Kimiko’s Game

I haven’t worn my schoolgirl uniform in a few weeks. It’s not that I dislike it, or the attention it gets when I step onto the bus from my neighborhood to downtown Kyoto; I just haven’t really been in the mood. More in the bossing way, telling my man, men, women, what I want, how I want. It’s a poorly understood but fairly expected side effect of bus riding as a girl in Japan that you will find yourself being physically molested. Ignore the eyes. It’s the hands that people let fly when everyone else could see, but choose not to.
Sure, there’ve been the occasional rapes reported, but usually, it’s a pat on the ass, a hip on your hip, a groin against your ass. One time, a man took my hand, held it warmly, for his entire ride, brought it to his lips, kissed it, and said warmly to me, “Domo.” Like I was his girlfriend or wife, but sweeter somehow.
Last time I wore my school uniform on the bus, I met my sister’s boyfriend. He was sweet to me and I enjoyed his attention so much I introduced myself. We went out after school and decided he was too old for me, so I introduced him to my older sister, who went for him right away. We didn’t divulge how we met, or that he’d fondled me for the better part of twenty minutes, and that I returned the favor for a solid six or seven minutes before he asked me to stop. Just last night, I sat by the wall in our flat and listened to him and my sister well… enjoy themselves.
Maybe that’s why I decided to wear the uniform today. Maybe, though people don’t talk about it, it’s pretty easy to get pretty well into a good, physically-arousing hump-fest in these stupid-looking uniforms, and I woke up just wanting to feel someone’s fingers and palms and whatever else they feel like putting on me, on me.
Yes, whatever else.
Only the entertainment types talk about it, only the most daring of us would even suggest it, but everyone wants to feel like someone is interested in them. I’d never say it out loud, to my parents or best friends, or whatever. But, I have needs, urges, hormones. And, maybe it’s sick, but the men like them a little girl wearing a uniform that invites a view of my neck, an easy slip of the hand to touch a warm thigh. And while the bus is bouncing along, if you’re face to face (but never eye to eye), it’s really easy to suggest that the groin to groin thing was merely a result of bouncing about.
One time, I could feel a man’s erection so much when he “bounced” into me, I smiled at him, and told him my stop. He followed me off the bus, down an alley near the school, and I jerked him off for a bit. Neither of us said a word, neither of us even looked at one another. I pulled on him till he came, and then I went to school, found a bathroom stall, and pleased myself with one hand while I sniffed the other, aroused by the aroma of his sweaty cock and salty semen.
The first touch is gentle, subtle, potentially accidental. I would have thought it accidental, except that it happened again too soon after the first time. It’s a small fingertip just above the waistband of my skirt. The third time I feel it, it stays, and I smile inwardly, because that’s what I’m wearing this for. I jerk an elbow in the direction of the fingertip on the small of my back, but instead of a retreat, the finger climbs up my spine. For a second, I wonder if I’m imagining it, or is it a bug on my back, and not someone’s debauched sense of sexuality.
I know it’s a finger — more than one, actually — when it finds the clasp of my bra, and jostles it about. I’ve had this happen to me once, where my bus-riding sexual predator fidgets with my bra till they’ve undone it.
I actually succeeded it doing that to one of my friend’s once, when she said she didn’t believe it happened. She still didn’t believe me, but I proved it was possible. She also said no one would be interested enough in me to conduct themselves so inappropriately and aggressively. Of course, we all knew she was just being jealous.
I throw another elbow, but the fingers spread out, across my spine, and I can feel the whole hand working over my bra clasp, from one shoulder blade to the other. They don’t think I will report them. They’re right. I legit want someone to treat me like a piece of well-wrapped chocolate. A prize to be won.
For a moment, with my eyes closed, I imagine I’m serving them, by being here for them. I’m their tiny little sex slave. They’re too shy or too repressed at home to behave the way they ought, so they treat me like meat. I’m here for it.
Suddenly the hand is gone from my back, and my bra is loose around my ribs. They’ve undone the clasps. I actually express a wry smile. I’d show whoever he is my grin of appreciation, but I don’t actually want to be dry humped against a bus door or hanging post. After a moment, the hand is back, but wrapped around me, a thin arm around my waist, then inching upwards. After a moment, the hand is curled around my thin frame. I feel the breath on my ear lobe. I smell perfume. I hear tiny breaths, taken short and windy on my neck and cheek, ear lobe and back.
The hand is pulling on my shirt, toward it, so the buttons stretch against the pull, keeping the shirt together. I look at the hand, which is over my right breast, and I see painted, long fingernails and I try to hold myself together: a woman is molesting me!
The first time I tried anything lesbian-y was two years ago, at a sleepover with Akira; it was her thirteenth birthday. We played spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven, and each time the bottle pointed to me, I kissed a girl. During seven minutes, twice I was chosen to attend to the closet with Aoi, who was a little older than me, twice the chest, a bit thinner, and so porcelain-skinned you imagine she’s made from Greek gods.
When we kissed the first time, it was kinda electric. She giggled but I moaned when her tongue made its way into my mouth. My first tongue kiss! She didn’t touch me, but she put my hand over her bikini area, moved my fingers around. A few days later, I went to Aoi’s house for some study time and we had a proper makeout session, complete with deep kissing, under the clothes, over the underwear hanky-panky. We got together one other time, about a month on, and she told me she wanted my fingers where her boyfriend put them. So we did that. I touched her, she touched me. To that point, only daddy had ever touched me there.
Did I forget to mention that I am subjected to sexual objectification on a near nightly basis. Daddy makes me wear sexy lingerie to bed, and visits me for a brief jerk session almost every night. Ever since my chest stopped being flat as the Mongolian desert, he had to be near me at bath time.
The first time was scary. Of course it was, I didn’t know what was happening or why. I understand now, it was bad, that I should hate him, but he’s an otherwise good dad. He feeds his children, he is kind to his wife, and as I’ve become more womanly and pretty, he bothers her less for his urges, and no one seems to care. I cared for a time, but got over it. Like wearing a skirt on a bus, being a daughter means you carry different weights, and are subjected to a different set of expectations. I’m sure mama put up with the same from Grampy.
Grampy is a lech. He was probably fingering mama as a baby. He kissed me with his tongue when I was five or six and it freaked me out and I cried and mama told me it was okay and they had a long fight. Grampy only comes by once in a long while since then. And that’s okay.
Mama, unlike me, is gorgeous. Drop dead, traffic-stopping, wolf whistle everywhere she goes beautiful. She keeps her head down and her skin covered and she tells me to do the same. But, here I am, eschewing her advice, and letting this woman with green fingernails, rub my tit till my nipple starts popping out of my bra. Mama never told me women would love me as much as men, would be so confrontational as my papa or Grampy.
I’m curious to see her. She has her hand under my boob, now, working the bra off of me, tugging it down. It’s weird, this way of being slowly undressed while moving along the streets thirty, forty kilometers an hour, losing my innocence at least as fast. She speaks to me. Her voice is husky, adult, sexy. Her words, “You are my angel,” send chills up and down my spine, through the top of my head, the balls of my feet.
I speak. I’ve only spoken the one time to my bus predators, and it turned out okay, so I hope this time will be fine, too. “Anything.” I hear her intake of breath at my invitation. The gentle grope at my breast feels suddenly more intense. She can feel my breast through my white shirt now, and her body is weighing against my back. I feel a little clammy. She’s at least my height, maybe a little taller, given that I can feel her bony hip at the small of my back. Her perfume is sensual and riveting. I want to smell like her. I’ve sensed it before, somewhere, but I can’t recall where.
When she undoes the top button of my shirt, and I can feel the warmth of her fingertips on my sternum, I go a little blind. I feel my panties sort of absorb my rising moisture, and I want to fall into her now.
Her other hand is on my thigh, and I sigh a pleasant noise. She calls me angel again, and I really have to fight the desire to turn and kiss her. She draws lines up my thigh with a fingernail, from mid-thigh to the panty line. She retreats and I sigh a mournful noise. I want her to encroach on my panties, my pubic hair, my everything and my anything. She draws a circle on my outer thigh with one hand, while her other hand, wrapped around me, holding me to her, is caressing my now bare breast on the same side as the thigh. She has entrapped me, pushing away any pretense of accident. She is warped, and I can’t say that I am not. I’m practically gushing in my panties, and while I keep my head down, I want to speak to her. I watch her fingers on my nipple, and grin a little at how good it feels to be a wanted little girl.
She calls me a slut, and I brace myself. Papa calls me a slut when he is ready to enter my mouth or to spray his semen on my legs or chest or belly. I’m sad that we might be parting soon.
Instead, surprise, she turns me roughly and I’m looking at her and she at me and she stares at my downturned eyes. She opens the shirt wide with one hand, exposing my breasts to anyone with the gall to look. Everyone is looking, even if you cannot see their eyes. That’s the second and most disgusting crime of bus and subway molestation. Everyone sees it. Everyone participates. No one ever says anything.
Last year, a nine year old girl was raped on the subway connecting outer Tokyo to downtown, and no one said anything. An old man fiddled with her till he couldn’t control himself, he flung her on the floor and took her. Everyone pretended not to see. Everyone, even the policeman who was eventually called, simply told the man not to touch people on the subway, even by accident. My sister told me about it, how everyone sat and watched the girl cry while some old bald geezer had his way with her. I asked how she knew about it, she shrugged, and told me she was one of those sitting there looking at their phones, watching with one eye as he fingered her, sodomized her, fucked her, and came on her.
I was angry with my sister for a week when she told me she watched. She knows what papa does to me, and she does nothing. She is weak inside and outside the house. I asked her once if papa ever touched her and she shooed me away, as if such topics were forbidden to speak about, because of course they are.
This woman is gorgeous. Perfect skin, ruby red lips. Her cheeks are the right amount of colored, and her eyes are emerald green. I want to live with her. Be with her. Be her? I look up at her, and she massages my breasts with an urgency that does not show on her stoic face.
When our eyes meet, for a fraction of an instant, I smile and she returned the smile, however briefly. I call myself a slut, and she presses closer. We are going to kiss, I feel, if she can tear herself away from trying to slide her hand between my legs. I spread my legs, an invitation to her invasion as much a way to retain balance as we slowly merge into the same gravity. She tries, and succeeds, to move her hands down, under my waistbands. I hear her hiss when her fingers feel my pubic hair. She lets her fingers play there a bit. I watch her face, and I open my mouth as if to tell her I want her lips to meet mine. I want love in this moment.
When papa finishes on my chest or face or wherever, he always says he loves his pretty little whore. I hate being called a whore, because he’s never paid me a dime for the damage he’s done, but I very much like being called pretty. And I am little.
Finally, she finds my labia, and looks hard at my face when she finds I am a lagoon for her fingers. I try not to smile, and she tries not to smile, but we can’t not smile. We both wanted this, she recognizes fully for the first time. She leans in, whispers my actual name, and as her finger finds my clitoris for a gentle press, we kiss urgently, voracious. I want to devour her tongue and feel her teeth in my mouth.
I try to spread my legs wider, so she knows I want her fingers to penetrate me. I’ve only experienced this one other time, when a finger went deep inside me, on a bus or a subway or even in my bed. When my sister’s boyfriend, just a month or so ago, came into my room, shortly after papa had left. He was silent, I barely heard him breathe, while he jacked off next to my bed. I reached for him and took him in my hand and I jacked him off with one hand, drew his hand to my vagina with the other, and he fingered me till he came. It took less than two minutes to bring him to climax: my sister had not been giving him what he wanted, I guessed.
As she moved around my clitoris and labia and pressed against my very damp, pulsating pussy, I said her name into her mouth. She licked my teeth with her thick, strong tongue. She clicked her teeth against my lips, my nose, my jaw. She was pushing into me, and I moaned. She was silent as she pushed deeper and deeper, but I was not. I moaned please as she bit at my neck, pulled on a nipple, fucked me with her finger. I asked if I could return the favor.
She left her finger inside me, but stopped pushing and pulling it out. She and I looked at one another for what felt like hours, but after a few seconds, she asked me if I would like to sit. I nodded, said ‘I’m your slut’ and she and I moved through the crowded bus to a back corner. Someone moved and someone called us both perverts. She agreed with them and sat, leaving me standing, with her finger in my pussy and my tits hanging out. She watched me grind against her finger until she pulled it away.
When it was gone, I missed it instantly, but was also pleasurably relieved to lose the pressure within. I actually orgasmed when she withdrew her finger, and stood there trying to stay composed. She called my name, looked to her knees, which she separated ever so slightly, and I nodded, fell to my knees, and proceeded up her dress, my whole head. There was no reticence or shame or anything. I wanted her to be pleased with me, to call my name more often, to give me good grades in all my endeavors.
If burying my face in my teacher’s sopping wet bush would win me school accolades and honors, so be it. I am papa’s favorite daughter. I can be sensei’s favorite student in the same way.
It’s dark under the skirt, but as she spread her thin smooth thighs for me, I can see her glistening for me. I am a good learner, but I have never put my mouth on another woman’s vagina before. I’m briefly hesitant, but she urges me with a quiet name calling, and a wider berth of her thighs. I wish I had a reading lamp so I could easily discern labia from clitoris from perineum. I edge forward in the dark, though, and on all fours, crawl till I can’t anymore.
My nose strikes first against her wetness. She is without panties. I briefly wish I too weren’t wearing panties, but then there might have been less game to the play. I lift my head and roll out my tongue, and the sumptuous saltiness of her moisture sends my head spinning. It’s hard to breathe under her dress, in her vagina, my tongue finding first labia majora, labia minora. I endeavor to the hole, and I hear her “Hai!” Just before my tongue is inside her.
There’s murmuring now, and I feel something at my hips. My dress is being hiked up, and my panties being tugged up my anal cleavage. I hear a few indistinct voices, males. I’m about to lose my actual virginity, I fear, while tending to Sensei Aka’s needs. There are multiple hands and fingers at play. I want to stop, I want to retreat.
Her thighs tighten around my neck. I can’t even pull my tongue from her pussy. I want to cry out, but I can’t. She has me jammed tight into her vagina, and there are fingers exposing my pussy and my ass. Someone puts a dry finger into my anus and I cry out into Sensei’s vagina. She loosens her hold on my head. I hear her directing them first, then me. She pulls her dress up and reveals that my head is locked in her lap. She calls me her slut, tells me to lap up her juices while the men do what they want. I nod and begin washing my tongue in her wetness, up and down, side to side.
When I find her clitoris, swollen and pink and throbbing, I let my teeth touch it. I slurp around it, suck it into my teeth and lips and she cooes like a morning dove. The men are interested, but she tells them to attend only to me. And then something thick as a thumb is in my vagina. It throbs, sitting at the entrance, stretching me. I hear them talking, they want to double fuck me! But I’ve never been single fucked!
I try to remain calm. Sensei is brushing my neck with her hand, and then she isn’t. I feel something warmer than her hand on my neck, and someone pulls me hard away from her. They pick me up and a whole deck of seats has been made available. I glimpse my teacher, watching as they line up around me. A cock for all my holes. She raises and watches and I keep my eyes on hers as a small cock enters my anus. I swallow the high pitched squeal, and it sounds more like a tiny laugh. A larger cock takes its position and thrusts hard, deep into my pussy and I wail out in pain. I have never felt anything approaching this. I am full to my chest, it feels like. They both are grunting and pushing and a I have no idea how either of them are positioned or who they are. I don’t see their faces. I only watch Sensei, and I see her fighting tears, welling in her eyes. She blames herself. Or she planned this and now feels bad. Or something. When the third cock is in my mouth, I’m a little more at home. I have had dicks in my mouth before.
This one is semi-flaccid and thin, but long. As he rocks against my jaw, he hardens, and I lick his circumference and the blood vessel side of his cock. Sensei, I can hear, is being fucked from behind. She is moaning no and he is taking her anyway. One of the men steps away from me, and they bend her over me, so she is getting taken from behind while I am four-wayed under her. She rests her head on my belly and I hear her calling me her greatest student.
They stop after they all have cum, spreading their thick jism on my face and pubic hair and shirt. Someone jams their cock in Sensei’s mouth and calls her a whore, smacking her hard. She laughs and they leave us. We are alone on the bus now, we two whores. Sluts.
She kisses me and deposits the semen he left in her mouth in mine. I swallow it and we sit together in some silence. I take her hand before the bus stops and we look at my hand on hers. She apologizes to me, and I tell her I am in love.
She looks at me quizzically. “With me?”
I giggle lightly and shake my head. “With myself.”