Surf's Up

by Tironius, created Sunday, August 30, 2009, with permalink

Satisfying sex with Surf Girl comes full circle

Sexploit#14: ‘Surf Girl’ in Wakayama, Japan

This one has a background to be told. You see, it all started (flashback effect, screen goes wobbly) in the fall of 2003. I was studying in Japan at the time and was in the clutches of a vicious long-distance relationship with a woman who must never ever be named again. Ever. I took a day-trip out to a beach in Wakayama. I had this idea in my head that I needed to try surfing. I got to Wakayama city and I noticed that there was a girl in the station who had dreadlocks and a giant surfboard under her arm. “Perfect!” I thought, “I’ll just follow her, she is obviously wave bound.” I rode the trains to the very remote town of Isonoura. Couldn’t have had more than 3,000 people in it. When I exited the train I approached the surfer girl and struck up a conversation with her, and she taught me how to surf. Now she was very sexy. Very curvy and beautiful little body on her. Nice gams, nice legs, and a darling face like an Eskimo. But, being the pussy-whipped dork I was, I stayed devoted to my evil bitch girlfriend back in America. So, the surfer-girl and I had a harmless day of fun at the beach.

That day in the sun would turn out to be the bain of my existence for the pain-stricken remaining six months of hell I spent with the American girl. Every damn day it was “well, why don’t you just go back to your little surfer slut..” or “I bet it’s not as good as your little surfer whore can do it…” or “Maybe you would like me better if I could surf like what’s her name…” Thanks to a good friend, Tironius, and strangely said girl’s best friend’s advice I got out of that hell-hole, and my cock was free to run wild again.

She said “Oh no, I could never do that…I’m just not that kind of—” Then we were fucking.

Now, like all of my sex stories, this one is dripping with irony. I was crucified everyday for a completely benign, one-day relationship with a friend at the beach. I did nothing, and to be honest hadn’t really thought about doing anything. I spent day and night convincing the American that I was innocent! But then the universe has a way of bringing these things to be.

Skip ahead a year or two and we find me back in Japan. This time working. I got in touch with the surfer girl and we decided to hang out somewhere—get some drinks. We went to a local stir-fry joint in my neighborhood and got smashed after work. I told her she could stay at my place since her sister’s place was so far away. She said “Oh no, I could never do that…I’m just not that kind of—” Then we were fucking. Oh man, it was like this woman’s anatomy was custom built for mine! It was like a perfectly fitted glove. I rocked her several times, and it was really rather stellar. She was 27 and in her prime. Gorgeous body, the product of all that surfing and the softest tits you could ever imagine. I took her to pleasure town over and over again.

And while I was banging into oblivion, a wry smile came over my face. Ah, at last it had come full circle. The irony complete. Here I was, banging the very girl that I had so vehemently argued that I wouldn’t. If only she (the American) could have been there to see it. If only there were some way she could feel the burn of that one. I mused about writing an email off to that effect, but my mind wandered to other things.

There were later encounters with the Surf-Girl. There was the trip to Hakone. We went to a “Spa-World”—an indoor fun park of baths and hot-tubs of all different types. At the traditional Japanese hotel, we partook in some of the most passionate love-making of my career. Again, the fit was amazing.

Cowabunga!

Labels: Asia, Best of, How to Seduce, Sexploit

Kurippi in Korea: Going to a cathouse

by Chris Maupin, created Saturday, January 19, 2008, with permalink

The Shadowy
Underside of Korea

Experience with the oldest profession, in South Korea

It’s a March Friday and I have been pacing for an hour in the cold night outside a nondescript stairwell between two empty buildings in South Korea. Twin red-white-and-blue barber poles spin furiously just outside the black corridor between the buildings. I have circled this block ten times now, still lacking the courage to walk down those stairs.

What if it’s just a barbershop? Nonsense. Barbershops aren’t open at 12:30 A.M.

The brothel:

What if it’s expensive? — What if they don’t cater to foreigners? — Finally, I’ve never done this before. Round and round the barber pole in my mind spins, only to end up again at What if it’s just a barbershop?

I circle the block once more killing another ten minutes.

The stairwell again. My heart is a rib-ramming fist. Inside: a pungent cocktail of terror, teen-ish intrigue and curiosity. Outside: two barber poles and a taunting stairwell.

I’m inching my way sideways down the stairs now—my back to the wall and my palms soaked. My heart is an earthquake. I crane my neck to see the bottom of the stairwell. A glass shop door stands completely opaqued by a pink vinyl decal save for a five-by-eight inch rectangle. I knock softly with a trembling hand. At first, nothing. Then, like a magic-eight-ball , a woman’s ghostly face floats through the inky black to the small pane. She examines me with a polite smile before letting me in.

In the dim parlor I see her murky apparition. She is frosty pale with hair just blacker than the rambling catacombs of the brothel. * Visage (‘vizij) » noun [usu. in sing. ] poetic/literary » a person’s face, with reference to the form or proportions of the features. She is maybe 38, but her visage* seems older. Painted toenails in cheap flip-flops join two frosty white legs that disappear under a pair of pink silk shorts ringed with black lace. † Camisole (‘kameh-sole) » noun » a woman’s loose-fitting undergarment for the upper body, typically held up by shoulder straps and having decorative trimming. Above a matching camisole† hovers her face, punctured by two completely black, mascara encrusted eyes.

Almost apologetically she motions to the slippers by the door and then disappears behind a curtain to a nearby room. Two low whispers carry through the womb-like brothel. In a television’s flickering blue light I can make out a large space filled with random furniture covered in bed sheets.

“Zing!” the curtain slides back revealing the whore in pink leaning over a sofa talking with an obese woman in a huge T-shirt. The fat woman glances over her shoulder to size me up, mutters something to the whore and then returns to watching her soap opera at a near-mute volume.

“W60,000,” ‡‡ $60 USD the soft-spoken prostitute informs me on her return. She counts the bills and then hands them to the sow behind the curtain.

“Do you want a massage or — (crude palm fist gesture indicating sex)?”

I mimic the palm and fist gesture.

“This way.” She motions.

A chilling thought enters as I follow her through labyrinthine underground brothel: Is that woman her pimp?

We pass two dark, curtained rooms with doctors’ tables and hand showers. The rooms appear completely water-proof with drains in the floor. How large is this place? I wonder. I trail her, adolescently gawking at her trashy shorts shifting in the dark. My cock is hard with fear and lust when she stops. There, at the end of a shadowy and narrow hallway is a small ten-by-ten foot room with a weak red incandescent bulb and a short curtain door.

She utters something in Korean and motions for me to undress. How much do I undress? Is this where we have sex? But before I can ask she has already disappeared again. Lying naked and paralyzed on a cotton floor mat, I gaze at the office-like drop ceiling in the pale red glow. In another room, I can hear her rummaging through cabinets and boxes. A sink runs then stops. I can’t help but be reminded of that awkward wait between assistant and dentist.

She closes the draw curtains behind her and kneels into the room. This time she brings with her a couple of plastic tubs similar to the ones in the shower rooms. Two steaming white towels accompany a condom and two plastic bottles. Frozen, I listen to her alien chit-chat.

“‘I like Americans — they are kind to women.’ The comment’s irony isn’t lost on me.”

Squatting near me, she begins to scrub my cock with the hot wet towels. For me it’s an awkward elephant in the room; for her, an occupational hazard. Next, she removes her flimsy dime store lingerie with an almost masculine crudity—unabashedly exposing her brown anus as she bends over to step out of her pantyless shorts.

I endure a joyless blowjob, while examining her soft body — soft from a life of lying in a cot and waiting to be bought. § Warren » noun (also rabbit warren) » a network of interconnecting rabbit burrows. • a densely populated or labyrinthine building or district : a warren of narrow gas-lit streets. • Brit., historical an enclosed piece of land set aside for breeding game, esp. rabbits. A ceaseless existence, spent here, in this warren §, sleeping and being slept with. A condom package snatches me from my daydream.

Now underneath me, she spreads her limp legs revealing a hairless cunt. Her breasts slide limply over her bony ribcage. My mind drifts to an old lover who had a rather loose yet shallow pussy. The whore’s pink eraser nipples are rubbing my chest. Before long, I am filling her with jets of semen.

We attempt some limited small talk while dressing. In a dreamy opiate haze, she tells me she wants to see America someday. I tell her she should do it — but somehow we both know it’s fantasy. But who is the trick to call the whore deluded?

Back at my shoes she compliments me on my penis-size. “I like Americans — they are kind to women.” The comment’s irony isn’t lost on me.

At a different stair, she pats me on the rear and tells me to come again. I exit the plain metal door at the top and step outside to find myself in a completely different building on the street above—nothing to suggest that I just emerged from a brothel.

How clever. How thoughtful.

Labels: Asia, Best of, Sexploit

Sexploits of Japan

by Q-pounder, created Wednesday, October 11, 2006, with permalink

Crying blowjob

Long before Q-pounder settled into commitment with high grade Hong Kong cream puff, Japanese was vogue. Hiroko, a nineteen year old nurse, was preparing for a career of changing diapers and bathing horny old men. Based in Yokohama, she commuted daily to Tokyo for class.

I met her in a swank coffee shop near Harajuku. The same day Morning Mesume, a forgettable J-pop band staring a bunch of preschool girls, drew fans from around the city. I dragged Hiroko from the coffee shop out through the throngs of fanboys. Her tall frame, chunky chest and perpetually confused face agreed with me, and sailed behind as I hacked through sweaty summer bodies with my elbows the way Crocodile Dundee does it with a machete. I made my move at the train station. A playful peck on the cheek before darting onto the subway and taking leave of her. She was hooked.

She wakes me with a volunteered blowjob. I look down. She's never gone through with it before. She'll go through with it today.

The next day, well jacked-off and ready to claim my pussy prize, I waited in Shibuya, swapping instant messages asking where the fuck she was. We were supposed to meet at three. Like a whipped bastard, I stuck around until five, trying to ignore the scandalously-dressed teens lapping melty ice cream cones on a nearby bench. I eventually found out, thanks to her shitty English she'd insisted on using over my Japanese, that she'd never intended to meet up that day. She thought we were talking about two days from then. Furious, I stepped into the street, macked on random girls, then ran home to get drunk and eat grilled meat with old guys hanging around the train station.

Misunderstanding or not, she'd wasted the bulk of my afternoon and lots of train fare. She'd blown it off with a light apology. I wanted revenge. Two days later, when we met at an equidistant train station, I did what any angry man would do. I took her home. I fucked the shit out of her. I used the most vulgar, demeaning Japanese I knew, and it was pretty rough considering I learned it from former Kansai gangsters. Hiroko loved it. She was shocked at my every command. You wouldn't have guessed from her nervous reactions, her flinching eyes, but she was loving every word of my demeaning commands. Take off your top. Suck my balls. She did whatever I said. And she always came back.

Flash forward two weeks. I'm thin like a heroine addict from too little expensive Japanese food. Hiroko's been living with me in my cramped hotel room. I've been sleeping all day. She wakes me with a volunteered blowjob. I look down. She's never gone through with it before. She'll go through with it today.

Hiroko isn't happy. Five minutes have passed and I have yet to fill her mouth with cream of corn. She looks up at me with, "can't we just fuck" eyes. I palm the back of her head and drive deeper.

I look up at the clock. Ten minutes have passed. She's gagging and nodding off, tired from all her bobbing. She wants to stop. "Continue!" I bark in the rude command form.

After fifteen minutes, I'm still nowhere close. Her teeth keep grazing my shaft. Her rhythm is erratic. This is going nowhere.

Twenty minutes. I look into her eyes. She's crying with exertion. She's never given a blowjob like this before. Maybe never more than 30 seconds, just to wet the tip and get it sliding in without snags. She'll make it, I think to myself.

Twenty five minutes. I'm still not close. She sniffles and looks up at me with her defeated eyes. I jack myself off for a minute then jam it back into her mouth and blow my wad. She swallows.

She never gave me a "full" blowjob again after that. I never asked her. She was dumb, and she didn't know how to say no. She didn't have much self respect. So she liked me. And me, the kind of guy I was back then? Yeah, I liked her too.

Labels: Best of, Sexploit