Hiroko

Scoff not, jaded Literoticans. Some of this is true. It happened to me in Japan in November 2016.

All persons depicted were over the age of 18 years at that time. Including Hiroko!!

*****

Shin-Kobe to Okamoto on the Hankyu Kobe railway line is a delight to travel. I never tired of the passing parade of Japanese faces, the mothers with children and elderly people going about their ordinary business. The railway system itself is a great wonder of the world. Trains are immaculately clean, very safe and almost always exactly on time. National pride depends on it. One of the aspects of the rail network is that each carriage has an area dedicated to the sick, elderly and disabled. Boarding is orderly and woe betide any one occupying the plush seats without the requisite qualification.

A 'Gaijin' of 69 years I took my place on the train. Dressed conservatively I did not appear to be a tourist although in reality I was, I was not going anywhere in particular, just enjoying the ride as a train buff from long back.

At the next stop she boarded and took a seat almost opposite me, self confident and with a presence that made me take notice. This woman looked to be in her late fifties, possibly early sixties, but one never can tell. Some Asian women age deceptively well. The first outstanding feature was a green bound, white eye shade and a plastic half band holding back her salt and pepper hair. Beneath, her eyes surveyed me with interest. With a round face and epicanthic fold she appeared archetypical Japanese. The character lines from ageing only made her look more appealing. Her apparel explained it all, tennis blouse and shorts. Sitting demurely across from me she would have seen my eyes lower and drink in the sight of her lovely thighs and calves, right down to the canvas tennis shoes.

I was a guest in her lovely country, the Japanese are very conservative, so I averted my gaze as would be expected of me. But my mind raced. I had been in the country for nearly a month, in that time drawing in the pageant of beauty passing before me. Here was a woman I could really go for.

The train slowed and smoothly stopped at Okamoto. The woman rose and left the carriage, casting a rearward glance at me. On impulse I stood and followed her out of the train, more to get a rear view than any definite plan. I wasn't disappointed. Although she was not tall, probably 5'2", matronly yes, but with superbly proportioned hips and buttocks.

Then I lost sight of her in the crowd. With some small regret I proceeded through the automated exit gate intending to explore the area before heading back to Kobe. Standing somewhat bemused in the purposeful crowd I felt a tug on my sleeve, a piece of paper was thrust into my hand and a white clad figure walked briskly away from me. I looked down, on a tourist brochure was scrawled the words "FOLO ME", in block letter printing. That easily translated to the Japanese, "Forro me". I quickly looked around to see her disappearing into an open fronted coffee shop. Without a second thought I did "forro her"!!

I found her sitting rather shyly at the rear of the shop. My Japanese is rudimentary but I still made a good show of bowing slightly and saying "Konnichiwa", then politely pausing before I sat down. Her head was bent in embarrassment, although no other Japanese customers would have noticed. As she looked up I smiled broadly, something that comes easily to me, to set her at ease.

Her first words were, in English, "American?" Thinking at light speed I promptly answered "Yes.".

Clearly a lie because I am Australian. But would she know the difference? Gaijin translates to NOT Japanese. "I am from Alaska". I thought familiarity with my home state of Tasmania might get me through awkward questioning, there being some similarities. This seemed to satisfy her curiosity.

"Shigoto Nippon?" (Working in Japan?)

"No, I am retired", I guessed the direction of the questions. "I am tourist".

"I Hiroko".

"I Brent"

With a quizzical look on her face she said in English "Come, Brent?" as an invitation, not a command. I felt safe with Hiroko. Thereafter I left it to her to take me on the journey of a lifetime.

The taxi wound its way through several quaint villages on the coastal plain to the foothills of the mountains before stopping at a small gated enclosure. Not a villa as we perceive it but a small traditional one storied Japanese house with wood panels and a clay tiled roof. The journey had been one of inscrutable silence. Hiroko sat demurely in the rear seat but that only intensified the tension. I had no idea where I was and could only but trust a stranger I had met barely an hour before.

Hiroko unlocked the heavy wooden door using a strange iron key that moved wooden tumblers on the far side. Pushing the door open she ushered me inside. I had been in Japan long enough to know the proper etiquette. I removed my shoes and placed them in the shelf provided and donned the slippers provided. Looking around it was a small and minimalist house, immaculate and tasteful in every way. Very Japanese!!

"You wait" she ushered me to a small settee. I did, appreciating the detail of the building. I heard a shower running and after quite some time she appeared with a tray. My eyes betrayed my amazement. Surely this was not the woman I had met on the train? Her hair was now coiffed with a false secondary bun pinned by a mother-of-pearl comb in Geisha style, her face was powdered nearly white and her lips were brightly red. She wore a light blue, flower patterned kimono, white socks and outrageously high wooden clogs that accentuated the movement of her whole being.

The tray had the typical green tea pot, two small handle less cups, and a bamboo whisk. With great reverence she knelt down before me, poured the tea, vigorously whisked it while muttering a prayer and in supplication lifted it up to me. I have seen the tea ceremony so nothing was new or unexpected, except that in bending forward her kimono had opened slightly to show her bare breasts, possibly deliberately so. I was transfixed. They were small, obviously age and gravity was having some effect but her nipples were exceptional and would have done justice to a woman half her age.

Now I was uncomfortable. My manhood was growing in the confines of my trousers. She knew too!! Hiroko took the cup from my hands while I straightened myself, somewhat self-consciously.

"Arigato" I said with some embarrassment, to be greeted by an ever so sweet smile. "Arigato, arigato" I repeated. Her response was to put a finger to her lips in the universal silencing gesture.

Her prayer, the maiden's prayer, was going to be answered.

At least it delivered me from the green tea, something I don't enjoy.

Hiroko jumped up with another "Wait, Brent". Again I could hear water running this time from the adjoining room. She returned with a great white towel and pointed in another direction which confused me. "Shower!!".

It was a relief to stand under the hot water. My cock had wilted but I was sweating, but not from room heat.

The Western style bathrooms in Japan are a delight. The toilet seats are heated, music plays and a nozzle extends to wash your bum in warm water before blowing same dry with warm air. Even public toilets are so equipped. After my shower I used another attribute of the toilet console. An enema!! I wanted to be clean inside and out. Three flushes and I was ready to take on the world.

Coming out of the bathroom Hiroko was beckoning me through a papered Shoji screen panel door. Once in, I was again transfixed. There was a small wooden bath filled nearly to the brim with water. I have been in "Onsen" before and found them unbearably hot. Hiroko obligingly added more cold water.

She had tied her hair back, removed the traditional make-up and was wrapped in a matching towel. She indicated that I get in first. Which I did without embarrassment and settled down to watch her. Asian women are adept at maintaining their modesty. In one deft movement she had unwrapped the towel, screened herself from me and slid below the water.

The room was dimly lit and I could see little of her through the water. But what one can't see one can feel. She had slid in with her legs either side of mine in the confines and we sat facing each other. She made no attempt to touch me beyond the incidental skin on skin contact in the bath. This I took to be a test of my self control, for I certainly had to struggle to control myself. So we sat there in the slowly cooling water, making small talk and sizing each other up. I knew she was deliberating on her next move.

I ascertained that she was several years younger than I. She had been married several times to "company men" and was still legally married, although they had little to do with each other. She knew there had been American service men stationed in the country, and Kobe had been their naval base. My being 'American' was pivotal to my good fortune. Hiroko felt neglected and lonely as the years passed, she felt she was not valued as her world changed and not for the better. Try as she might she could not settle into retirement. The tennis and other pursuits would never replace the glory days of her youth.

Her decision made, she sprang up, taking me quite by surprise. I was in the box seat. I saw the water running off her breasts, I saw the manicured hair of her pubic mound, trimmed to the mirror image of the bare area on the nape of a Geisha's neck. Now I really wanted her.

Hiroko took more time to towel off, coquettishly wrap herself in a silk dressing gown and glide through the en-suite door to the bedroom. The finger motion said all I needed to hear. I was out of the bath wiping myself furiously, and not too well before bounding through the doorway, still dripping.

I lay on the right side of the futon mattress. Hard though they are, I had accommodated to them in my travels. Two crane motif pillows lay at our heads. Hiroko had her eyes closed in expectation as I slipped my left arm beneath her neck and brought my mouth to her ear and gently licked her lobe, a gesture of considerable intimacy. Older Asians are not enthusiastic kissers and I did not want to prejudice events at this advanced stage. She just lay there, breathing slowly, deliberately, to retain control of her calm. My beating heart was betraying me.

The hand that slipped me the note in the railway station now gently took mine and slipped it in the fold of her gown and straight to her left breast.

After a brief moment to get used to my rough hands she turned to me with a quizzical look "Suki?". The equivalent of the English word "love" made its first appearance. Not wanting to give her pause for thought I quickly responded with a sharp "Hai", yes!, while silently reserving the meaning to be "I 'Love' fondling your breast".

Formalities dispensed I took upon the challenge of making her "love" what I was doing. She eased the fabric away and I could clearly see the small mound had slumped somewhat, and a faint areole flowing away from an erect, ape-like nipple sometimes found on oriental women. What a pleasure to suck on such a treasure and I wasted no time lying across her and drawing the teat in. That pleasure was two way, her arm pinning me to her mammary gland while her head arched backwards. Another shift in position and I had two hands pinioning me such that I was nearly suffocating.

"Namete hoshii! Namete hoshii!", "Suck it, suck it!!"

Fuckin' oath I would suck them until they dissolved away. It was like sucking a small dick and with the same exquisite sensitivity for her. So lucky to have two of them on one chest!!

The power of her desire gave her much strength for she pushed my head down towards her pussy while bringing her left leg up over my back to jamb my head where she wanted it. I felt her hips begin to thrust towards me as her lips met mine, vaginal lips that is. A smear of fluid wet my nose as soft rubbery skin passed by, then a coarse hairy patch grazed my cheek. Near but not near enough. Her scent had a hint of fish, not surprisingly given the Japanese diet. Another quarter turn and she was on top, hammering my ears and penetrating my ear canals with her index fingers. Now I really could not breathe. What a heavenly way to go?? My fight for survival only accentuated her desire.

I was unable to hear but I could see. As she raised herself into a semi sitting position I could see her belly heaving, looking further up I could see her tits swinging freely, and beyond that her face contorting in ecstasy. With her terminal thrust she let out a cry that I could not properly hear then sat back slightly to give me air, and terminate the stimulation of her clitoris. She was looking down at me with a demented, vacant eyed, grin. As she lifted a little higher I could see her gorgeous little cunt in sharper focus just as her urethral sphincter began to pulsate involuntarily. I saw that tiny bluish slit wink at me, then a tear formed and dripped on my chin followed by a hesitant mini squirt that flowed over my lips. Hot, metallic and charming, because she still cradled my head and continued to spasm. Hiroko was cooing in a particularly Japanese way until the realisation of what she had done intruded on her revery.

"Chikusho, chikusho" she cried out, equivalent to damn or shit, trying both to apologise and wipe my face.

I fought her hands away "ii, ii", (good, good) as I licked her tiny aperture clean. Far better a small amount of involuntarily passed sterile piss than a glob of spittle dropped into the mouth, much favoured in Japanese porn!! Also it was damned hot, not only the piss but the thought that she was so carried away by her pleasure that it overwhelmed her natural instincts of body control. Japanese people have made a religion out of conscious control of body and mind. My cock was straining as never before.

In that sitting position she turned her head to look. "Kowai"!! ("I am afraid"!! But not too afraid!!), for she lifted her hips again, reached under to grasp my cock and slithered down my body to bring it up against her vaginal lips. With her saliva and a generous helping of mine she managed to twist herself over my bulging knob and slowly sink down on to my none too slim belly.

As she lay on my chest I felt the cool wetness of a tear or two drop on to the crook of my shoulder where her head lay. I stroked her ear gently. It was some time before I felt the first gentle squeeze from her vaginal musculature. Slow and deliberate. I wondered whether it was her cunt or her heart beat? For minutes I didn't really know if she was moving at all. But then, like Maurice Ravel's musical masterpiece, Bolero, I felt both the pressure and tempo increase. Had she seen the movie "Ten"?

Not that it mattered one iota!! I lay there with this small, trim bodied older Japanese woman using her whole being to play her rendition on the pink piccolo. Her very tightness stopped me deflating, and at the same time the warmth and slipperiness of her birth canal was doing its magic. As she thrust down with increasing vigour I pushed my hips up to meet her. That repetitious collision of the base of my cock and her pubic mound quickly primed her clitoris and she was heading for another orgasm. As it neared she pulled to the side, indicating she wanted to roll on her back. That accomplished I started to ram her with an equal and opposite force. Those muscular little legs wrapped around my thighs as she buried her heels behind my knees. Ordinarily it would have hurt but now we were both enthusiastically engaged in the horizontal folk dance. Language regressed to primal grunts, it was a juggernaut of sensation and emotion that neither of us could control.

I felt a searing pain on my back as Hiroko raked her long and sharp fingernails deep into me and simultaneously ravaged my neck with her teeth to stifle her shriek of delight. This added to my excitement and I gave the vinegar stroke as she thrashed around on the futon, blood now dripping down my flank.

When we collapsed together there was a silence, then a weak laugh of embarrassment from both of us. I had not fucked with this abandon for many a long year. I wonder if she ever had.? It seemed as though a long repressed need was driving her. Our immediate concern was the fluid on the mattress.

The mixture of all our body fluids, sweat, saliva, semen, her vaginal lubricant, her urine and my blood had turned the sheet into a passable likeness of the Shroud of Turin.

What happened in the wake of our love making? I sort of fell in love with Hiroko. She was married and had to retain a facade of correct behaviour. She still contacts me when her husband is out of town and I travel to the Okamoto Railway Station in anticipation of that gentle tug on my shirt sleeve.