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Message-ID: <32545asstr$1000674603@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Richard Rivers" <richard_rivers@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Richard Rivers Repost "Her Name was Yuki" part 1
Date: Sun, 16 Sep 2001 17:10:03 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Just for hell of it, I am reposting a bunch of old things.



   HER NAME WAS YUKI by Richard Rivers

   Part 1

   September.  A ray of the late afternoon sun pierced the drawn curtains,
illuminating a shaft of dust particles suspended in air.  Swirling gently
in the stillness, they crossed and re crossed the light, disappearing back
into darkness.  I sat on my bed lost in a fantasy world, as I often did
that unhappy year of my life.  I remember the day with unnatural clarity
even now: September's white light had replaced the yellow glow of late
summer; a hint of coolness in the still afternoon air foreshadowed the
bitter winter to come.  The earth had already shifted imperceptibly on its
axis.  What I remember most about that September day though is that it was
the first time I ever saw my beautiful Yuki.

   It was the third week of school, a Monday.  I sat in home room that
morning, already bored and distracted when Mr Forbes, our principal, came
into the class.

   "Listen up people!" He said clapping his hands.  A few bored heads
lifted to look at him and several whispered conversations continued
uninterrupted at the back of the room.  "This home room is getting a new
student," he said even more loudly.  "I want you all to meet her.  Her name
is Yuki.  This is Yuki, Yuki Tanaka.  She is from Japan." There was no
response.  "She speaks good English, probably better than some of you I'll
bet!  Ha, ha." He laughed, alone, at his little joke.  "She was a star
volleyball player in her home prefecture in Japan and we hope that she will
join up with our girl's team here." There was another awkward silence
during which Mr Forbes cleared his throat.  "You might also like know that
her mother, a psychologist, will be our new school counselor this year. 
Your home room teacher will advise you on the counselor's office hours and
so forth.  I'd like you all to make both of them feel welcome and at home
here at Adams High."

   He stepped aside revealing the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.  Her
tall slender body had a fragile, delicate kind of beauty, a subtle beauty
one could easily over look for its simplicity.  Her shiny black hair hung
in feathered bangs, grazing a thick pair of eyebrows that arched over a
pair of dazzling eyes.  One look into her eyes and I was lost.

   Clearly humiliated by Mr Forbes' loud and obnoxious introduction, she
hugged her notebook tightly to her chest, staring at the floor.  Some one
yelled out, "Speech!  Speech!" getting a laugh.  Her cheeks reddened and
she hugged her notebook more tightly, pursing her lips as she took a deep
breath.  One of my friends leaned forward from the seat behind me.  "I
know, man, we'll call her Yucky!" He snickered.  "Yucky, get it?" I
pretended to laugh as he turned to tell his joke to someone else,
immediately (and I hoped not too obviously) returning my gaze to Yuki,
still standing with eyes downcast in front of the class.

   Her blushing face, her down-turned eyes made me feel pity for her,
adding fuel to my already aching desire.  That afternoon, as the autumn sun
waned outside, its last rays sneaking between my closed curtains, I sat
alone in my room as I often did, and I could think only of her.

   She received her seat assignment the next day, one row over and two
seats ahead of mine.  All I had to do was lift my head slightly and she
filled my vision.  She wore a similar outfit to the day before, what was to
become her normal way of dressing, almost a uniform: plain white pants or a
dark skirt and a simple blouse or sweater on top.  She dressed in a
conservative, almost 'bookish' fashion yet the clothes she wore always made
her appeared very soft and feminine.  Like me, I could tell she was
painfully shy.  When her name was called at roll call she winced, and I
winced with her.

   In time, each day, I studied her from my desk, choosing a different
feature to concentrate on for the entire half hour period: the soft curve
of her thigh hanging over the side of her chair; the flare of her slender
waist widening into her hips; the three-quarter profile of her small breast
peeking out under her arm; her hair, splashed across her shoulders in
different patterns, rearranged each time she moved her head, like sea
grasses swept by gentle waves.  All these images came back to me when I was
in my room alone after school and I spun them into an elaborate, on going
fantasy, whiling away the bleak days as fall turned to winter.

   Home room, it turned out, was our only class together so I seldom saw
her after first period.  She took advanced courses for most subjects while
I distinguished myself at nothing.  My eyes couldn't get enough of her in
just half an hour, and as the days went by I began obsessively scanning the
hallways, the cafeteria, the courtyard, searching, always searching for
her. Occasionally I was rewarded with a glimpse of her, always alone,
hugging her books to her chest, running from class to class with hurried
little steps.

   The September weather grew harsher and the light began to fail earlier.
October arrived, gray and unseasonably cold.  I spent more and more
afternoons in my curtained room, my mother's footsteps reassuringly distant
upstairs as I whiled away hour after hour, lost in my fantasy.  It is
difficult now to think I was ever so naive, that the mere sight of her
eyebrows, the corner of her mouth, the small wisp of hair next to her ear,
the tiniest details of her body could preoccupy and torment me the way they
did.

   My preoccupation with Yuki came as welcome relief from a very bad
situation at home.  My father, a cold emotionless man throughout my
childhood, had suddenly discovered his lost feelings that summer. 
Unfortunately, they consisted of the desire to slap my mother around and to
yell at me whenever I ventured into his sight.  I don't know what happened
to him.  He never explained anything.  Maybe he went crazy.  Maybe he found
another woman and just put on an act to cover his exit from the family. 
I'll never know.  We put up with his unexplained and abusive behavior for a
couple of months and then he suddenly left one day, in the middle of a
shouting match with mom.  He slammed the door behind him and I've not seen
or heard from him in all the years since.

   Before school started that fall I began to have horrible nightmares.  My
father would come back in those dreams, sometimes looking like a rotten
drunk, sometimes looking like his old self, but always committing some
terrible atrocity against my mother and me in the end.  I woke up almost
every night at three or four o'clock in the morning and couldn't get back
to sleep.  The problem persisted into the beginning of the school year.  My
poor mom had enough to worry about herself, but there wasn't much she could
do for me anyway: We didn't have the money to pay for therapy right then.
When I brought home the October school bulletin she read with interest
about our new school counselor, Mrs Tanaka, Yuki's mother.  In a few days
mom had arranged it with the school that Mrs Tanaka would see me privately
once a week after classes.  In exchange I would help out Mr Roberts, the
Phys.  Ed.  teacher a couple of afternoons a week cleaning up the gym,
doing laundry, or whatever he needed.  The prospect of having intimate
conversations with Yuki's mother was both thrilling and scary.  I couldn't
wait for the day of our first appointment to arrive but as it drew closer I
also began to dread it.  The thought that she might be able to see right
through me, right through to my infatuation with her daughter, began to
haunt me.

   When I went in to see Mrs Tanaka after school it was a fine early
October day.  The bright sunshine reflected off the fall colored leaves but
did not warm the bitter cold air.  When Mrs Tanaka first opened the door to
her office I half expected her to be a carbon copy of her daughter.  To my
relief her mother looked quite different, a petite woman of maybe thirty
five, where Yuki had a long, lean, athletic body, her mother was shorter
and had rounder features.  Her short hair framed a broad oval, friendly
looking face.

   She ushered me to a seat on the couch beside her saying:

   "Hello Richard.  I've spoken with your mother a few times about the
problems you've been having with sleep.  She told me something of your
recent family troubles, but I would like to hear what you have to say about
it, yourself."

   Her tone was warm and friendly; she spoke with what I could identify as
only the slightest of accents, more a lilt to the inflections of the voice
rather than different pronunciations of the words.  I felt comfortable and
at ease, enough that I lost my fear that she would see through me right
away, exposing my obsession with her daughter.  I began telling her all
about what had happened at home and immediately felt a strong sense of
relief from talking about my problems with someone.  My mother and I went
through a lot; neither of us had yet been willing to broach the subject of
the recent, painful past with each other.  Before I knew it the hour was
over and Mrs Tanaka was offering me a ride home.

   Walking out to the parking lot, and as she drove me home, Mrs Tanaka
told me a few things about herself.  Her soft lilting voice hummed in my
ears, soothing me.  I'm not sure I heard everything she told me, I was just
trying to soak up the sound of her voice and prolong the sweet mellow
feeling it produced.  Her name was Kozue: It sounded like 'causeway' she
knew, but she spelled it for me, laughing softly.  She had studied
extensively in the US, first in High School when her father had been
stationed here on business, later at New York University on her own
initiative.  She loved America, she said.  The freedom here was a welcome
change from life in Japan, especially for a woman.  Both she and her
husband had wanted the same experiences for their daughter Yuki, and they
had each taken lesser paying jobs just to live in the US long enough for
her to finish High School and start College.  She added that,
unfortunately, her husband had left suddenly for the Philippines so that
she and Yuki now lived here alone together.

   Yuki's name caught my interest and I shyly asked Mrs Tanaka why her
daughter wasn't riding home with her.  I was afraid to say the name Yuki
aloud, as if the way I pronounced it would betray my infatuation; but Mrs
Tanaka showed no sign that she had noticed anything as she told me that
Yuki was on the Girl's volleyball team, which was having practice that
afternoon.  She went on to explain how Yuki was a star volleyball player
back in Japan and that she might have made the National team if she had
stayed.

   "She's a bright girl," Mrs Tanaka said, proudly, "but the only thing
that really motivates her is Volleyball.  She's a totally different person
when she steps on the court.  All her shyness, her uncertainty, they all
seem to just drop away.  She's a fierce competitor.  I hope you can see her
play some time."

   I assured her that I would like that very much, tempering my enthusiasm
as best I could.  As she pulled in front of my house her tone became
serious:

   "I know you understand the agreement your mother made with the school.
I've spoken to Mr Roberts and he would like to see you after school this
Friday.  At that time you can arrange the exact details of your work
schedule with him all right?" She gave me a pat on the knee.

   "Can I count on you to go and see him?"

   I assured her that I would and thanked her for the ride.  That night,
for the first time in weeks, my father did not invade my dreams to
terrorize me.  I had a much more pleasant dream: I dreamed about Kozue
Tanaka.



   Two days later my Friday afternoon class let out early but I had to stay
at school and head over to the gym.  The warm excitement I had gotten from
my meeting with Mrs Tanaka had faded somewhat and now it hardly seemed
worth the price I was going to have to pay.  All the other students were
heading home, happy to be free for the weekend but I was trudging off to
see Mr Roberts and work in the gym.  I just knew he was going to have me
down on my hands and knees scrubbing floors or doing something equally back
breaking.

   Mr Roberts the Phys.  Ed.  teacher was a young man, not long out of
college.  He had long blonde hair, a body builder's physique, and wasn't
too bright; most of my friends and I couldn't stand him.  He was infamous
for his sadistic treatment of students, especially those of us that he
considered to be 'nerds'.  Quick to assign numerous pushups to anyone who
broke one of his arbitrary rules, he always had an eye out for the weak and
inept students, singling them out the for ridicule or punishment.  As the
only Phys.  Ed.  teacher at our small school he ran his office in the gym
like a tiny, independent dictatorship.

   As I walked down the hallway to Mr Robert's office the door to the gym
opened suddenly and I found myself surrounded by a group of sweaty girls,
laughing and talking as they ran towards the locker room: Last period gym
class had just gotten out.  They swarmed past on both sides, paying no
attention to me.  The closeness of all of those female bodies in their gym
outfits embarrassed and aroused me; I could see clearly the outlines of
their breasts, their bare thighs, their faces flushed from exertion.  A few
of them brushed against me as they passed, they were so close I could smell
the sweat from their bodies all around me.

   I caught a glimpse of Yuki, last in the group, as she quickly slipped
past; her tight fitting white top had blue racing stripes down the sides
and a large blue number 'six' curling between her small breasts.  Below
that she had on a pair of baggy gray sweats that hid the rest of her
figure. I fought the urge to turn and look after her as she walked away
down the hall while I continued towards the boy's locker room in the
opposite direction.

   The outer part of Mr Roberts' office was a glassed in area set off the
rest of the locker room.  When I entered it was empty.  My head was still
spinning from seeing Yuki and all those other girls in their gym outfits.
The sight of the empty office briefly gave me the wild idea that Mr Roberts
had forgotten about me and that I might be able to go straight home after
all.  Just then I saw him come out of his inner office and close the door
quickly behind him.

   "Ah, there you are Rivers," he said, slapping me on the back in a forced
gesture of camaraderie.  "Glad to see you!  And you're here early.  Good.
Very good."

   He was the kind of talker who doesn't let you get a word in edgewise,
but I was grateful for it because I had nothing to say to him anyway.  He
continued:

   "What I need you to do for me is fairly simple, two days a week, Mondays
and Fridays, right?" I nodded.  "OK, today's Friday...let's see...Oh yeah,
Friday I need the gym floor cleaned.  I'll show you where all of the stuff
is and then you can just get started.  I've got some things, some work I
need to do so you'll be on your own." He nodded towards the door to his
inner, personal office.  "I'll be in there.  Knock if you need me.  I'm
sure you wont though, huh?  Just come and tell me when you're done, OK?"

   It relieved me to know I would be working alone.  I didn't want to have
to be around him, his constant talking, any more than I had to.  He showed
me the cleaning supplies and let me go to work in peace.

   For the next few weeks Mr Roberts had me cleaning up all the gym and
locker rooms, scrubbing the floors, cleaning the bathrooms and showers,
everything.  I didn't see much of him though.  After getting me started on
the chore for the day he would spend all of his time in his inner office
with the door closed; when I finished I would knock to let him know I was
leaving.

   My relationship with Mr Roberts got off on the wrong foot.  Sensing my
dislike for him, I think he labeled me an untrustworthy slacker.  He
continued to give me the dirtiest jobs to do and started popping out of his
office at unexpected moments to check up on me, riding me about being slow,
not careful, or would hammer me with any petty criticism he could come up
with.  The day he asked me to do the laundry was a relief from all the
scrubbing and cleaning I had been doing on my hands and knees.

   Mr Roberts showed me the laundry room and where to go get the carts
containing the dirty towels and uniforms.  "Do the towels first, I'd say.
There's more of 'em," he advised.  "Let's se what else we have today...OK!
this cart is football, do the pants and jerseys eparately, Right?  This one
is basketball, they all go in one load.  Then you'll have to go down the
hall and get the girl's stuff.  You can do the volley ball uniforms today
too.  One load also, OK?"

   My heart was pounding.  "Girls volleyball uniforms," I thought to
myself. "Yuki's uniform must be somewhere in that pile!"

   "Rivers!" he snapped at me.  "Stop day dreaming!  You got everything? 
You're ready?" I assured him I was ready to get going right away.

   I hurriedly got the towels and football stuff going, there were enough
machines for that much; the rest I would have to do after.  I sat on one of
the machines for about ten minutes before remembering that the girl's
uniforms were down the hall.  I found the cart in the hall and brought it
back into the laundry room, looking over towards the office to see if Mr
Roberts was around.  As usual his inner door was shut and he was nowhere in
sight.  Torn between an intense curiosity and a deep sense that what I was
about to do was sick and perverted, I thought about finding Yuki's uniform
somewhere in that cart.  Unable to resist the urge, I nervously looked
inside, glancing over my shoulder several times as if Mr Roberts might
spring up out of nowhere.  Growing bolder I reached into the cart and
pulled out a uniform.  It was the same as the one I had seen Yuki wearing:
One piece, like a gymnasts' outfit, the top was white with blue stripes,
the bottom was blue, so that when worn it looked like a separate shirt and
pants.  Turning it over in my hands I looked at the number: 'eleven'.  I
dropped it and reached for another: 'nineteen'.  After looking at a few
more uniforms without finding 'six' I grew bolder, throwing the uniforms I
had looked at out onto the floor and, finally, near the bottom, discovering
the precious object of my search and lifting it gingerly out of the cart.

   Just holding it limply by the shoulders I tried to imagine Yuki's
beautiful body filling it out: her delicate, slender thighs had poked
through these round leg holes; her small firm butt had filled that now
baggy piece of cloth, straining out against the fabric, shaping it to the
form of her body.  Turning to the front there was just a hint of looseness
at the breasts.  I let my hand run down the front of the uniform finally
grazing that oh so thin strip at the crotch.  I closed my eyes and thought:
half an hour ago her moist, soft cunt pressed against the very spot where
my fingers now ran gently.  The sight of that crotch fascinated me; the
slight way the fabric puffed out, as if it had been pushed out by, or
strained to contain...what?  My knowledge of female anatomy ended right
there.  Like an explorer of old, my imagination had sailed me into unknown
waters.

   When my father had moved out my mother threw piles of his stuff into the
basement.  Among his effects were several Playboy magazines that I found
and 'studied' in the privacy of my room.  'Boobs' were only a passing
fascination for me; my real interest was the pubic hair and what lay,
unseen, beneath it.  I would search those photographs like an astronomer
straining his vision into the void, the darkness and shadows growing darker
and shadowier as my gaze descended, always terminating in artificial,
airbrushed blackness.  At our swim club I saw a lot of girls my age in the
tightest swim suits, and again my eyes would seek out their crotches, each
one slightly different, but none of them revealing enough to satisfy my
curiosity.  Now, the tiny blue expanse of fabric I held between my fingers
fascinated me.  To think that only millimeters away the flesh that I craved
had been held tightly by this very piece of cloth, not an hour ago where my
fingers were now moving freely I would not have been able to put them: two
distances, one in space, the other in time, so close, yet so hopelessly
unbridgeable.

   "Rivers!"

   Mr Roberts, who had been leaning through the doorway for some time
watching me, harshly interrupted my ruminations.  His yell made me drop my
beloved number 'six' back into the laundry cart.  "Rivers!" he yelled
again. "What the hell do you think you're doing in here?  This isn't fluff
and fold.  Just jam those things in there, will you.  Jeez!  I want to get
home some time today," he added with sarcasm.

   "O..Ok!...Sorry," was all I could blurt out, but he was already walking
away shaking his head, muttering to himself.  I hurriedly gathered the
uniforms and stuffed them into one of the washers and got the load going.
Mercifully Mr Roberts went back in his office and closed the door behind
him again.  I wondered why he hadn't used the ripe opportunity to ridicule
me some more but had simply walked off.

   For the next twenty minutes or so, while the washer ran, there was
nothing else for me to do.  I needed some air after getting worked up over
Yuki's uniform and, looking furtively over my shoulder for Mr Roberts, I
slipped out the door into the cool November air.  On the walkway, I rounded
the corner of the Phys.  Ed.  building: Yuki was standing alone in the
distance.  I stopped, my first urge to being to back pedal, but she had
already seen me and was looking over in my direction.  I hesitated, half
way around the corner, rocking from one leg to the other.  "Uh oh," I
thought.  "I've just been fingering the crotch of her uniform.  Am I
supposed to go up and talk to her?" My hesitation only caused her to keep
looking in my direction, a questioning look on her face.  I had no choice
but to try to approach her as naturally as I could.

   "Hi," I called out with an exaggerated wave of my hand.  I was still
about ten feet away from her, an awkward distance to start a conversation.
"Damn!" I thought to myself.  "Too soon!  Slow down.  Wait."

   She waited until I stopped beside her.  "Hello," she said looking at her
feet.  "Don't you have a coat?  It's so cold!" She pulled her down coat
more closely around shoulders; her jet-black hair was striking, framed by
the white fur-lined hood.

   "Oh, no," I answered: "I just stepped out," pointing back towards the
gym.

   "Ahhh, I see," she answered, drawing out the words as if I had just
imparted some deep, dark, fundamental truth to her.

   "What are you doing out here?" I asked hurriedly, the silence making me
uncomfortable.

   "I'm waiting for a ride.  My mother...she...  sees people after school."
Her cheeks flushed.  I knew she knew that I was one of the people her
mother saw after school too.  She hurried to continue: "Usually I have
practice, with the orchestra, or I stay and practice volleyball, but not
today, they had to wash the uniforms."

   My heart raced.  She knew!  Was she testing me somehow?  Did the look on
my face betray my perverse infatuation, my actions?  No, I decided, the
panic receding, she couldn't.  She wouldn't be talking to me now if she
knew what I had just been doing...

   We stood there, awkwardly, each uncomfortably holding onto our secret
bit of knowledge about the other until she turned her head away towards the
parking lot and stamped her foot lightly.  "My mother is late."

   I wanted to stay standing there with her but the silence grew
increasingly uncomfortable; the longer we stood without saying anything the
worse it felt.

   "So, you play volleyball." I managed to choke out the words.

   "Yes."

   "I hear you're supposed to be great, that you could have gone to the
Olympics, or something."

   I had embarrassed her.  She shook her head.  "No, I'm not that good,"
she said as she looked down at her feet, watching herself scrape the toe of
her boot across the ground.  "I need a lot of practice.  My serve is OK,
because I can practice that all I want, but my defense..." Her tone grew
more animated, the volleyball player taking over from the shy girl: "My
defense is terrible.  To practice that I need someone else to help me. 
Someone has to throw me the ball and there isn't anyone else around here
interested."

   I was just opening my mouth to speak, to offer to help her, to be the
one who would throw her the ball, when a car honked its horn across the
parking lot.

   "Oh, its my mother," Yuki said, quickly turning her head.  "I've got to
go.  Bye."

   "So long," I called as I watched her trot across the parking lot then,
turning, I went back in to the gym.

   The distance between us had been bridged, however tenuously.  The next
day in home room Yuki smiled and said hello to me.  Surprised, I only
mumbled something in response, but from that day on we began to exchange
greetings every morning.



   During the next few weeks my sessions with Mrs Tanaka became painful and
emotional for me as she had me go over the events surrounding my father's
departure in detail.  I had tried my best to forget his rages, his hitting
mom and yelling at me, all of his sudden violent outbursts, and the weird
changes that took over his personality.  Dredging all of that up again
under her kindly but insistent questioning was draining.  I often ended up
exhausted, in tears during those sessions, my energy completely drained by
the end of the hour.  Mrs Tanaka would often end up with her arm around my
shoulder comforting me as I poured out my feelings.  The light touch of her
hand sent a pleasant thrill through my body, comforting me yet at the same
time arousing me.

   At the end of each session her demeanor changed abruptly but in a way
that was subtle, so subtle it took some time for me to even notice; it was
as if she changed from the psychologist to more of a friend as soon as the
hour was over.  She offered me a rides home every week, always just the two
of us, and she would tell little stories about her life, growing up in
Japan, or her first experiences coming to America.  She loved to tell
jokes, silly ones that I didn't really find funny, but I enjoyed them
because I loved to hear her laugh.  Her quiet sing song voice gave
everything she told me an idyllic, almost fairy tail quality, filling me
with a sense of calm that lasted long after she left.  I came to look
forward to the fifteen minutes or so we spent together in her car every
week almost as much as I did to seeing her daughter.  When she touched me,
giving me a mock punch on the houlder, or a pat on the knee as I got out of
the car, my whole body felt the thrill of her touch, vibrating where the
pressure of her hand left its lasting impression, a slowly fading physical
memory.

   My nightmares were all but gone and Kozue more and more often entered my
dreams as an erotic presence.  Where thoughts of Yuki still filled my
conscious, waking hours, for some reason it was her mother who gradually
came to occupy the unconscious ones.

   Several days after my brief conversation with Yuki I found myself late
getting out of school.  On my way to the lockers one of my teachers stopped
me in the hallway; he wanted to talk about my sinking grades in his class.
We stood talking in the middle of the hall as the other students streamed
around us and the school emptied.  He was friendly but insistent with me.
All I wanted was to get away from there as quickly as possible and so I did
everything I could to placate him.  He mistook my attitude for one of real
interest in what he was saying and wouldn't stop talking for several more
minutes.  When he was finally through and we took our leave of each other
we were the last two people left in the hallway.

   As I started walking home I had the impulse to pass by the gym, not
intending to go inside, but hoping that somehow I might run into Yuki in
the parking lot again; but the lot was almost empty, just a few cars
scattered around, and no one was waiting there.  Disappointed, I changed
direction cutting across the lot and headed for the gym.  As I stepped on
the walkway I could faintly hear the distinct familiar thud of a single
ball banging off the bleachers through the small windows high up on the
wall.  My heart raced: It had to be Yuki, practicing.

   I quickly glanced over my shoulder, afraid that someone might see me,
and went in.  The sound of the ball grew louder as I walked down the hall
towards the double doors leading to the gym.  Looking through the small
glass windows I could see a lone figure at the far end.  A tall slender
girl was leaping high in the air, hitting a vicious looking jump serve over
a volleyball net.  The ball struck in the corner of the opposite court and
rebounded off a bank of folded bleachers.  She ran forward a few steps,
bending to retrieve the bouncing ball and set up for another serve; her
ponytail bobbed behind her as she took long graceful loping strides.  I
didn't have to see her face to know that it was Yuki.

   My heart raced as it did whenever I caught a glimpse of her.  Her mother
was right: When she was playing volleyball she was a totally different
girl; she exuded power and confidence in the way she moved.  Her slender
body arched gracefully as she tossed the ball high in the air and jumped to
meet it, kicking back her feet as she floated in mid air.  Her arm
stretched high overhead and then snapped forward, tomahawking the ball over
the net, pounding it down into the opposing court with a bang that echoed
hroughout the gym.  She repeated the serve many times, alternating which
corner she was aiming for and she never missed.

   I watched her serve the ball, afraid that if I went in it would scare
her off and I would have to wait another day before my next glimpse of her;
then the ball bounced awkwardly off the bleachers and started bounding
across the gym towards the doors where I was standing.  I didn't think she
could see me out in the darkened hallway yet, but the ball was going to hit
right in the middle of the double doors I was standing behind.  She would
have to come over to this side of the gym to get it and surely see me
lurking behind the windows then.  I had to make a move quickly or be
discovered spying.  Pushing through the doors I trapped the ball with my
foot.  Yuki was jogging over toward the door when she noticed me come
through.  Slowing to a walk, she reached behind her to pull down the butt
of her uniform.  I saw her eyes lower, a guarded expression come across her
face in the space of that one step, and I instantly regretted barging in on
her, ruining her intensely private moment.  I couldn't look away; I felt
like a leering oaf but I couldn't tear my eyes off her.  She was wearing
her one piece uniform, number 'six', the one I had held in my hands.  The
tight fitting uniform made the contours of her body clearly visible: the
soft mound of her crotch; the gentle rise of her belly, even the slight
indentation of her navel; her rib cage, heaving with each breath she took;
her small breasts, hardened nipples pointing at me like accusing little
finger tips that seemed to say: "Shame!"

   My gaze embarrassed her, almost more than if she had been naked.  The
tightness of the uniform highlighted her body more than it covered it and
her hands nervously traveled upwards, following the path my eyes took; she
clasped them together first in front of her crotch, then brought them up to
wipe her face, covering her breasts with her forearms.

   We both blushed, the short silence seemed painfully long.  I panicked
searching for something to say, some reason why I was even there in the gym
at all; the fact that I had intercepted the ball was incriminating evidence
of my spying: it would be a lame excuse to claim that I had just happened
to open the door right then.  I had to say something, make up some story,
anything to break up this wretched, endless moment.  Finally, in
desperation, because I had absolutely nothing else in mind, I resorted to
honesty.

   "Hi, Yuki.  Sorry to bother you," I said.  "I didn't mean to surprise
you like that.  I was just passing by the gym and heard you practicing.  I
remember you saying how tough it is to practice on your own." I faltered,
her expression was unchanged; what little confidence I had left eroded.

   "I could throw you the ball, or something," I said tentatively.

   "Thank you," she said.  "It would be boring for you.  I can manage on my
own, really."

   "I wouldn't be bored at all," I put in quickly.  "I like you...I...I
mean I'd like to.  I wouldn't be bored." Flustered, I thought: "Why did I
say that?" She looked down at her shoes.  "Listen," I said quickly trying
to erase what I had just said.  "Just let me throw you a couple.  I've got
nowhere to go anyway.  Let me do a couple, then you can tell me to leave,
all right?  I'll throw you the ball twice and then you tell me to go...or
to stay, OK?"

   "I don't know..."

   "Come on," I said, my confidence returning.  I could see her struggling
to decide.  The shy girl part of her wanted me to go away and leave her
alone but the volleyball player was telling her not to turn down a golden
opportunity to get in some much needed practice.  I knew I was taking
advantage of her too, her politeness, her inability to say no.  She
fidgeted for a few more seconds before turning back towards the far end of
the gym.

   She told me to throw the ball in a high arc over the net and she dug it
out underhand, with her fists together.  The ball sailed straight up into
the air.

   "Good!" I called out as the ball bounced next to her.

   She shook her head as she grabbed it.  "No it wasn't.  It was terrible.
It's not supposed to go that high.  I can't control it; that's the weakest
part of my game," she said, throwing the ball back to me with some force.
"Do that again, the same."

   The volleyball player was taking over and she quickly became absorbed. I
threw her the ball again and this time she kept it lower.  I could see she
was really thinking hard about what she was doing; her face had a blank
look of intense concentration as she threw the ball back to me
distractedly.

   I held it for a moment as she crouched down, waiting.  When I didn't
toss it to her she looked up, surprised.

   "Yuki," I said, "that's two.  Should I go?" I paused.  "Whatever you
want, but I don't mind staying," I added.

   "You really don't mind?" she asked, her eyebrows raised, a cute
quizzical look that made my heart ache.

   "Not at all," I answered truthfully.

   She had me throw her the ball many more times after that, alternating
sides of the court, sometimes near the net, sometimes deep in the back.  I
noticed that she did seem to improve with practice although I was mainly
interested in watching her lithe body going through its motions.  She
looked so fragile and slender, but as I watched her move around the court I
realized how strong and incredibly flexible she really was.  I could see
the muscles in her delicate looking thighs flexing as she crouched to
receive the ball or when she ran after it with long graceful strides. 
Watching her I longed to run my hands over her legs, her thighs, her
behind, to feel the smooth hardness of her body under my touch.  I couldn't
keep my eyes from wandering to the small feminine mound of her crotch,
remembering the way her uniform puffed out there when I had run my fingers
over it.  Her warm cunt was doing that, pushing out the fabric, creating
that little puffy mound right now, I thought.  I imagined stroking it,
gently, with just the tips of my fingers brushing it, just as I had done in
the laundry room; only now she would be in it, all soft and warm to the
touch, moaning softly with pleasure, telling me not to stop.

   I lost all awareness of time as I threw the ball to her over and over
again; lulled into a trance-like state, my head was buzzing pleasantly and
my entire body felt enveloped in a soft, glowing embrace.  Yuki had lost
herself too, in her volleyball.  Her shyness totally disappeared and she
began talking more freely, if only to tell me where to throw the ball and
how high, or to chide me if the last throw had been off.

   At last she stopped and held the ball under her arm, breaking the spell.
She said, breathing heavily:

   "Richard, I've got to go.  My mother will be waiting.  Thank you so much
for helping me practice."

   Looking at the clock I realized we had been at it for almost an hour. 
She came over and stood in front of me, so close that I could see the beads
of sweat on her neck and chest.  Through her sweat soaked uniform I could
clearly see the outlines of her small breasts, the surprisingly fat hard
nipples bobbing up and down with each quick breath she took.  It was my
turn to look at my shoes, too embarrassed to look her in the eye.

   "Thank you," she said, again.

   "No problem," I said.

   "Bye."

   Turning quickly, she trotted to the doors and went out.  For the rest of
the semester I made it a point to pass by the gym on my way home from
school on days when I wasn't working for Mr Roberts or in a session with
Mrs Tanaka, always listening for the sound of Yuki practicing.  She was
usually there and our practice sessions together became fairly regular, at
least once a week.  I also discovered that she had to be in school early,
because of her mother, and I made it a point to reform my bad habit of
showing up to first period late.  If I arrived early, more often than not
she would be there, already in her seat studying.  We began having a few,
tentative, non volleyball conversations.

   She told me that she had grown up in a small town in Japan, in a
mountainous part of the country that was relatively isolated.  The local
girls school had a tradition of turning out some of the best women
volleyball players in Japan; that is how she got involved in it.  She
showed promise early so her parents and coaches had pushed her to continue
and to work very hard at it.  Leaving her home, her school and her team to
come to America had been difficult for her.  The few friends she had were
all still there, and she knew that by coming to America her volleyball
skills could do nothing but get worse.  She also told me that she had never
been to a coed school before.  Her girlfriends back home had teased and
scared her with their stories about America, and in particular, American
boys.

   One thing we had in common was our fathers' behavior: she confided in me
that her father had left recently for the Philippines where he was living
with a stewardess he met on a business trip.  Yuki's mother was devastated
to find out that the affair had been going on for several years, but she
and Yuki decided to stick it out in America alone together rather than act
weak and return to Japan.  I told Yuki about my father and all of the weird
stuff that went on in our house over the summer: I wondered if she knew any
of it already from her mother.  She listened sympathetically even if she
did.  As the end of the semester drew near Yuki told me that she and her
mother were spending the holiday in Hawaii.  She quickly countered my
expressions of envy by telling me that her parents were going to be there
together, to try and patch things up.  She wasn't looking forward to it. 
For the first time I realized I was going to have to live for two whole
weeks without seeing her: The holidays were going to be bleak indeed.  I
told her that me and mom would probably be eating Christmas dinner off of
paper plates, just as we had done for Thanksgiving.



   After all of the emotionally draining sessions, Mrs Tanaka took a new
tack with me for the last few weeks of the semester; no longer hammering
away at my memories of my father she started asking me all about my social
life, whether or not I had many close friends, and about my relationships
with girls.  I tried to be as honest as I could with her but there was
always a gaping hole in anything I had to say: I couldn't bring myself to
tell her how I felt about Yuki, and I there was no way I was going to tell
her about her own role in my dreams.  I was worried that Yuki might have
told her mother about our practice sessions together, or our little chats
in home room, but I decided to play dumb and not bring any of it up.  I
just couldn't confess any of the feelings I had for the daughter, in part I
began to realize, because I was attracted to the mother as well.  I spent a
lot of time trying to figure out if she was fishing, if she knew of my
interest in Yuki, maybe even of my complete infatuation with her, and was
attempting to get me to talk about it.  I felt drained at the end of each
session, like I had played an hour of cat and mouse.  Mrs Tanaka expressed
concerns about my being such an introvert, and felt that my attitudes about
women and sex were unhealthy.  If I was to be a better adjusted person, in
her opinion, I needed to base my life more on reality than on fantasy.  On
that point at least I could not disagree, and I resolved that with the new
year I would remake myself: instead of fantasizing about Yuki in the dark
of my room I would do something positive about it, get to know her, maybe
even ask her out eventually.  I felt my self confidence building, and an
intense feeling of gratitude towards Mrs Tanaka for helping me.  At the end
of the last session before the holidays we exchanged a long hug, wishing
each other a happy new year.

   Fin Part 1

   Part 2 will be reposted in a day or so.

   Richard Rivers http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Rivers/www/



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