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Message-ID: <35029asstr$1012684209@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: max_wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 2 Feb 2002 01:22:45 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Subway series#4: Who's Sorry Now?
Date: Sat,  2 Feb 2002 16:10:09 -0500
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NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of
this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether
existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of
this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is
made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, theGreatxIam

Subway series #4:
Who's Sorry Now?
By theGreatxIam

This story should give you a clear understanding of how I experienced
Japan. I'm sorry about that.

But that's the Japan I saw. I make no claims that it's a complete
picture. Quite the opposite, in fact. Japan is a wonderful land full
of picturesque vistas, fascinating history and friendly people. All
the guidebooks say so.

You won't be reading about that Japan today. Sorry about that.

Almost all that I saw of Japan, aside from the lights of Tokyo as I
arrived (I had an aisle seat on the way back) was the inside of the
offices of a company we'll call Ekasa (that's X to you). We'll call it
that not because I'm afraid they'd sue -- everything I have to say is
true -- but because I work in electronics and I like my job. If I tick
off the boys at Ekasa, the closest I could get to a job in electronics
would be flying a kite in a thunderstorm.

I was in Japan because I'd helped invent -- well, stumble across, to
be honest -- a tough, clear plastic that was guaranteed to start
warping in four or five years and disintegrate completely into powder
inside of 10, no matter what you did -- no light, no heat, no cold, no
difference. This stuff would be useless inside of a decade after you'd
shaped it.

You still don't get it, do you? Ekasa made electronics and everything
that goes into them. Including CD's and CD-ROM's.

Penny drop yet?

OK, then think about this. Ekasa and a couple of other companies
basically have the entire world's consumer electronics carved up.
Except for computers, but even there the computer makers outsource the
speakers and CD-ROM drives and such. And all that stuff in the hi-fi
mags about subtle differences in tone from one brand to another, or
the excellence of the newest Ekasa subsonic recovery system gathering
in harmonics unheard by human ears but richly contributing to the
total aural experience for the true connoisseur -- all that stuff is
crap.

The technology's so down pat by now that comparing the output from any
two components in the same price range is like sniffing two piles of 
shit from the same dog. Only difference in what comes out depends on
what you put in.

If everybody's got the same electronics, the only way to compete would
be to lower prices -- which is the last thing these guys want to do.
So, instead, they're all scrambling for something new to offer their
customers.

No, not the next Walkman. Wake up and smell the sake, kid. I'm talking
about pleasing their real customers: the music companies.

A few companies have a lock on music the way a few others -- well,
there is some overlap -- have a lock on electronics. So they speak the
same language -- not Japanese, not English. Cash.

And the electronics companies know the music companies are running
scared right now. They dodged the bullet on that whole Napster mess,
but they don't know if that was the biggest roach in the pantry. As
long as anyone can pull their songs off a CD onto a PC, someone'll
figure out a way to send them out.

That brings us to all those encryption schemes and unrippable CD's and
even that scheme to slip secret static into songs so your regular CD
player will jump over it but it'll tear the guts out of your computer
if you try to rip it.

Mean shit, to be sure. And that last one's a sure sign that the music
companies don't give a damn about the consumers any more.

Which is why Ekasa pays people to sniff around polymer labs, even
picayune operation like the one my college buddies and I had. We'd
been Chem majors and Chem E's and a couple of misfit physicists, all
drinking together and playing cards together and skipping
early-morning humanities classes together -- which all amount to the
same thing. Me and another of the chemists were lab assistants for
this prof whose big dream was to invent a plastic that could hold up
to the same pressure of as a beer can and degrade gracefully in
landfills, to boot. I know, I know, you're saying don't they call that
a bottle? Look, this was a whole different set of problems, but I'm
not going to go into all that now because it doesn't really have
anything to do with this story. Sorry.

And just what does any of this have to do with Japan? Relax, we'll get
there.

Anyway, the prof thought he was on to something. More important, he
convinced some angels -- which just means guys with spare millions --
that he was. So next thing you know, me and my buddy aren't lab
assistants, we're vice presidents -- the prof handed out titles in
lieu of real pay. We hire a few of our other buddies to do the scut
work and we're in business.

Only the prof's big idea turns out to be a flop because the stuff he
cooks up actually begins degrading a bit faster than he thought,
spewing various stuff that's bad for you into whatever liquid is put
in it.

One of our scut crew thought he had a way to make a few changes and
get something useful. But that would take more of our cash, and the
prof would rather pocket his share and let the project die. My buddies
elect me to inform our angels of this little plan. Next thing you know
I'm a CEO, the prof is gone, and all the rest of our clan have signed
up to help out.

We work our butts off, with the added stimulus that the prof has had
us blackballed by his peers so our asses are grass as far as any
return to the halls of academe is concerned. All that stands between
us and "You want fries with that?" is what pours out of our beakers.

Which is, basically, shit.

The angels started flapping their wings all over me, Mr. CEO, and
making noises about flying off. So I head over to our conference area
-- i.e., the foosball table we stuck in one corner of the lab -- and
proceed to confer. Our little group breaks down into two camps, which
are:

1. We are on the verge of the greatest scientific discovery since air,
so we must redouble our efforts even if it means going without food or
sleep for weeks on end until we accomplish our goal.

2. Just how much beer could we buy with the money we have left?

I'm arguing for the first camp when one of the guys yells "Foos Rule!"
Which, of course, means each side has to pick a champion for a game
that will decide which camp wins, with the opponents bound by sacred
duty to accept the outcome. Sort of a Knights of the Roundtable thing,
but without the horses.

I naturally represent my side, being the two-time King Foos of my
dorm. It won't be easy, though, because my worthy foe is the only man
to ever have defeated me two games in a row.

The game starts with the usual ceremonial tip-off and it's a close
thing. My foe is playing the angles well, and I get trapped into
playing his game for awhile. But I launch a dramatic comeback with raw
power up the middle to tie it all up.

Hey, it's taking longer to get to Japan than I thought. Sorry. Let me
give you the low bandwidth version of the rest of the story:

I fire a foos shot that ricochets off the goalie and into a stack of
test tubes. Faster than you can say Teflon and Post-It Notes, we check
out the resulting goop. The stuff's a bitch to mold -- we can only do
some thin flat sheets -- but it cures hard and clear. Our tests show
it'll turn to an ecologically inert powder, but not as fast as we
wanted.

We patent the goop anyway, just to have something to show the angels.
Which is when Ekasa's folks show up, and Mr. CEO is on the big white
bird to Japan.

But I still haven't explained why our stuff attracted them. My bad.

Here's the 411. What would make a music exec happier than a CD that
can't be ripped or copied? A CD that can't be ripped, can't be copied,
and self-destructs in a few years. Planned obsolescence: every
marketer's wet dream.

The Ekasa gurus figured the music boys would love 'em to death for the
idea. Sure, the public would get screwed, but they'd sell the new
discs as much harder and scratch-resistant. When the CD's started
warping years later? Oh, so sorry. But good news is they will
disappear completely in few years -- good for environment, no?

Some of our bunch were a little ticked about helping them pull off a
scam like that, and it took a lot of talking around the lab before we
finally hammered out a compromise and I was shipped off to Japan.

So we're finally there. Only, well, be honest: if you're reading this,
you're probably looking for the sex. And we haven't gotten to that bit
yet. Sorry.

Look, it'll save us all a lot of trouble if I kick it into high gear.
I get to Japan; chauffeured limo picks me up; five-star hotel; the
works. But then I spend three days being bounced around offices at HQ,
never seeing anything but low-level flunkies who give me gap-toothed
Letterman smiles as interpreters drone on about the power and the
glory of Ekasa. Finally on the fourth day they deliver the offer,
which is laughable. When I balk, they apologize -- for wasting my
time, not for the feeble offer -- and send me off to their labs, where
it's broadly hinted that they're cooking up their own polymer.

All of which might have been more convincing if I didn't already know
that their top two polymer chemists had said sayonara four months ago
and defected to a Dutch firm. Don't these guys know everybody's
secrets are on the Internet? So I squeezed their toes, threatening to
go back home, though I was all smiley-smiley as I said it. Next
morning we cut the deal in a few minutes and they apologized again for
wasting my time. Sightseeing now, they smile as they shove me out the
door.

So I'm finally free to see the sights. Only no driver, no limo -- so
sorry; unavailable -- and no one to go with me.

Fine; I'll get my own guide. But the hotel has turned cold too. Gee,
what a shock: It's also owned by Ekasa.

I've only got a few hours anyway, so I head off after snatching an
English-language guidebook from the stash I brought with me. I hit a
few high points near the hotel and decide to take a subway to a few
others -- hell, for all I know the cabbies are Ekasa's, too.

Now, all of Tokyo is crowded. But the subways -- Think of the biggest
crowd you've ever been in. Now squeeze it into half the space. Then
make them all jam through a dozen or so doors into an even smaller
space.

OK, you're getting close.

I mean, these trains are so crowded that they actually have pushers
whose job is simply to stand outside the open doors of each car, wait
until there are so many people crammed on that the doors can barely
close and not one single extra rider could be forced in -- and then
shove in another couple dozen. And I do mean shove. Push. Cram. Smash.
Smush. Crush. And did I say shove?

But it's all right, of course, because as they're squashing everyone
in, they're wearing white gloves. Wouldn't want to get anyone dirty.

All this is, I assure you, very relevant.

Because I was standing on the platform, watching this performance,
when I got swept up. Next thing I know, I'm almost lifted off my feet,
I'm getting elbowed and kneed, and some wacko in white gloves is
forcing me further into the maelstrom.

The guy in the gloves is screeching and I think I hear a whistle and
all of a sudden there's a whoosh and the subway doors close and I'm
flattened against the glass and metal by a wave of sushi-breathed
humanity. I'm not a tall guy, but in this crowd I stand a good four
inches above average, so my head bobs out of the pile. I'm looking
across a sea of straight black shiny hair. It feels like I'm drowning
in panthers.

Squirming panthers. These people have absolutely no sense of personal
space. The guy next to me doesn't even give me a glance as he digs an
elbow into my side reaching down into his briefcase. He pulls out one
of those weird bondage-and-battery comic books filled with hot-bodied
Kewpie dolls and sticks it in front of his face, the pages tickling my
chin. He ignores me even when I brush it away.

A bunch of other guys have their comic books out. With the elbows and
arms and the normal shakes and bounces of the train, it's like going a
round with some boxer who believes in working the body.

Then I realize I'm getting hit below the belt. I look down through the
wall-to-wall bodies and somebody's briefcase is jabbing me right in
the cojones. I can't pull away because my ass is already plastered
against the door. Yeah, that's right. I got my rocks between a hard
place and a hard place.

So I get a hand on the briefcase and push. It pushes back. I push
harder. It bangs back, and if my hand hadn't been there to take the
shot I'd be telling you this in a reeeally squeeeaky voice.

I set myself and shove. Only the train jerks and the briefcase flies
out of my reach and my momentum carries my hand forward, smack onto --
and I do mean smack -- a very round and very smooth butt.

The butt belongs to this petite package standing in front of me. This
woman is all curves. Black hair in a pixie cut, pale skin on a long
neck, fire-engine red jacket and skirt molded to her body and ending
barely down her thighs, long -- for a Japanese -- lithe legs encased
in sheer black stockings that lead down to red fuck-me pumps. Not that
I'd been ogling her or anything.

Woman turns around and glares -- but not at me, at Mr. Salaryman with
the Kewpie-cunt comic book. My guidebook had told me groping on the
subway wasn't unusual. I guess Pixie assumed it had to be one of her
countrymen. In fact, she even gave me a shy smile, as if a foreigner
like me would have to be a gentleman.

Which, of course, I am. A butt-grabbing, slack-jawed gentleman, but a
gentleman nonetheless.

Slack-jawed? Yeah, because I am looking into the face of an Asian
angel. I'm talking cupid's-bow mouth in lipstick as fiery as her suit,
big, big brown eyes, button nose. And this angel has heaven on her
chest. You don't see a lot of stacked Japanese, but this woman's got a
pair on her would make Buddha bark.

I manage to get my jaw off the floor, but she sees my expression first
and gives me one of those high-pitched giggles as she bats her eyes
and turns away from me.

I'm figuring that's it. But something bumps me in the crotch again.
Now I'm ticked, not only because all this is getting old real fast but
also because checking out Pixie has given me a modest boner. I reach
down to grab hold of the briefcase. There is no case.

What's doing the bump and grind is Pixie's ass. My hand freezes on it
and Pixie twists her head around again. Only she's got a big smile on.
It gets bigger as my boner does; her ass is on me so tight she could
count all the clasps on my zipper.

Which is under no small amount of strain now, because my cock is
starting to put the bone in boner. Pixie gives me another giggle and
turns away.

But she keeps her butt right up against me, jiggling up and down, side
to side. Dry humping is not my thing but I start to get into it a
little. Kind of cool. My pecker's so sensitive by now that I can feel
the zipper in the back of her skirt, even through all those layers.
Gets a bit easier when our humping pushes up her jacket so I'm right
on her tight, short skirt. My rod is rolling all over her ass, up hill
and down.

I'm so enthusiastic, in fact, that it starts to get a mite painful. My
cock's flattened inside my jeans, ramming against the waist and
scraping over my briefs.

So I slow down before I rub it raw. Pixie, though, is moving faster. I
grab her waist to slow her.

She squinches away. Ah, I figure, it was fun while it lasted.

Only she's not done. Her hand snakes between us and undoes my belt.
Before I know what's happening she's inside my pants giving me one
hell of a handjob.

Holy geisha, Batman. I scope out the other passengers; no one's paying
us any attention. The guys are too into their inky porn to notice the
real thing right in front of them.

Their loss. Pixie seems to know what she's doing. Her hand is small
and soft, kneading my cockhead with the lubricant of my precum. She's
rolling over the rim at the bottom of the rubbery knob again and
again. Then she slides all the way to the root and back. My eyelids
flutter and my breath's coming faster.

My folks raised me to obey the Golden Rule, so I slide my hands around
Pixie's narrow waist. She gets the idea and guides my right underneath
the top of her skirt.

There's a strip of lace -- whoa, a garter belt. This chick comes
loaded for bear.

I slide past, across a stomach flat as a board, tight as a drum. There
are a few curly hairs even before I get to a wisp of cloth held in
place by a tiny string. Definitely not some demure prude here.

I keep going through a trimmed forest to the Promised Land. She was
already wet and waiting.

My middle finger slides over the puffy slit of her cunt and her petals
blossom. I stroke her pussy lips, matching the tempo of her hand on my
cock. One by one her defenses give way as my finger slips deeper
inside. She rests her head on my shoulder and I feel her sigh more
than heard it when my fingertip brushes her clit.

Meanwhile she's let go of my right hand and is pulling my left upward.
Two buttons pop open and I'm groping a lace-encased tit. Nice, but I
want more. I try to get underneath; this chick is bursting out of her
bra and I can't squeeze in. She yanks my hand to the spot between the
two cups: a front-side snap! Oh, those clever Japanese. A little
fumbling and her tits bounce free, lush and ripe in my hand. I can
smell jasmine in her hair as my fingertips trace all her delicious
contours. One hand on her engorged nipple, the other on her tiny clit:
this is heaven.

And my cock, of course, is getting its own shiatsu massage. My jeans
have slipped down and they'd be puddled on the floor if I weren't
pressed up against the train door. With my briefs tugged down she's
got my rod completely free and she's stroking like a Mustang piston.

She ups the ante, pulling her skirt up and fitting my cock into the
crack of her ass. Now I'm humping in earnest while I'm still diddling
her with my right hand. Even through the stench of a hundred
half-digested noodle lunches making an encore appearance, I can smell
the hot funk we're creating with our subway samba. Sweat is trickling
down my neck, tickling the insides of my ears, steaming up my glasses.

As I sink my fingers -- two, now -- deep into her, my hand is coated
with her juices. It's like diving into a pool of oysters.

She rips off her flimsy panties and now we're off to the races. I'm
sliding up and down the crack of her ass, skin on skin now, but she
wants more. Her hand takes my cock in a firm grasp and shoves it
lower, lower until it slides between her legs. Her hands, both of
them, join mine at her crotch. I'm frantically plunging my fingers
into her cunt and she's got my cock pressed tight to her, poking back
and forth between her legs. Inch by agonizingly slow inch she's
levering her upper body down, bringing my hungry rod closer and closer
to her hot and ready opening. My legs are almost giving out. I have to
press back even harder against the door for support and my
sweat-soaked back slides down a bit. The angle's almost right. Her
fingers are circled around the head of my cock now, guiding it nearer.
I've got my hands on her waist, bringing her into position. Closer,
closer ...

The explosion of bodies when we got to the station was like some
physics class demonstration of molecules under pressure. I was halfway
across the platform, cum splurting out of my cock, before I even knew
what was happening. By then it was too late. The crowd waiting to get
on had already started stuffing themselves into the train and Pixie
was buried somewhere in the mess. I caught just a glimpse of her face,
lips pursed, eyebrows raised. I stumbled and got spun around by people
swirling past me as I tried to pull up my pants and stuff my cock back
in. I just got zipped up before a cop showed up in my face, apparently
checking to see if the white guy was drunk. I gave him a sloppy smile,
waved him and walked into one of the people-pushers who was backing up
for a run at the next train. He stood there bowing to me in apology. I
took it as a comment on the whole damn experience.

So now you know how my entire trip to Japan went: I almost got fucked
and they said they were sorry and then I almost got fucked and they
said they were sorry.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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