Author's Warning: This story is talky. It has its sexy parts, but there's a whole lot of talking in the middle, so if you dislike that, you probably won't like this. Also, since this story is inspired by a 1950's science-fiction film, it's not especially
hard
sci-fi. So there are your two warnings. If you hate talking and/or soft sci-fi, turn back now. Otherwise, read on, and enjoy!
****
It was the day the world changed forever. No one then realized the full implications of The Day. All we knew was that it happened, but no one knew why, not for a long time, anyway. Well, I shouldn't say no one. Three of us on all of Earth knew what had happened, why it had happened, and who did it.
But this story doesn't begin on
that
day. It starts a week earlier. Early that day, I was in my anthropology class, the teacher describing the Ama people of Japan, mostly found on the Izu Peninsula. They're traditional divers, diving without scuba tanks up to 75 feet. The women do most of the work, while the men row the boats and fix the nets. They've been doing it for about two thousand years. Women do the diving because women's fat keeps them warmer underwater than men. It's hard work, but profitable, and Ama women were traditionally considered to be good wives. It was interesting, but I couldn't pay much attention, for two reasons.
Firstly, the Ama traditionally dive wearing only a loin cloth. This meant that on the giant projector screen at the front of room were thirty-foot tall topless Japanese girls, fresh from the sea, laughing with their friends, carrying bags of shellfish, but mostly, so far as I was concerned, being very topless. They were strong, happy women, totally free, wild, and proud. How could you not love a culture like that? They were practically real life mermaids. Why hadn't my European forebears promoted athletic, topless, working women? The Spartans left behind the wrong memes, so far as I was concerned.
This is a bit embarrassing to admit, but at the age of nineteen, I still hadn't seen a girl naked. I had seen pictures, of course, but never in person. I hadn't even had a real girlfriend, except for a girl back in 9
th
grade for about a month, during which time we held hands and kissed once. I could be the posterboy for inexperienced college freshmen.
It wasn't that I was ugly. I didn't think so anyway. My chestnut brown hair was a bit messy, stubbornly resisting any efforts to get it neat. My eyes were a glacier blue, but they were usually hidden by my glasses. I had tried contacts, but I hadn't like the feeling of them in my eyes, and had resigned myself to hiding what I considered my best feature.
I had trouble remembering to shave often enough, so I usually had a bit of stubble, and I disliked picking out clothes that matched, so I mostly stuck to earth-tone sweaters, t-shirts, and khakis. That day I was wearing a charcoal grey sweater and a pair of light tan khakis. I felt like a deviant sometimes, but I just couldn't get used to boxers, let alone briefs. They were too constricting, too tight, a problem only exacerbated by my incorrigibly eager erections.
I hoped that with age and experience my cock would lose a bit of its over-eagerness. As it was, I couldn't even hug a girl without my manhood hardening, pressing against her soft body, enthusiastically announcing its presence to her. I guessed most girls didn't notice, since most of my female friends really enjoyed hugging me. Katie even said that I gave the best hugs out of all the guys she knew and called me a real teddy bear. But girls don't date teddy bears.
I guess my problem was that I was too shy. I focused a lot on my classes and books, and it paid off in terms of grades, but not socially. I didn't really like to put myself out there, and I didn't know how to make new friends. I wasn't much into parties, either. I had made a few friends in classes and in my dorm and in some clubs, but I could barely work up the nerve to talk to the girl I liked.
The margins of my anthropology notebook were covered in doodles: a UFO, breasts, maps, and a heart with a name inside it: Esther. I sighed deeply and subtly sneaked a peek at the second reason why I couldn't concentrate.
Her name was Esther Zhang: 19, Chinese, and gorgeous. I had sat next to her the first day of class and had barely squeaked out a hello. She smiled back, introduced herself, and my heart melted. She wasn't sexy; she didn't have ruby red lips or D cup tits or legs up to her neck. She was cute, she was beautiful, she was quiet and shy and maybe a little bit mousy and bookish, but heck, so was I.
Her eyes were big and brown, with that incredibly seductive shape that luck gave to Asia. Whenever she looked at me, I felt my whole body warm up: they were full of depth and affection. Her face was rounded, but not plump. Her soft pink lips were short and full. She didn't smile much, but when she did, it was breathtaking, her eyes lighting up with her beaming smile. Mostly her expression was serious, thoughtful, or wistful. She always flashed a smile when she saw me, though, to my delight. Her black hair went down past her shoulders, usually worn in a ponytail, with long bangs covering her forehead.
Her skin was the color of freshly cut peaches, ready to be devoured. The one time I had accidentally brushed my hand against hers, it had felt as soft and smooth as silk. Her hair always had a faint scent of flowers, never enough to be overpowering, or even explicit, but just a lovely background note that you wouldn't notice until it left or you were listening for it. She was tall, too. At 5'8", she was only about three inches shorter than me. With her height and build, she was almost willowy, ethereal...
As I gazed at her face, focused intently on the screen, I could feel the butterflies swarming in my stomach, a tiny tempest in my tummy. I wished I were bolder. I wished I could get her to notice me as more than a classmate. We talked, but not much. I wanted more.
At the end of the class, Professor Woodbury assigned an essay on one of the cultures we had studied so far. Looking at the projector, with its dozen or so topless beauties lounging on the beach, I knew my topic.
After the rest of my classes, I went to the library and checked out some books on the Ama to begin my research. I always went down to the very lowest levels of the stacks to read. Almost no one was there to disturb my reading, it was comfortably cool, and I was surrounded by the classical literature section, if I ever needed a study break. With a stack of books, a notebook, a pen, and a drink, I sat down to work.
The hours passed as I absorbed book after book, article after article. I felt almost ready to start writing by the end of it. I knew I had chosen a good topic; after all, I had a personal interest in it. And none other than Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond, had been intrigued by the Ama, I found out. He included them in
You Only Live Twice
. I made a mental note to read that book sometime. I picked up the last book I had checked out and opened it up. It was a lot larger than the other books; it had been in the double plus-sized stacks. It hadn't even occurred to me that it would be a photo book.
Page after glossy page of pictures lay before me, with only the scrawniest paragraphs of context to interrupt my eyes' new playground. I savored every page, almost drooling. Soon, secure in the knowledge that almost no one came down to the bottom stacks, I began to stroke myself through my thin pants. I used my spare hand to flip through the pages and digest the pictures.
A beautiful Asian woman, wearing only a cyclopean diving mask, cowering behind a rock. Her breasts were full, yet firm. Her wet, black hair clung to her back. Her impressively tight and thick ass, just barely visible, her large eyes looking up in hope or fear towards someone unseen.
Two young women, smiling broadly, sitting on the coast, their bodies covered with dark sand. They wore shorts, bandanas, and nothing else. Their petite breasts were bare, pointing proudly towards the camera, their brown nipples easily visible even under the sand. The two girls were ecstatic, joyous, almost childishly cheerful. They looked like two girls playing, and I suppose they were. It was incredibly sexy to see nude women so happy, so natural, so candid.
A woman underwater, surrounded by undersea weeds and flowers, her backside towards the camera. Her modesty was only protected by a
fundoshi
