Chikan Riding The Tokyo Subway

It's a fantasy of mine, ever since I was college student commuting to class by subway in Tokyo, to have said yes to the recruiters who would approach me almost every day at Shibuya Station when I changed trains. They would ask if I would like to be a gravure model, just shots of me in a fake school uniform and maybe a one piece swimsuit if I would like. Nothing else, they assured me, no nudes necessary (although I was already past the minimum age of consent for sex at that time in Japan, so many young women posed nude in Japanese gravure photo magazines or even having sex in glossy porn magazines and JAV (Japanese Adult Video) that it was a booming industry and even respectable university students like me and everyday OL (Office Ladies) could become popular gravure JAV idols...).

What if I said yes and followed them to do a shoot instead of going to my lectures that day? Would I have become a different person? Or maybe I would have discovered and explored the kinky hentai side of my sexuality even earlier in my life...?

So here I am today, now a middle aged adult, dressed in a schoolgirl uniform, a hentai (pervert) photographer taking photos of me, finally, after so many years...

He stands behind me, telling me to lift my skirt. I am wearing respectable panties that cover most of my buttocks, thick white cotton underwear like the kind I used to wear as a teen.

I think of the chikan (perverts) in crowded subway trains that still grope me in the morning and afternoon everyday, on the way to work and on the way home, and how they press their bodies against me and reach beneath my skirt to rub and fondle me. I imagine myself on the train right now in this schoolgirl uniform, and how even as a middle aged woman I still look young enough to pass potentially as a teen--my tiny petite body (152cm and 40kg) still small enough to look much younger than I actually am, the extra taboo excitement that this uncertainty about age would bring as the perverts groped my swollen pussy lips through my cotton underwear, until the fabric was soaked with my leaking juices. I know the feeling already from constant experience every single day riding the crowded train during the overcrowded crush of people during the busy rush hours every morning and night.

I think of that time when I was in college of that one bold molester who went so much farther than even the most persistent of the everyday perverts. They would reach underneath my blouse and squeeze and pinch my nipples and breasts. But him, that middle aged man that day on the long morning express train, he went so much further in what he did. I still shiver with shame and excitement thinking about that morning, the memory of it seared forever in my mind in a way that leaves all of the thousands of daily groping and touching and squeezing fading into background noise.

Even in my daily molestations, I know, I should have been afraid and angry. But instead in my boredom with the daily commute, I often welcomed their touch, looking forward every morning to this ritual of unwanted/wanted touch, even disappointed if no one reached for me on the 45 min train ride each way...

The men would finger me, but most would also rub their erections against my thighs and buttocks. They were always behind me, always out of my sight because of their shyness, their fear of being seen. They wanted to look at me, touch me, but if I turned to see them, they would squirm to stay out of my vision, my only knowledge of them the feel of their fingers on and in me, or the warm throb of their hardened cocks rubbing against me through the fabric of their pants.

Often, when they discovered how wet and swollen I was, they would gasp in surprise. Some men would give up immediately and get off at the next train stop, not wanting to fondle a girl who wanted to be fondled. They were the true perverts, excited by the fear and vulnerability of innocent and unwilling, craving the powerlessness of their victims, the vulnerable woman's inability to resist or gather the courage to yell stop or shout "chikan" and embarrass themselves as well as the pervert.

I was too wet, too horny and slutty for those men....

Those men who ran, they were too scared and weak to know what to do with a little wanton slut like me. I, who had already begun masturbating at home in my bedroom years before, who could coat my hands with my musky pussy juices and soak my sheets with sweat from making myself cum 3, 4, 5, sometimes 10 or more times a day. The weak men did not know what to do with a slut who moved closer rather than away when they reached out, did not know how to handle a woman who would not pull her hand away when they placed my fingers on their erections. I, who would reach one hand to my hardened clitoris, or pinch my excited nipple, even as my other was placed on their hard cocks....

That one man who touched me on that particular morning commute, however:

He was excited that I was excited.

That man gasped when his fingers reached underneath my panties and felt how wet I was, but rather than being scared and withdrawing, he became emboldened and became more aggressive, whispering 愛蜜のしたたりin my ear--my "pussy juice was dripping" in Japanese, and implying that I was a "slut" for being so wet and excited, as he roughly began to push one then two then three fingers inside my wet vagina.

I should have been frozen in fear that day, trembling and trapped. Instead, I recoil in shame in the undeniable truth of my recollection of that day--that instead of afraid and resistant, I was swollen and excited, pinned by the crush of bodies in the overcrowded train, kept standing by the pressure of all the people around me when my weak knees collapsed as the pervert fingered my wet welcoming cunt and finger fucked me until I was faint and convulsing.

He was behind me, slightly to my left, his hard cock rubbing rhythmically with the rocking of the train against my left buttock, his right hand reaching from behind, under my skirt, down the back of my underwear, up inside my pussy from behind. I instinctively arched my back and turned my butt upwards so he could reach deeper inside me, could slide his fingers in and out of my tight cunt faster and easier. I moaned in excitement, the sound of my voice lost in the clacking and rumbling of the train on its tracks...

I was so wet that I could hear, even above the sounds of the train rumbling on the tracks, the obscene wet smacking noises of his fingers fucking my flooded cunt. One of my hands was now surreptitiously rubbing my own clit through my plaid skirt, my other hand reaching behind me was on the swollen cylinder of his cock, the warm soft skin of his hard shaft directly on my fingers.

He had unzipped his pants and pulled his erection through his fly, placing my hand around his thick long erection. He held it there at first, using my hand inside his hand as he slid my curled fingers up and down his hot shaft. Perhaps he thought I would pull my hand away if he did not trap my hand in his and guide it up and down. Perhaps he thought I would not want to stroke a man's cock in a crowded, that although horny I may have resisted a strangers sexual advances. Or perhaps he thought I was much younger than I actually was, and that I did not know how to properly pleasure a man.

He was right in a way. Although I had masturbated every day for years already, and had already had sex with women, including my college classmates at the women's university that I rode the train to and from everyday, fingering and kissing each other's wet swollen cunnies until we both exploded, I had only ever touched a man's penis while on the train, just like this, and did not know how hard or how fast to pull and squeeze. The college girls I made out with in my bed or in the back rooms of our university library had different versions of my own body, responded to my touch just as my own body responded. The only new thing with them was kissing, our tongues entwined. The play of tongues with another person was something I could not replicate at home alone, and the tastes of different girls mouths, along with the different ways their tongues danced—tentative and shy, or aggressive and assertive, shoving their fleshy mass into my throat.

Their pussies tasted different from the taste of my own when I licked my fingers clean, but they were still similar enough in taste and feel, as I licked and nibbled their labia and clits in the way that I thought I would like to be licked. With men it was different, an exotic mystery, their cocks like an alien artifact, an appendage nothing like anything on my body. I understood wetness and the slick smooth feel of a woman's cunt, the erection of excited hard nipples and fleshy knobs of clits when pinched and pulled and nibbled. I had no idea what to do with this man, this thick long penis that I could barely wrap my fingers all the way around.

The pervert had gotten on the train at the stop after I had, and began fondling me right away. The express train into Shibuya station took 30 minutes, before I had to get off and transfer to the line that took me to my college, another 35 minutes away.

I explain to the photographer as I pose for him that the pervert must have anticipated that I would be getting off the train at Shibuya Station, because as we passed the last express stop before the end of the line, he smoothly pulled his three fingers out of my pussy and without breaking rhythm, kept three fingers in my cunt by replacing his index finger with his ring finger. His index finger, now free, began to play with my asshole, using the slimy wetness from my cunt that still coated his finger to lubricate my tight butthole before slowly pushing the tip of his finger barely in and out again and again past my sphincter. He did this all without breaking rhythm with his finger fucking, and I was so close to orgasm by that point that the initial shock of his index finger pushing into my virgin asshole had momentarily paused the rising crescendo of my coming orgasm, but did not stop the inevitable climb toward my climax.

I had never played with my own asshole before, having concentrated always on my pussy. The strange new sensations and the unpleasant and yet pleasurable pressure on my asshole from his finger was making me squirm and moan. My sphincter instinctively tried to squeeze his fingertip out, as if pushing a difficult piece of feces out while sitting on the toilet. But it was as if I was constipated, and the hard turd in my ass was going in rather than out with each rhythmic squeeze of my sphincter ring.

Suddenly I gasped out loud as he pushed the whole length of his finger inside my rectum, pausing all four of his fingers as deep inside me as they could go. He held me like a puppet on his hand, my body literally rested on his four fingers impaling me from below and behind as my own finger kept rubbing my clitoris and I began to climax, my whole body twitching and convulsing and unintelligible noises escaping from my throat.

Somewhere in my brain, I realized that my other hand, still wrapped around his thick cock, had stopped stroking and pumping up and down his shaft and was now clenched tight as I came, squeezing his cock like a vice. Perhaps that's why I could feel the pulsing and throbbing of his penis so clearly as he began to cum. I actually had no rational conscious realization that he was having an orgasm. I was too lost in my own to realize what was happening or even what a male orgasm might entail. I came, and came again right away, a rare double climax that I had only experienced once before while discovering the joys of masturbation by rubbing myself for hours one night in bed until I was so sore and chafed that I could not walk the next morning.

It was only minutes later, after he had slid his fingers out of my cunt and asshole with a smooth plop, leaving me feeling empty, my body still shuddering with the aftershocks and trembling waves of my receding orgasm, that I felt something warm and then quickly cooling on my left thigh and left forearm. I had no idea what it was, especially since my whole body was covered in warm sweat, and so the strangeness was the cooling sensation of this liquid now dribbling slowly down my skin on my leg and arm. The man whispered a quiet and gruff 'arigato' into my ear and I heard the familiar tune of Shibuya Station playing on the train speakers.

As my body was moved by the crowded mass exiting the train all at once, I took a look down at my left forearm, seeing the pearlescent sticky white goo that was cooling on my skin. I still did not know what it was, and tried to brush it off with my right hand, but that only smeared it like soft butter across toast, spreading it all over my forearm and coating the inside of my right hand. One long slimy strand stretched out between my hand and forearm as I moved my hand away, and I felt a shocked curiosity, as if today was the first day I had discovered a secret I never knew was unknown to me.

As I walked towards my next train, I pulled a napkin out of my backpack and wiped my hand and arm clean. I marvelled at the mucus-like texture of this substance, which I now realized must have spurted out of the man's cock. There was still more of it on the back of my thigh, now covered from view by my skirt which had dropped down after the man withdrew his right hand from inside me. The sperm was now cold and slimy as it slowly slid down my thigh with every step I took, one rivulet almost down to the back of my knee. I reached down with my left hand and tried to scoop as much of it up the back of my leg as I could, without breaking stride because stopping amidst the thousands of commuters rushing between trains would have caused a human pile-up.

I now had a glob of the man's sperm in my left palm. It was thick and gooey and stuck to my skin. A crazy compulsion entered my mind and I brought my left hand up to my face and my tongue darted out, licking the gelatinous blog into my mouth. It tasted like unripe persimmon, my nose and mouth filling with the scent of the forest floor, like wet warm mushrooms. So this was what sperm tasted like, I thought. I brought my hand up to my mouth again and licked the rest off, swirling the semen around my tongue and teeth before swallowing it...

-------

The photoshoot is over. I have posed for the photographer and described the details of that day on the subway train, when the chikan pervert had fondled and fingered me on the train.

I'm so horny that I want more. I can tell the photographer is also sexually excited, to the point that the camera is put down and we have our own re-enactment of that day on the train.