Shelly had never done anything this reckless. It was ridiculous, preposterous, really. She could die. There were hundreds of ways this could end badly for her, and only one way it could end well.
But she was determined to do it. She didn’t care how it ended. This idea had been dominating her mind for so long, she just wanted to do it and get it over with.
Yomazawa was a nondescript restaurant in Midtown East, in Manhattan. It was a strange place for a nondescript restaurant. All the other restaurants in the area were ritzy, fancy, blessed by celebrity chefs and Michelin stars.
But not Yomazawa. It was quiet and small. It rarely had more than a handful of customers.
That’s because it was a front for the yakuza. Shelly’s younger brother was a cop and had told her that it was an open secret. The yakuza didn’t even do anything illegal here — the police suspected they used the restaurant as a meeting place and to launder cash illegally obtained in Japan. The NYPD had no way to prove that and no way to do anything about it even if they did prove it. So the restaurant was more or less tolerated.
Shelly wasn’t concerned about the law. As she strode into the restaurant that day, she was glad to see that some important-looking men were gathered there. They sat at a long table, sipping quietly from bowls of soup. There were bodyguards too, muscley men with square jaws and scars and colorful tattoos peeking out from underneath their clothes.
Judging from the looks on their faces, no one expected to see a middle-aged black woman come storming into the restaurant. They looked at her as though they assumed she had made a mistake and would walk right back out to find her actual destination. But Shelly had walked by a hundred times, and she knew exactly where she was.
“Hello, gentlemen,” she said, heart beating through her chest. “My name is Shelly. It’s so nice to meet you all. Who speaks English? Raise your hands.”
A few of the men raised their hands. Neither of the bodyguards did, but Shelly was sure that at least one of them did — he was who she was after. She’d overheard him speak on the street in flawless English (all he said was yes, sir, but his accent was impeccable).
“Well, I know that all of you are members of the yakuza. You probably hate it when Americans say the yakuza are the Japanese mafia. I know, I know, it’s a different culture and all that. It’s wonderful. You’re wonderful. I’m not a cop.” You’re rambling, Shelly, be quiet.
“Miss…?” One of the men cleared his throat.
“I just wanted to say hello,” she said. “I know it’s a hassle to have someone like me come in here, interrupting you when you’re trying to eat your soap. What is that? Miso soup? Right? I love miso soup.”
“Ma’am, if you would like a bowl of soup, we are a restaurant. You can simply order one,” said one of the waiters. He gently tried to guide her towards a table.
“Oh, no, I’m not here for soup,” she said. “I’m sorry to make a scene. I didn’t really want to interrupt you. I just figured your bodyguard here wouldn’t be allowed to leave the table unless I gave you all a very good reason. So I wanted to explain-“
“I’m sorry, ma’am?”
The bodyguard she had pointed to straightened his back. His eyes were opened wide. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a nervous stammer. He wore a Western-style suit badly, like he wasn’t used to it. He was a hefty man, muscles brimming beneath the suit. His biceps and pecs flexed nervously.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Kamitsu,” he said.
“Well, Kamitsu, I’d really like to have sex with you,” she said. She blushed. She had never been this forward with a man. “I want to take you into the bathroom so that you can rock my world six ways to Sunday. I’m sorry, that was two different idioms mixed up. You probably didn’t catch my meaning. I want you to fuck me, in a diversity of ways.”
A long silence filled the restaurant. The bodyguards, yakuza and waiters all stared at her like she was crazy.
“So if you want to kill me for interrupting your crime-talk or whatever, I guess go ahead. Just let Kamitsu fuck me first.”
One of the older men loudly slurped his soup as though nothing was happening. No one said anything.
Finally another one of the older men cleared his throat. “We were not discussing crime. We were discussing… regulatory issues. We will not kill you for interrupting a meeting. We are not animals like the Italian Mafia,” he said. He bowed his head to her. “We are not yakuza anyway, ma’am.”
“We import soybeans,” said another man.
“Yes,” said a third. “That is all. Who told you we are yakuza?”
“Oh, I guess I’ve just been watching too many movies,” she said with a giggle. “I guess if you’re not yakuza, then your friend here can simply decide to walk away and fuck me in the bathroom here. He’s just a friend, I suppose, so you have no control over him, right? Kamitsu?”
Kamitsu blushed. He shifted his weight between his feet. He was clearly not used to being the center of attention.
“We do not wish to…” the older man who had spoke first sighed. “Nevermind. You may… It is rude to discuss such matters at the table. You may take Kamitsu into the back and tell him what you wish. Be quick.”
She giggled and squealed. She hurried to Kamitsu and wrapped her hands around his big muscular body. “Oh my god! You’re not going to be mad at Kamitsu, are you? He didn’t know anything about this.”
“Ma’am, just go, please. We will not blame him. We have much to discuss, and we must return to matters of business..”
She led Kamitsu away from the table. Two waiters stood there by the door to the kitchen — it looked like those two waiters were the only employees — and watched her drag Kamitsu by the chest. Kamitsu didn’t actually resist, since he was obviously much stronger than her, but he did drag his feet a little.
“Well, Kamitsu,” she said as she pulled him into the women’s bathroom — with all men in the yakuza and only two employees, both of them male, the women’s bathroom looked like it had never been used. The soap and the toilet paper was still in a package, never opened. “I want you to fuck me. I want to suck your dick, and I want you to fuck me.”
“Is that okay with you?”
“Oh, yes!” he exclaimed as though he hadn’t realized he was supposed to say yes or no. “I mean… I guess… if you want. I have, uh… I have never been with a black woman.”
“Well, we do it the same as anyone else. We just do it more rhythmically,” she said. She laughed at her own joke, but Kamitsu just furrowed his brow. She smiled. “Nevermind,” she said. She hopped up onto his chest and mounted him. She kissed him on the lips.
Lowering herself to her knees in front of him, Shelly giggled again. She caught a whiff of his scent and was unbelievably aroused — he smelled musky, like a man but a little different than she was used to; he smelled both cleaner and dirtier than either white or black men: dirty like the forest floor but clean like crisp forest air. She inhaled deeply of his scent as she unzipped his fly.
His cock flopped out, and Shelly smiled at the sight of its substantial thickness. She hadn’t really been worried Kamitsu would end up having a tiny stereotypically-Asian dick, but it was still nice to see it was not just fine, but big enough to be a challenge.
She kissed the tip. Kamitsu’s whole body trembled like he was so nervous he wanted to fall to the ground. He groaned. His cock twitched beneath her lips.
“You taste good,” she said. She stroked his cock as she sucked on the tip, and soon enough it was as hard as Kamitsu’s muscles. She deep-throated it the best she could. Kamitsu grunted, his arms stiff and at his side like he had to fight against his urge to move around. “You can touch me,” she said. But he ignored her.
Shelly giggled once more. She had thought the yakuza were sexy for a long time, and this sort of stony-faced machismo was precisely why. She liked to make it a challenge for Kamitsu, so she flopped his cock against her face and laughed at the suppressed surprise she saw dancing in his eyes. She slathered spit along the shaft and gulped down every drop of precum he let trickle out.
Finally she was ready to move on. It felt like he was going to blow his load soon, and she wasn’t quite ready for him to be finished. So she stood up and kissed his chest through the suit he hadn’t yet taken off.
He moved his hands to touch her for the first time since they had begun. He caressed her tits through her clothes, gently at first, then more firmly when she didn’t complain. He leaned his head down to kiss her on the lips, and their tongues interlocked in her mouth.
She turned around. She leaned over the sink and stuck her ass in the air. There was an oddly floral scent here — the soap in the unopened package; it had Japanese writing on it, and it smelled like something she didn’t recognize. It must be some fruit we don’t have here (it smelled vagely cucumbery, but it wasn’t cucumber), she thought to herself.
He undid his suit very carefully and slowly. She rubbed her ass against his bare cock, then guided it between her legs so it rested on her pussy. He took off his tie and shirt and undershirt, folding all of them and placing them on the back of the toilet.
Shelly couldn’t help but lean her head back to kiss him on the chest. He had a broad, fat-free torso, like a professional wrestler, but his was tattooed with a Japanese flag, smiling geishas, circling koi, birds Shelly didn’t recognize and symbols she didn’t know (not kanji, she would have recognized that). Every inch of his body was tattooed except for the parts that would be visible in clothes — his hands, neck and face were clear and unmarked.
It was only when he gripped her shoulder and held on tight to guide his dick into her pussy that she noticed his fingers. His left pinkie finger had been sliced off, seemingly deliberately since the cut was smooth and perfect though the scar suggested that the wound had been stitched inexpertly.
“What happened to your finger?” she asked as he slid his cock in. He grunted and moaned, pangs of pleasure shooting up her body. But she was determined to know. She took his hand in hers and sucked on his middle finger, then his other fingers until the only finger left was the missing one. She kissed his stump and asked him again.
“It was… a mistake. On my part. I made a mistake.”
“Like an accident?”
“No. It was not accident. I made an error in judgement,” he said. “That is all I will say.” He grabbed her chin and brusquely made her face him, so he could kiss her. It was another passionate, heady kiss even though Shelly suspected he only did it to make her stop asking questions.
His cock slid deeply into her, and Shelly’s clitoris came alive. She moaned, biting her lip, clawing at the sink beneath her. His shaft touched every inch of her womanhood, stimulating it and sending wave after wave of increasing pleasure through her body.
Though his cock was big, he was gentle and kind. He took it slowly, working his dick inch by inch. When he felt resistance, he pulled out and started again, more and more slowly each time.
When he finally got his entire rod in there, Shelly couldn’t help but moan so loud the conversation in the restaurant stopped. Kamitsu grunted and placed one hand over her mouth.
“Be quiet,” he said. “They will not want to hear you.”
She giggled. “You won’t get in trouble, will you?”
He bristled. “No. They will be happy that I am man enough for women to throw themselves at me. They will be happy that I can please a woman. Do not return though. They will tease me if they think you have fallen in love. Call me if you want to meet again. I will answer if I am available.”
“And if you’re not…?”
“I will not answer.”
“But how will you know if you’re available when I want to meet?” she asked, her voice breaking as pre-orgasmic sensations erupted in her. She bit her lip. “I mean, if I call you on a Thursday, I might want to meet on Saturday. So if you don’t answer-“
“Do not do that. Call me when you are ready to meet.” He flared his nostrils.
“Oh,” she said with a smile. He fucked her with increasing power, despite the expression on his face remaining identical. He looked like nothing was happening; he just watched himself fuck as though it was a delicate hobby that he wanted to get right but had no particular urgency about. Even when he gasped and moaned with pleasure, he showed no emotion on his face — all those sounds happened inside his throat and only barely escaped at all.
Her orgasm built up slowly, increasing with each thrust of his hips. Shelly bit her lip. She made eye contact with Kamitsu through the mirror, which made him blush and look away — the first expression of emotion on his face since they had gotten into the bathroom.
Then the pleasure wracking her body became so intense that Shelly could do little more than grunt and moan. She had been expecting something exactly like this when she decided to hunt down a yakuza. She had imagined herself getting fucked by them so many times she thought the actual experience could never live up to her expectations, but that turned out to be exactly wrong.
She had hoped to have precisely this kind of uncontrollable orgasm. She slammed her hands against the counter and she yelled as bliss poured through her veins. He fucked so hard she could do little more than squirm and accept it.
Soon her pleasure was so intense she couldn’t handle it. Without even realizing it, she lifted her feet, and her entire body was supported by his body and the counter beneath her arms.
She submitted to his fuck like she imagined a geisha might — she hadn’t found any information on what yakuza men did for sex, so she was just guessing. Apparently, she thought, they fucked perfectly.
Compared to most Americans, he seemed passionless, but that somehow made Shelly even more passionate, as though Kamitsu had sacrificed his own pleasure to increase her own. Shelly crooned and wiggled in his arms, but he just held her up like a functional fuck-statue, like a dildo with a man attached to it.
Finally he grunted, and showed another burst of expression on his face as he filled her with his load. He shot a big wad of cum that felt even creamier than any man she had ever been with. Its heat sunk into her body and spread through her veins like the broth of a warming miso soup. She squirmed and gasped.
He held her tightly in position, while his cock sprayed jet after jet of hot cum. He filled her pussy up then kept on humping even when he was done, even as his cock turned limp. That resulted in his entire cumwad slipping out of her body, making a frothy mess that kept on stimulating her clitoris the entire time.
There was a puddle of fluids on the floor when he finally let his cock flop out of her body. She would have fallen to the floor again but he held her aloft, and her entire body went limp. He pulled her face up to his, so they could kiss.
Her tongue traveled down to his neck. She kissed him hard enough to leave a hickey. He didn’t seem to notice. Her kisses moved to his chest, and she sucked all the sweat off his broad, firm pecs — did Japanese men sweat differently? His tasted so much cleaner and less salty than any American man she had ever been with.
She moaned. She at last put some of her weight on her own feet. Her knees were weak, but she managed to support herself. He sighed and stepped away.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. He blushed. Now that the sex was over, his stony, expressionless face was abuzz with activity. He looked worried that he would get in trouble with his boss, worried that this would turn out to be some sort of trick, worried that he had not performed well enough, or that he would make a mistake yet that embarrassed him or caused him to lose honor. He bit his lip and looked at her. He scrawled down a phone number on a piece of paper he tore off the label of the unopened roll of toilet paper by the toilet. He handed it to her. “Call me when you are ready to meet up.”
“Okay… I will,” she said. “If you don’t answer, you’re not available.”
“Right.” He paused. “You will not be my girlfriend. I can not date a non-Japanese woman. Or even a Japanese woman. My women are given to me.”
“Oooh, that sounds…” she couldn’t think of a word to end it with, and it looked like Kamitsu wasn’t even paying attention anymore. He hurriedly put his suit back on. “Wait,” she said before he left the bathroom. She fixed his tie, which was crooked. “There,” she said. “Do you want me to help you buy a suit?”
“I have a suit.”
“I know, but… a better one?” she said. “I know a gay man who sells suits. He’ll make you look like a Japanese George Clooney.”
He smiled and bit his lip. “Okay. Yes. But I can not tell them.” He motioned towards the restaurant. He bowed. “Okay, yes, thank you, miss. You must go. Leave through the kitchen. Do not disturb the men in the restaurant.”
Then he was gone. The bathroom door swung shut. Shelly sighed and dressed herself. She was glad she had done it. She had never thought she’d arrange a future meeting (sort of); she assumed that, if the yakuza didn’t kill her, she’d get one encounter with Kamitsu who would probably be sent back to Japan so he was never tempted by a black woman again.
Judging from the sounds outside the bathroom, nobody said anything when Kamitsu returned. They continued speaking in Japanese. Nobody acknowledged that he was gone. Nobody acknowledged that he had returned.
She was going to wait there for awhile longer, but the door opened and one of the waiters smiled at her. He carried a large tub of miso soup. “Here,” he said. “We are glad to have you. But please do not return. Thank you so much.” He politely but firmly guided her towards the kitchen.
In seconds, she was out the door in the back. In most circumstances, Shelly would have been insulted to be pushed out the back like a bag of trash. But she didn’t mind at all.
She had gotten what she wanted, and then some. She couldn’t wait to call Kamitsu and see what she could do next.
This, she thought, might be the start of something great.