it.
The ridiculousness of masturbation at my age was not lost on me. I'd had seventeen years of Stella's libido before she quit cold-turkey. Never in any of those years did I need to bring myself off. To return to that world was humiliating. Frustrating. Demeaning. I felt her decision was ungracious and uncaring. It was entirely without empathy. But there was no budging it. My choice was to accept it or leave her.
It was a rotten situation to be in, and I drifted through a sea of frustration for years. It wasn't until I was fifty-two that I resolved I would more actively respond to the possibility of a sexual affair. Seven years without as much as a blowjob was enough. No one could begrudge me, surely? I wouldn't go looking for it, but if I came across the chance, I would take it. That was two years ago, and I was still waiting for that chance to appear.
And then came Akari Suzuki.
Chapter 2
My name is Akari. I am from a town called Sanda in Japan. It is not a big town, but it does have the educational administration centre for the region. As a high school alumna of Sanda and a graduate from university in nearby Kobe, I was offered a scholarship to do my Masters degree in London. International Business Studies. It was a wonderful privilege to be selected. My friends and family were very proud. My boyfriend too, though it was a difficult time for us. We couldn't find a way to go together, his own doctorate studies were at a critical time.
Jordan was only my second official boyfriend, but we were very close and serious. We'd been together for almost three years and I mostly lived out of his apartment. We hadn't been any more than a day or two apart from each other all that time. We both knew it wasn't only the support and company of each other we would miss - Jordan and I had sex more than once a day. Unless it was my period, I wouldn't leave bed in the morning without sperm in me. It was our way of waking up. Of course, we couldn't go to sleep without doing it either. So, being far away was going to be a tough test.
"Eleven hours flight to Kansai," I consoled him at the airport. "I'll be back every break."
"And Australia for Christmas," he added.
"Hmm. But we can't stay there as long as last year. You'll need you to fuck me day and night after being away that long," I said, worried. His parents were so religious; we couldn't even admit we had sex before marriage. When we visited, it was separate rooms. The first few times I went, we only stayed for a few nights then ran away to a tropical resort to be free together, but last Christmas we had stayed ten days. It was torture for us. "No way could I put up with ten days again."
"One night, two at most," Jordan entirely agreed.
So, I landed in Heathrow at the end of summer. I lived in a student boarding house in a place called Kingston, in the south west of London. There are lots of university campuses in that area, so students where I lived went to different schools. I was older, too. Most were undergraduates, there were only a few post-grad students as tight on money as me, or without a UK family connection, to need the cheapest student accommodation. I literally slept in a bunk bed with three other girls in the room. Even finding a quiet place to study wasn't easy.
Overall, I struggled in my first term. New country, new culture, ridiculous food, and a difficult course in a second language. No boyfriend meant no sex, and little privacy meant I couldn't even use the toys I brought with me. And to add even more stress, my scholarship required an A average to continue the next term payment.
When I got a B on one of my first major projects just before Christmas break, I almost went into meltdown. It was the tipping point. I seriously considered going back to Jordan at Christmas and not returning to London. One of my roommates caught me crying on my bunk. After talking she said that if I thought my grade was incorrect or unfair, I should go to the professor and get it looked at. People complain all the time, she told me, saying I should at least try. So, I made an appointment to meet the Professor.
Chapter 3
When I mark papers from students that I know, I'm extra careful. I don't want any suggestion of favoritism. If I'm sitting on the fence, I mark down. If someone gets grumpy about their low grade, it's good for my 'brand', and for the student there is the safety-net of an appeal. Post-grad students have the right to request a different person to re-evaluate their grade. So, if I knew someone well enough to be considered a 'connection', or if there was a particularly gorgeous and attractive girl in class, I was a tough marker.
I had never spoken directly with Akari, but she clearly fell into the latter category. I never had a thing for Asian girls before Akari, and I'd certainly never slept with one. My fascination with the svelte beauty of Akari was new to me, but it hit hard. I don't think I'd ever had to hide a boner in class like I did whenever she walked in. There was no reason for me to think of her sexually, Akari did nothing with me or anyone else to put herself out there. In fact, she was a ghost on campus, I rarely saw her out of class. Her clothes were entirely ordinary, Akari never dressed to be sexy - but - some girls are sexy in anything they wear. Akari was case in point. Jeans and jumper, or sweat pants and hoodie, or long dress with a skivvy - anything and everything on her was dripping with femininity.
I didn't mark her project harder than I normally would for a babe in my class, my B was tough but defendable. If it was re-graded to an A, it would be a soft evaluation, but also defendable. When she made an appointment to see me, I was happy. Firstly, I was glad someone had told her the grade was reviewable. As an overseas scholarship student, I did worry she didn't know she could appeal. I would be happy if she got a A from someone else's audit, just not from me. Secondly, it would give me a few moments alone with the girl I was most infatuated with. After nine years of a platonic marriage, just the aroma of that beautiful young woman would give me shivers.
At four in the afternoon on a Friday, the faculty was virtually cleared out when Akari knocked on my door. I had butterflies like a teen, it made me laugh at myself. It was almost dark outside, so I flipped the window blinds shut and opened the door.
"Miss Suzuki, welcome, come in, come in. Take a seat!"
Akari came in, but stayed standing. She took off her huge coat and bag and put them on the seat instead. Oh, short blue cashmere jumper, white collared shirt under it, and jeans. Long, flowing dark hair. So, so gorgeous. I sat behind my small desk to hide the bulge in my pants.
"I'm Professor Ostle. I've seen you in class. Welcome, I hear you are on an international program. Japan, is that right? Your first time to live in London? Have you settled in?"
Calm down, I told myself. I was shaking. One question at a time, idiot.
