Author's Note: This is a story of the seduction and exploitation of a traditional Japanese wife. For the sake of readability, I have opted used the first names of the main characters instead of the normal use of last names. Some of the dialogue may seem awkward, but such is to be expected when speaking in a second language. Please forgive any other discrepancies with your concept and knowledge of Japan and its people.
The standard discloser of everyone being eighteen-years or older, and all characters being fictional apply. Constructive comments and suggestions are always welcomed. Please enjoy the tale.
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Have you ever fucked a Japanese woman? I don't mean an American woman who is of Japanese descent or a Japanese national who is so westernized that she couldn't live in her own country. No, I'm talking about a woman who is, heart and soul, a creature of her ancestry, culture, and society regardless of what she may wear, what language she may speak, or what setting she may find herself.
Engrained in the very fabric of her female Japanese psyche is her acquiescence to members of the opposite gender and her devotion to the menfolk in her life. She bows lower when she encounters a man; humbly walks behind men; and defers to males. To please the man in her life, a Japanese woman will do whatever is necessary to cater to his masculine pride, whims, and fantasies.
This intrinsic trait manifests itself when a Japanese woman has sex. At first, she will enticingly exhibit her vulnerability and femininity with expressions of fidgeting and hesitation. When mounted, her eyes will be pressed shut as if in denial, and when taken, she will emit child-like whimpers with each thrust of his manhood. Yet, as her man exerts himself and nears his release, this once docile and reluctant woman will clutch her man to her, panting breathlessly in his ear of how he has made her a lust-consumed "yariman" (slut). By the time he ejaculates into her, her man will feel like a samurai of old - virile, strong, and dominant.
This is my story of Kiyomi whose very name meant "pure beauty" and how she became my mistress.
My name is Damon, and I'm a "gaijin," a term applied to non-Japanese foreigners and especially whites. Fifteen years ago, I flew into Tokyo to be an exchange instructor at a recognized national university. With a gift for language and a knack for social nuances, I effortlessly immersed myself into living in Japan and with its people. Easily adopting the customs and culture of my host nation. I then focused on learning and adapting to the subtleties of working with the Japanese within a higher education environment and satisfying their often inscrutable expectations.
As a result, my teaching of English at my small but highly prestigious University became a unique blend of western and Japanese styles. My classes were filled with real life situations on which I could fluently converse and explain the subtle distinctions in Japanese, easily transitioning from the East to the West. This innovative approach proved immensely popular to my young students who came to view my classes as a prerequisite to their future success in dealing with Westerners.
As the word spread, I drew the attention of the senior officials of the University. I, however, quickly attributed any academic success to the excellent guidance of my superiors and the outstanding support of my fellow instructors. By humbly opting to forego any personal recognition, I avoided the old Japanese adage that "the nail that stands out is hammered down." Through my subtle air of humility, deference to those around me, and selflessness for the good of my colleagues and the University, I gradually managed to gain their acceptance as a professional and then as a person.
My superiors were quick to see how my presence enhanced the prestige of their faculty and gave them an air of innovativeness. Eager to gain an edge over competing universities in the recruitment of prospective students, they made a bold and unprecedented move by offering me a permanent instructional position. After humbling accepting their gracious offer and demonstrating a willingness to share with and assist my colleagues, I steadily rose within the academic department to positions of leadership and eventually became its first gaijin chair.
In wanting a top-notched English department, my superiors found that their gaijin chair's non-Japanese qualities had other advantages. They inserted into my department head duties the responsibility of hiring, mentoring, and assessing new instructors. My superiors knew that they could rely on my foreignness to buffer them from the unpleasantness of having to release probationary faculty members who didn't meet the University's standards. While it became widely accepted that I could make or break the career of an aspiring teacher, I never abused or misused this heady sense of power - that is until I met Ichiro, a probationary instructor, and more importantly his wife, Kiyomi.
"Damon-san," intoned the President of the University in a special private afternoon tea, "there is a 'delicate matter' that we wish you to deal with."
"Hai, sensei (Yes, teacher/master)," I calmly but swiftly intoned with a bow of deference and attentiveness.
"You will have a young man by the name of Ichiro who at the start of the coming academic term, will be teaching basic English."
I nodded and weighing what was happening, immediately surmised several things. For the President to ask me to tea to discuss a new faculty member was unprecedented and meant that the situation was of significance. Being named "Ichiro" and bypassing the normal hiring process indicated that individual of discussion was the eldest son of a family of import. Lastly, the President's use of the unique phrase "delicate matter" meant that there was a problem in which I might have to play the hatchet-man role.
"Ichiro comes from a family of scholars," the President continued hesitantly, "His renowned father with whom I have worked with for many years, is a close associate. Recently my colleague contacted me to ask that his son be allowed to assume a faculty vacancy in your recognized department." Then with a tinge of regret, the President murmured, "You understand that I was honor bound to grant to my esteemed colleague's request despite my unspoken personal misgivings."
"Hai," I dutifully utter as I nodded and patiently waited.
The President with a worrisome shaking of his head, mutter with thinly-veiled concern that was laced with distaste, "Damon-san, from my dealings with Ichiro, I know him to be a man who has the omnipresent burden of bringing further honor to his family. While Ichiro is fluent in English, he is a proverbial...how do you say it...ah, bookworm...who was more adept at translating English than at teaching it. I fear that Ichiro will be out of his element in our University and will be doomed to be certain failure, bringing shame to his father and family."
Then with an enigmatic look that held hidden meanings, the President softly said, "That is...unless some redeeming reason for his salvation could be found. If not...we rely on 'you'...to judiciously and discretely do what needs to be done. Do you understand, Damon-san?"
Without no choice in the matter, all I could do was to utter, "Hai, sensei" and then bow deeply.
During our first meeting, I instantly understood the President's reservations and the nature of my challenge. Ichiro looked like he carried the weight of the world on his scrawny shoulders and had a look of worry painted on his thirty-three-year-old face. Given the traditional self-centricity of a first-born Japanese male, I suspected that Ichiro had been pampered and given preferential treatment for most of his existence. This job was probably his first test of manhood and life.
While Ichiro spoke perfect English, his conversation was devoid of personal interaction, spontaneity, and any emotion. Given that the man before me had a stilted mastery of English, zero charisma, and no interpersonal skills, Ichiro was sadly doomed before his first day of instruction. I also knew that I was screwed unless I could find something that might make Ichiro worth saving. After thoroughly assessing all of Ichiro's assets, I surprisingly discovered that Ichiro's only saving grace was his wife, Kiyomi.
Kiyomi was the epitome of the demure and cultured sensuality of Japanese women in their late-twenties. While she wasn't a stunning Asian beauty, Kiyomi was what the Japanese referred to as "kawaii" or that certain wholesome, natural cuteness. Shorter than her gangly husband by several inches, she was a unique combination of being petite but with shapely curves in her hips, buns, and especially bust.
As amazing as it may seem, Kiyomi sported what can only be described as a "breathtaking rack" that I would later discovered were natural C-cup breasts on her diminutive figure. It was apparent that she was self-conscious of her breasts as evidence by the modest loose clothing that she wore. However, what she didn't realize was that her efforts to downplay and disguise her mammary endowments only caused them to be noticed more by others.
Kiyomi was first and foremost a dutiful wife who did her best to assist her husband's career. Ichiro's clothes were always clean and neatly pressed, but it didn't matter for he wore them like the proverbial absent-minded professor. Kiyomi's homemade bentos (boxed lunches) for Ichiro were mouthwatering, but he ate them without even tasting them. She crafted little holiday keepsakes for the departmental faculty and staff, but they were often found well after the event forgotten is some corner of Ichiro's office.
As if to compensate for Ichiro's individual quirks and social awkwardness, Kiyomi never failed to bring snacks and stop to chat with the department' office women, endearing herself to them. At University socials or functions, she charmed Ichiro's male colleagues with her pleasantries, trying to give Ichiro an opportunity (which he never failed to squander) to join in the discussion and camaraderie.
Even my normally stoic superiors weren't immune to Kiyomi's social grace and physical attributes, and couldn't help but be envious of our newest faculty member. "What a shame," I overheard the University President remark to the other senior members of institution's leadership. "How incongruous is the image of that pasty-face feeble Ichiro wallowing between the pleasure valley of Kiyomi's billowy bosom. Sigh! Such a waste!"
Aware of the precarious status of her husband as a probationary faculty member, Kiyomi casually made it a point to become familiar with Ichiro's superiors especially me, his departmental chair. I must say that I enjoyed our individual conversations and her personal attention since they gave me a better opportunity to admire her cuteness and obvious physical delights.
