Jet Lagged in Japan

Jet lag can be a killer but it can also be a giver. If John McClane hadn't been fighting his jet lag in the corporate bathroom, he would have been rounded up with the others and the Die Hard franchise would have been snuffed at birth. Yippee-Ki-Yay mother hubbard!

I'd been burning the candle not at both ends but burning it twice as fast on the work end. No work/life balance and spending another late night at the office the day before the red eye to Tokio. The saving grace being I would arrive on a Sunday and get a night's sleep before my day with prospective clients.

Comfortable flight, but again I'm on my laptop for most of it so not topping up my sleep tank and by touchdown I've slept six hours in the last 48. Not good. Check-in is a blur at the hotel and no sooner in the key in the door than the sheets are back off the bed and I'm enveloped in Japanese linen which smothers me into unconsciousness.

As a result, I oversleep and when my bleary eyes focus on the clock, there's less than an hour before I'm due in an office ten blocks away. I ring down to reception to ask for a taxi and there's nothing to be had for another hour. With the sublime politeness that the Japanese have, the receptionist asks me where I'm trying to get to and then tells me that a super efficient public bus service will leave in twenty minutes from outside the hotel and stops within five minutes of my destination.

A hurried shower and as few clothes as I can get away with the combat the heat and the potential running around I'll have to do and I'm barrelling out of the hotel doors and joining a queue clambering through the rear doors to board a spotlessly clean bus.

It's only after the doors close and we set off that I realise that every other person on this bus is in a uniform. At least they're all of a reasonably mature age and I won't have to endure erupting acne or the tinny zizz of badly insulated headphones.

Instead, this group were texting and smart phone surfing their social media fingers off. I was on the wrong bus. In my overslept haste I had jumped on the wrong bus. This one was, according to the signs, on a bus bound for Tokio university.

I hadn't managed to get a seat so I slumped against a pole to do my own smart phone surfing. Not for social media but for a map to see where I was going and then to send an email to my hosts, begging their forgiveness, patience and hoping that this was not the sort of dishonour that would cause anyone to lose face. Or any other bodily part.

Now that I knew that I was heading further and further away from my destination, and that this bus didn't stop again before it got there in over an hour's time, I called base (forgetting the time difference) and shared my shame. All in all, it seemed best to re-schedule the whole day's worth of meetings for tomorrow and start again.

Today was my own and I could do as I pleased so I decided to explore wherever it was that I got to before trying to find a taxi that could take me to back to the city centre and preferably to some sort of baths or spa where I could steam out my frustrations and get a pummelingly good massage.

Once I had hung up, the young student nearest me turned her beautiful Asian face to my chest and asked if I was alright. Her English was faultless, albeit with an American dialect. Certainly better than my Japanese, which was non-existent.

So I explained my mistake and cause and my companion made all the giggles, smiles and blushes that you would expect from an excruciatingly polite and shy Asian damsel. Being the best part of a foot taller than her, in order to be heard she moved closer. And with the aforementioned height difference, that put her head just below my jaw and in order to maintain eye contact, I was obliged to look down and as a result look down the gap in her browse to enjoy the sight of pink lace wrapped jiggly womanliness. The jiggliness coming courtesy of the bus' suspension, despite the pool table smooth tarmac.

Now that the ice was broken and the distance between us closed, we continued to speak and share life stories and dreams of what she hoped to do after graduation and what I wanted to do next in my career. She was delightful company and being in higher education, her conversation was informed and topical.

As I became engrossed in our chat, my Neanderthal brain was soaking up her appearance. About 5'2" as I said but at a guess, I'd say size 8 and a generous 34B. She was dressed, as I mentioned in a blouse, which happened to be crisp white to the point of appearing starched with too many buttons undone to be decorous. Neanderthal man was grateful for the high humidity in Tokio for that. And below the waist was a pleated, plaid skirt. Although clearly having left school some years ago and above the age of consent, she had opted for the schoolgirl look, complete with knee high socks and Mary Jane pumps. Neanderthal man was grateful was odd Oriental predilections.

As smooth as the tarmac was and as efficient as the bus' suspension was, there was undoubtedly forces at work that were determined to rub a twenty-something's nubile body up against mine. This made it very hard. Hard to concentrate on our conversation and hard to conceal just how hard all of this was making me.

This was embarrassing enough but in my pursuit of combating the humidity, I had sacrificed any form of underwear and the fabric of my trousers was closer to a lightweight linen than a sturdy worsted. As a result, blood engorged flesh snaked down the leg of my trousers and made a distinct manprint.

A manprint that stoked its length against the thigh of my travelling companion and drew pleasure from the encounter. Subconsciously or not, this self same companion continued to rub herself against me and if I'm not mistaken, she was actually spreading those thighs so that the throbbing, rubbing trouser snake was clamped against her skirt and jammed into the apex.

With a flutter of dark, dewy eyes my companion looked up at me and bit her lower lip in a way words can't describe but which will be imprinted in my memories until the day I die. Or Alzheimer's robs me of my faculties. Her tiny hand, with perfectly manicured fingers, timidly touched my chest and those nails seem to scratch the cotton of my shirt and my skin beneath tingles and yearns for more.

I clench and unclench my palms, unsure what to do. We're surrounded by other passengers. If I've read the signs wrong, she screams and I get arrested. After that comes a whole world of pain that at best includes deportation. So I continue to talk about what I hope to do with my extra day off and to ask her what there might be at our destination for me to enjoy.

With the look I can't describe in words, she looks at me again. Or rather, straight through me into my soul. She then asks if I need to wait until I get off the bus before I enjoy myself. Do I not enjoy myself in her company? And as she speaks, her hand runs down my shirt and into my lap. There's no mistaking her intent as her fingers encircle my almost fully formed erection and stroke it up and down.

My mouth opens and closes, but no words emerge. I succumb to the sensations and a fully fledged erection swells and fills her hand. Finally, I confess that I am enjoying our time together immensely. In fact, if she's not careful, my enjoyment will climax unceremoniously. As I say the words, I hope that her English will understand the double meaning of my words.

In response, I get the look again and you squeeze closer. Under the cover of my jacket, your hand deftly slides down the zipper of my trousers and reaches inside. When she is wrist deep inside, her hand retraces its grip around my shaft and pulls it to the open fly where she pulls it free.

Her eyes moisten and dilate with desire as she looks at me again and she bites her lip more deeply until I fear that she will draw blood. They remain fixed as she jostles and manoeuvres herself. I am puzzled at first but then I feel fabric against the tip of my penis and those eyes now glint with more mischief.

It now becomes clear what her re-position was intended to achieve. Her skirt drapes over her busy hand which conceals her actions and it would seem that she is rubbing her swollen sex with mine, through the cotton of her panties. My mushroomed crown presses into the creased folds of her labia. The sensation drives me crazy and I start to buck my hips against her until I remember we're on a crowded bus and restrain myself.

My Asian princess then moves up on tiptoe and places the softest and most fragrant kiss I can recall upon my lips. Then another. And another. And each lasts longer than its predecessor until there is no gap between each and they melt into a passionate onslaught on my senses and desires.

Whilst enraptured in her kiss, her nimble fingers slide down and pull on the waist band of her panties. I feel the band strum against my erection and then I am pressed against warm flesh. She resumes rubbing me against her, her against me but now there is nothing, not a single scrap of material, linen, cotton or nylon between me and full penetration. Not a thing, not even the confining latex of a condom.

The sudden realisation of the situation overwhelms me and my knees briefly buckle until I recover. The movement of recovery makes me thrust up against her. A tiny gasp bursts from her lips as her keep is breached. This is madness, sweet intoxicating madness. A girl at least ten years my junior, in a foreign country, whose name I don't know, whom I met ten minutes ago, dressed as a college girl, studying for her masters in political science is about to commit the most intimate of personal and tender acts with me. I am one inch out of eight towards being balls deep in her.

Neanderthal man speaks. Not with words but with actions and grips her hips before slamming up and deep, lifting her off of her feet for fractions of a second but on her descent the final penetration is complete and her shaved (who knew?) groin is pressed against mine. Any pretence of normality is gone and I thrust back and forth, now our union sings with slap after slap of flesh on flesh, punctuated by the gasp and moan of her pleasure.

Jet lag. Ninety nine times out of a hundred it'll rip your face off and spit in the sockets but today jet lag was fated to deliver me to this moment. This perfect moment. Bruce Willis gets to shoot bad guys and blow stuff up, I get to pound my cock through the youngest woman I've had in over ten years.

Reality bursts back and I feel exposed when my Asian princess (when would be the appropriate time to ask her name?) moves away and un-sheathes herself from me. She steps down and turns around, pushing her panties all the way off and stepping out of them. She backs up to me and lifts her skirt, making a new revelation as I see her peachy cheeks for the first time.

And then they're gone again, covered my her skirt as the distance is closed and her velvet gloved pussy admits my steely cock again and those cheeks part and envelope me. Pleasure is restored and we move to make our lovemaking into sounds. Slap, slap, slap, gasp, moan, grunt. On and on with a vigour and stamina I have not felt in years.

My hands reach under her to pull the blouse from her skirt and admit access to what lies beneath. Across her smooth stomach, encountering a small stud in her navel (again, who knew?) until I can pull at the flimsy edges of her bra. It's a front fastener so it soon yields to my command and delivers its warm, fleshy contents to my eager palms.

This stirs something in my companion and I can feel her pelvic muscles ripple and wriggle around me. A sensation I have never known as I am expertly and deftly milked and squeezed. In response, I cup each breast and caress each nipple as I bring them to proud attention, the areolae around each engorging and stiffening in plump arousal.

Once more, I feel exposed as she ends our union to step away. She turns and kisses me again. I drown in the intoxication of the moment as we explore each other's mouths. I break momentarily to ask her name. I can't continue with such anonymity during such an intimate act.

She tells me that her name is Akira and I tell her that my name is Jim. And then she bends in front of me, on her knees and licks my cock. It glistens with the sweet musk of her fluids and she savours each lick and suck and swallows whole. Her nose presses to my groin and her tongue laps at me inside her mouth.

She lubricates the act with her spittle and soon I'm gliding back and forth through a heaven seldom known. Her throat offers brief resistance and it feels as I am actually fucking her face. I have lost track of time and have no idea how much longer until we reach our destination. Which personally speaking, I am all too likely to reach of a more climatic nature soon.

Lust filled eyes lookup at me as she senses a straining and stiffening in my actions. It takes every sinew of self control not to explode in rapture when she mumbles a query (she is talking with her mouth full after all) to enquire if I want to cum in her mouth or inside her.

In response and conscious of the fact that we're nearly there, I pull her to her feet. She rests her head on my chest and then, in a move a gymnast would envy raises her left leg to grab her ankle and rest it on my shoulder before reaching down to guide my wet, eager, hair-trigger penis back to her labia and to enter sweet nirvana again. Hands grasped on her buttocks and I slam home.

We kiss again and she whispers in my ear to cum inside her now. I submit and comply. This unusual position tautened and tightened her muscles around and within her sex and once more her muscle control rippled and gripped me tightly and expertly squeezed me until sweet ecstasy of ecstasies, I unloaded.

But this was no ordinary ejaculate. My toes curled, my ears sang, my blood pulsed, my senses heightened and I pumped. And pumped. And pumped. And pumped. I kept pumping and discharging my seed into Akira. No thought for precautions or impregnations, only the symphony and desire of the moment.

She bit into my shoulder and whimpered her appreciation of the deed, sighing and moaning with what I now realise was her own orgasm. Panting gave way to deep breaths, gave way to regular breathing and she brought her leg back down again. We kissed once more and she buttoned her blouse back and I slipped my withering manhood back within my trousers.

In bending to retrieve her panties, her peachy cheeks were exposed again and I groaned inwardly at the sight and the memories it brought back already. Before I could raise my zipper she stuffed her panties into my fly and patted them. Saying that she wanted me to have something to remember her by.

There was no way I would not remember this day and the pleasures it had brought. I took a card from my pocket and slipped it into the fabric of her freshly re-clasped bra. I told her that I was staying at the Hilton and I would be delighted to see her again and spend some time together in a more conventional way.

With a huge laboured hiss, the bus pulled to a halt and the passengers threaded out and onto the pavement. Feeling slightly foolish now because she didn't respond and made no indication of what we had just experienced. In fact, she joined her friends (I assume) and they walked across the concourse.

But just as she was almost out of my eye line, she turned to blow me a kiss and flipped up the back of her skirt to expose those peachy cheeks again. Then she signed the universal gestures for I'll call you, and disappeared.

Thoughts of exploring this unfamiliar place went out of my head. I needed a drink and a seat to take the weight off. I was working through my third Asahi beer when my cell phone chirped.

"Please don't rush off, my lectures end at 4 and I would like to travel again on the bus with you. It was very much fun!! Aki xx"

O God, how could I not accept the prospect of time with her again. But that's another story.