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Shagging Yoko

I always wanted to tell this story...in a way, that little wench Yoko is what started me down the road to infatuation with the women of the Far East. 'Fucking' seemed to be a bit strong, so I decided to borrow a term from the tongue of Mother England. I think 'shagging' is very apt. She certainly turned me to the dark side... We met in Singapore, during a foreign exchange seminar. I had never (well, not in a sexual light) seen a Japanese woman in my life. I was in my third year of college on summer break in my mid-twenties, and so was she. She had never gone to college, instead she was on 'vacation' -- her company had sent her here to represent them on this, an economics seminar. She was a sales manager for SouthWest Airlines (there is one in Japan), and a native of Okinawa.

Anyway, there wasn't much to do in Singapore, that 'fine country' of the far east. The natives call it a 'fine' country, and they mean it. Step on the grass. $50 fine. Eat on the MRT (the subway) $250 fine. Bring gum into the country. $300 fine.

We were there when that hooligan American kid received his lashings.

What a young, stupid wanker. If you're going to piss around in your own country, fine. But don't piss around in Asia, and DON'T piss around in Singapore or Malaysia, where you're guilty until proven innocent. But I digress.

During the day, Yoko and I went our separate ways, to seminars in our own languages. But at lunch, we were in the cafeteria of the 'National University' when we met. I made some small talk with her, and asked her if she would like to come back to my room 'because it was too noisy here.' She agreed, and that was that. Yoko, the first time I saw her, was wearing a SouthWest Air Lines polo shirt (one size too small, I thought), and a pair of tight orange jeans.

Once I closed the door, her smile told me what was on both of our minds.

I kissed her, and she kissed back with a hunger greater than my own. Her tiny hands were everywhere as I kissed her lips, her neck, her face. She was rubbing the area in between my legs as I removed her shirt, her bra.

Since we didn't want to wake the entire hostel we moved to the floor as she pulled down my pants, taking my tool into her tiny mouth.

I was in love. No woman had ever given me a (decent) blowjob in my life.

I was to find out later that Japanese women excel at fellatio, and sex in general. Stick with Latinas and Japonesas, and you will never go wrong. Piss either one off, and you are in a world of hurt. But I digress again.

I moved into a 69, to taste her spices, and she went all the way down, spreading her legs and engulfing my tool as I licked at her little swollen little bud. She moaned. From the base to the tip of my tool I could feel her moan, and swallow my spunk as I shot into her, she;

screaming as my teeth clamped down on her clit; she bucked as I worked a finger into her nether hole.

"I'm not done with you yet."

"I didn't' think that you were," she said, starting for the bed.

She didn't get very far as I grabbed her, pulling her back. Somehow she landed, with a pop! Squarely on my hardening dick. I could hear her purr as the tip entered her, could her cry and moan as I entered her tightness all the more, clear to the hilt. She moved, impaled on me, moving in circles as only she could.

"I'm going to shag you, white boy. I think that I like white boys."

"Where the hell did you learn that?"

"My last boyfriend was British. He always talked about 'shagging.' But we broke up, and now I'm sad."

"Let's see if I can make you happy." I thrusted up into her from the back, reaching around and pinching her little nipples; she reached up, rubbing my hands into herself as she shuddered. Then, she collapsed onto the bed as I came into her.

We both rested for awhile, then I decided to go out and get some coffee at the night markets. When I returned to my room she was gone.

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We never talked again during the seminar. We did see each other from time to time, and smiled, but I never saw her in her tight orange jeans, until a week later, when I saw her talking to a red haired delegate from Europe. I talked to her friend later; it turned out that Yoko was making the rounds with the men of the seminar. I may have been her first, but I certainly was not her last. I asked about the tight orange jeans. "Oh,"

said her friend Chika, "those are her nanpa, how do you say? clothes.

She wears them when she wants a man." On the last day of the seminar they were piling us into the buses, headed to the airport. I saw her smile in the polo shirt and jeans that drew me to her on the first day.

I smiled back, as I got off at the first terminal. She waved.

I never saw her again. Chika later called me from Okinawa, saying that she 'had some health problems'.

"Did she get sick? What happened?"

"No, she just had to stay at the hospital for a few days."

Chika was being polite with me, and discreet for Yoko. I found out later that she had had a beautiful, red haired baby, but that the father didn't know. The family, none the wiser, attributed it to some deadbeat jarhead marine that was stationed on the island, and put the baby up for adoption. She never retired those orange jeans, even after that. Or so I heard.

I lost track of Yoko after that, but soon found more than enough to keep me occupied when I met a foreign exchange student back at the university, but that is another semifictional story.

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