	             ____________________________
                    |                            |
                  /)|     KRISTEN'S BOOKSHELF    |(\
                 / )|         DIRECTORIES        |( \
              __(  (|____________________________|)  )__
             ((( \  \ >  /_)              ( \  < /  / )))
             (\\\ \  \_/  /                \  \_/  / ///)
              \          /                  \          /
               \      _/                     \_       /
                /    /                         \     \
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	This part of my collection offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no    o
o  particular order other than offering them to you in  alpha-    o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!  This story was produced as adult en-   o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.  Kristen Becker   o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Journey to the East - Part 4 [MF, Mf, asian]
by Richard Rivers (r_rivers@cryogen.com)
(c) 1997

*


This story contains graphic descriptions of sex and should not 
be read by anyone under 18, or anyone offended by such 
material.  Blah Blah Blah...

The story is divided into seven parts, of which this is the 
fourth, describing a week-long stay in Japan.  Readers only 
interested in graphic descriptions of sex acts should probably 
wait for some of the later parts, or better yet, skip this story 
entirely.

The author does not mind constructive comments.  I suppose: 
"This is a piece of crap!" is constructive on some level, but 
what I have in mind would be more along the lines of 
technical pointers or anything that might help future offerings 
attain a higher level of craft.  Of course compliments are 
always welcome.


Richard Rivers
12/97


A JOURNEY TO THE EAST
 

Day 4, Wednesday:



I stumbled through the garden in darkness, scarcely aware of 
how I found my way back to the house and into my room.  
Satomi had left me with scarcely a word.  "I must go," is all 
she said, leaving me alone as she disappeared like a shadow 
merging back into the dark.

As I crouched outside Megumi's window I held myself rigid 
in mind and body:  I dared not move, and I dared not even 
think about what I was seeing.  Finding myself alone, as I lay 
on my futon unable to sleep, my thoughts at last began to 
slowly sort themselves out.  Seeing Megumi make love 
aroused me; I could not take in enough of her beauty in those 
few minutes, but to see her with another man aroused my 
jealousy also.  Only a day ago I had still hoped in the back of 
my mind that I might become her lover somehow, but now all 
my hope vanished.  That her lover was Caucasian made me 
wonder about the things she had said to me, about my being a 
foreigner, an American, un-Japanese and all of her words 
suddenly seemed turned on their heads, her meanings double 
entendres.  I went over and over our conversations together.  
If her lover had been Japanese I would not have become as 
upset, but a Japanese woman with a Caucasian lover brought 
back too many bitter memories.

Despite my own background I had never made love to a 
woman of Japanese descent.  All my girlfriends through 
college and my adult years were Caucasian.  I loved a 
beautiful Japanese girl once but I lost her and never recovered 
from the pain of it.

Her name was Jill Tomita, and from the moment I saw her I 
fell in love.  She studied cello with my father and came to our 
house every week for lessons.  All through high school I 
remember sneaking into the balcony that overlooked my 
father's study to watch her, creeping up to the balustrade on 
my belly and peering down at her sitting below me.  I thought 
she was the most beautiful girl in the world, and a shiver 
went through me every time she took her cello out of its case 
and held it between her thighs.  I wanted so much to be that 
cello and I imagined myself alone with her in her room as she 
held me that way.  In time we would reverse our positions, I 
would turn around to face her, already between those softly 
gripping legs.

Our families were close.  The Tomitas invited us over to 
dinner occasionally or to various Japanese-American social 
functions.  At their house, while the adults talked, I went 
down to the basement to hang out with Jill and her two older 
brothers, talking or watching TV.  A few times Jill and I 
ended up doing things together.  I suppose one could call 
them dates: we were both so shy our parents had set 
everything up for us.  Although I had become completely 
infatuated with her our friendship remained more like brother 
and sister.

We both ended up going to UC Berkeley together as 
freshmen.  We stayed close, but still more like siblings to 
each other than I would have liked.  I started tutoring her, 
helping her with some of her mathematics courses, and she 
would come over to my dorm room every now and then to 
study.  I had no idea that she developed a crush on my 
roommate Dave during that time and came over mainly in 
order to catch a glimpse of him until she confided it to me 
one day.  The news crushed me but I tried to act bravely, and 
with the lover's sense of unreason convinced myself that if I 
stayed loyal to her she would eventually find it in her heart to 
want me instead of him.  My hopes were completely dashed 
when coming home late one evening I stumbled into the room 
to find them both under the covers in Dave's bed.  

&gt;From then on, throughout college and afterward, I became 
infatuated with a string of Japanese girls, one after another, 
but the memory of Jill Tomita and the pain I felt because of 
what had happened never faded and I loved them all from 
afar, suffering in silence as I watched them go off with other 
men.  It was as if they were delicate prizes, too fine for me to 
ever deserve or even hope for.  I found other girls to go out 
with, but my relationships were always unsatisfying; 
somewhere deep in the back of my mind I felt a restless, 
unfulfilled desire that ate away at me, never allowing me to 
enjoy what I had.  Roommates and later coworkers often 
asked me if I could help fix them up with  Japanese girls--as 
if I had a secret formula for success--and  I obliged whenever 
I could, causing me to suffer many more broken hearts.  And 
so discovering Megumi with a Caucasian lover fell into an all 
too familiar pattern, almost inevitable, and the pangs of 
jealousy I felt were nothing new at all.

***

Megumi leaned over my shoulder.  "Mr Sato," she said,  "is 
there a problem?  You seem tired today."

Her sweet perfume descended on me as she reached over to 
hit the tab key.  I couldn't bring myself to look her in the eye 
that morning, and every time she spoke I heard echoes of the 
words she had said to her lover in the heat of passion.  

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.  "Yes I am tired.  Yesterday was a 
long day.  I hoped I might see you sooner than I did...sooner 
than today...to get some feedback.  It is hard doing all this 
work knowing that Mr Ogawa will probably undo most of it."

She withdrew her hand from the keyboard and let it rest on 
my shoulder; the long tapered fingers I had seen grasping and 
stroking another man grazed the skin at the back of my neck, 
soft and warm against my skin.  "I know," she said.  "He 
generates a lot of stress.  You have to find a way to let it 
dissipate or it can overwhelm you: it happens to me all of the 
time."

She brought a chair next to mine and sat down, pulling the 
fold of her robe across her knees.  How far apart they had 
been last night, hooked around her lover's elbows as he 
pushed them up and over her shoulders I remembered.  I 
fixed my eyes on the screen in front of us and tried to clear 
my mind.  Every move she made, every word she said made 
me think of some image from the night before.  As she 
pointed out a number of things for me to incorporate in my 
work my fingers stumbled across the keys.  My frequent 
mistakes frustrated her and she reached across me several 
times to enter certain things herself, each time she did so she 
brought her soft thigh against mine, her soft warm flesh 
giving against me.  I grew fearful that my robe would no 
longer hide my state of arousal but everything I wildly tried to 
turn my mind to contained some point of reference to the 
night before.  Megumi's soft words of instruction and 
encouragement only added to my torture as she gently, 
insistently urged me onward to the finish; the hushed 
excitement of her "yes, yes!" in response to something I 
entered, or her soft "Oh!" as I surprised her with some clever 
subtlety: how like the exhortations of a lover coaxing her 
partner onward, deeper into bliss.

When I had finished I wiped the sweat from my forehead.

"You should take more frequent breaks if you need to Mr 
Sato," she said, giving me a pat.  "You are ahead of schedule 
anyway.  I will take this to Mr Ogawa now.  When he has 
reviewed it I will come for you.  Just wait for me, and get 
some rest."

She slid her hand off my shoulder and rose to go.  The soft 
robe clung to her hips and swished gently about her legs as 
she walked to the door.  I did not dare stand to see her out in 
my state, and again my mind went back to the night before: 
the rhythmic sound of her slippers slapping against the floor: 
how like the lovers' bodies slapping together, and as her robe 
rustled about her: how like their heavy breathing.  I closed my 
eyes to try and rid my mind of her image before me but the 
memories only flooded back more strongly, filling the void.  
Her soft full hips, swaying; how she had held them rigidly the 
night before, her body a willing, open vessel which her lover 
had filled.

***

Later that afternoon I found myself again in the garden 
waiting for her to return.  After walking strenuously to and 
fro for a while I seated myself on a bench overlooking the 
large pond.  Closing my eyes I rested, listening to the chirps 
of birds and the wind in the trees.  I did not become aware of 
Satomi's approach until I felt her weight on the bench beside 
me.

"Mr Sato," she said softly, her voice barely above the wind.

"Satomi," I answered, sighing her name as I opened my eyes.  
Her approach had not entirely surprised me.  After what we 
had seen together the night before I knew we had to meet and 
discuss it at some point.  But as an outsider here I also knew 
better than to actively seek out either of the two women in the 
garden.  Knowing the ways as they both did it would be their 
decision to show themselves to me or not as they chose.  My 
place was simply to wait.

"The garden is beautiful in the afternoon," Satomi said.  The 
palms of her pale white hands rested on her lap and it was 
there her eyes lay fixed.  "It is also beautiful at night, 
although what one sees is different then."  She blushed, her 
head and eyes unwavering.

She is waiting for me to talk about what we saw, I thought, 
waiting for me to take the initiative.  Her bashfulness 
reminded me of some women I had known, who after making 
love seemed to withdraw back into themselves, almost 
embarrassed by the passion they had shown, letting the part 
of themselves they had displayed retract, as if to say: "follow 
me, draw me out again if you can, I want you to."  

What Satomi and I shared was in a sense a sexual experience 
I realized.  In our own way; as twin voyeurs, we had each 
watched another couple make love, but there had also been a  
more important, dynamic connection between the two of us, 
an energy that flowed from her to me and back again carrying 
with it a potent undercurrent of sensuality.  I remembered the 
uncomfortable realization which had come over me the night 
before: that the innocent young Satomi, who saw exactly what 
I saw, must feel at least some of the same arousal I did.  
Without touching me she had seduced me, finding a way to 
move me physically, and without my touching her she had 
allowed me access to her own emerging sexuality.  We had 
both shared feelings, a kind of parallel experience, each 
focusing on the same images before us, feeling the same 
feelings. Our bodies had never touched yet here we were, like 
two new lovers: the young girl beside me blushing in her 
modesty, waiting for me to open her up to those feelings 
again.

I heard the sound of her breath close to me and it seemed as if 
time had ceased to move. Our shared experience formed a 
cusp: two parallel lines which in our memory and in 
imagination conjoined, while running their separate, 
unreconcilable courses through the physical world.

"Satomi, why did you take me to Megumi's window last 
night," I asked.

She sat for a long time, so long that I wondered if I had 
shattered the moment, said exactly the wrong thing to her.  "I 
don't know," she said at last.  "I go there often.  I find 
it...exciting.  It never occurred to me to let anyone else know 
about it: it is such a secret thing.  I just decided, in an 
instant."  

She brushed her hair back over her shoulder and turned 
towards me.  "When I heard you walking down the path last 
night I hid.  I knew you were searching for Megumi, and I 
knew that you would not find her.  She had slipped away, 
down to the gate, to let him in.  Then it occurred to me that 
we were both waiting, watching for her, only I knew where to 
find her and you didn't.  That is when I decided to show you."

"But why?" I asked.

"Because you seem different."

"Different from whom?" 

"You seem different from all the men who...want Megumi, 
who chase after her.  I have seen so many men come to work 
for my father.  Not so many here, but in Tokyo all the time.  It 
is as if she has a magical power over them.  They lose their 
self control, they act foolish, or aggressive, or sly, but never 
thoughtful.  I never saw any of them act thoughtfully, until I 
saw you.  I watched and listened to the two of you together 
before you ever saw me, for the last two nights.  Then 
yesterday, talking over tea, when you mentioned your 
mother...you just seem so gentle...That is why I think you are 
different.  You act differently around Megumi than the others.  
You want her, but something about you, the way you act 
is...appealing to me."  

"Who is he, the man we saw?" I asked, trying to change the 
subject ever so slightly.

"I don't know his name.  Megumi has many lovers.  I 
discovered the window two years ago, by accident.  Since then 
she has had a different man each time, all westerners."  Her 
voice trailed off to a whisper.

"But where do they come from?"

"I don't know.  I never see them except...there.  They stay 
down in the village, I think, and she makes arrangements to 
meet them at the gate on certain days, when she sneaks them 
in.  I keep a watch in the garden in the evenings, so I know 
when she slips away to meet them.  She must get to know 
them during her travels for my father's business.  But I don't 
care who they are, they are just men."

She looked away, out over the pond.  "Mr Sato, you think she 
is beautiful, you want her, don't you?" she asked softly.

"Satomi!" I whispered.  "I don't know what to say...I..."

"Mr Sato, this is important to me.  I know you want her.  I 
can see that much, anyone could.  You think that I am too 
young to talk about these things with you, or you are afraid of 
my father, what he might do."  She drew a deep breath.  "Let 
me tell you: I know the result of a man's desire for a woman.  
I have seen how it...ends up.  Maybe I have seen too much, or 
more than I should for my age, but that cannot be undone, not 
now, not ever.  I feel as if I have jumped from the start to 
after the end of the game.  I know what is supposed to 
happen...and all of the ways in which it might happen...but 
none of the rules.  I feel as if something is missing."

Again she paused, letting the sounds of the garden softly 
wash away her words.  "I have to know why you want her, 
what makes a woman desirable," she said.

"Satomi, I don't think I can," I said.  "Not because I don't 
want to, but because I don't know myself.  To me desire is 
simply something that happens, a feeling I get, not something 
I can control.  And the explanations of it that come afterward
--and they always have to come after, never before--the 
explanations cannot do it justice.  In fact they deaden it, make 
it sterile."  I searched for a better explanation of something I 
felt I knew nothing about.  I am the last person this young girl 
should turn to for advice, I thought.

"Maybe that is a good definition of it," I continued.  "It is 
something external to oneself, something which inspires one 
to action.  Certain...types of actions.  Something that has to be 
lived, not explained.  You are still young Satomi, whatever 
things you may have seen;  all I can say to you is what I have 
already said.  Don't rob yourself of your life by worrying 
about it, why it happens, just live, let it happen when it is 
natural."

We sat for several minutes without speaking.  "You are right, 
Mr Sato," she said very softly.  Without looking over at me 
she twisted her body, in one fluid motion slipping the robe 
down over her shoulders, exposing her tiny breasts, capped by 
pink nipples as fine and delicate as the tips of newly budded 
roses.

"Touch me," she whispered, but no sooner than she had 
spoken we became aware of soft footsteps approaching from 
around the bend in the path.  Satomi quickly pulled the robe 
back over her shoulders.

"It's Megumi!" she whispered and was gone.

***
Fin, Part 4 of 7

Richard Rivers 12/97

