Tokyo Face Fuck
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Tokyo Symphony Ch. 01 free porn video
AN: All dialogue, unless otherwise noted, is spoken in Japanese. For cultural objects that don’t fully translate I’ve added a glossary at the end of the chapter.
If New York was the city that never slept, then Terry thought Tokyo was the city that never dreamed. Its denizens pulsed through the neon veins of the city, on their way to work and back, or another kind of work: the work of being fashionable, or up-to-date, or whatever. Harajuku and Akibahara were as businesslike and devoid of passion as any office building. That youthful swelling of imagination, of constant cultural renewal that you saw in other cities (if only at the fringes) was absent. This wasn’t all a bad thing – Terry had lived in Baltimore for a couple years, and a city that didn’t dream was better than one with nightmares. Still, he felt stifled, like the city was sucking up his soul.
But that was probably all bullshit. He was just blaming the city for his own miserable life.
Terry sat in his cramped bedroom, staring at a blank piece of paper. A saccharine J-Pop song invade his room through the weak walls. He was trying to draw a naked girl – more specifically a nude version of a character from a popular anime series he had never watched – but it wasn’t coming out right. Every drawing was frightening, not erotic – the girl looked monstrous.
Naomichi knocked on his door, and then opened it without waiting for a reply. ‘Hey man, how are those pages coming?’
‘They’re not,’ Terry said. He pointed to the wastebasket, overflowing with discarded drafts.
‘Dude, stop masturbating and just draw it,’ said Naomichi.
‘Those aren’t tissues, they’re pieces of paper.’
‘Really? Paper seems a little coarse to me.’
Terry might have laughed if he was in a better mood, but right now Naomichi just irritated him. His partner was everything he feared he was becoming – overweight, chubby and bespectacled, obsessed with anime, video games, and sex. Naomichi’s clothes perpetually smelled, and Terry had never heard him taking them to the laundromat. He was a thirteen-year-old trapped in a thirty-two-year-old’s body. And circumstance forced Terry to work with him.
‘Seriously, can we do something else?’ said Terry. ‘I’m just not feeling this girl.’
‘Of course you’re not feeling her. She’s a drawing.’
Terry supposed that expression didn’t translate over into Japanese. ‘I mean, I’m having trouble drawing her. Can we just go back to doing Gurren Lagann? I can draw those girls fine.’
‘Look, you get to pick the next project,’ said Naomichi. ‘But I want to do this series, and you should to. It’s new and hot and it’ll sell a ton. Our doujin could be one of the first on the market.’
‘So it doesn’t have to be good?’ said Terry.
‘None of this has to be good. It’s pornography, not fine art. Just draw what people want to jack off to and they won’t nitpick.’
Naomichi grabbed the pack of pocky he had left his room to get and returned back to drawing his half of the doujinshi. Terry tried once again to draw, focusing on the pictures of the girl Naomichi had given him. They just kept looking younger. Terry wondered whether his work was staving off the urges of some pedophile, helpfully directing his desire away from real, flesh-and-blood teenage girls. Or maybe this kind of thing only excaberated desire. He didn’t know, both made sense.
Terry’s pencil idly wandere across the page. He discovered after a few minutes of drawing that he was sketching his high school girlfriend, Sarah Tamblin. She was a sweet girl, who thought that because Terry was an artist he was some kind of pure-hearte soul. But he was just another teenage boy, and she was just another teenage girl, and after a year of dating he had given up on being a gentleman and snaked his hand up her skirt and she had slapped him so hard it left a mark and that was that. Her handprint only took minutes to fade, but Terry had wanted it to last forever.
He drew her with a schoolgirl uniform. They had both gone to public school, but he was so used to drawing schoolgirls that the uniform grew unconciously. He stopped to look down at what he had done. It was Sarah, but it wasn’t, it was a manga girl with big pleading eyes and a small demure mouth and blemish-free skin.
Terry wondered at this drawing, which had suddenly turned into a character. Who was this girl? Why was she smiling? What would she be ten years from now, what had she been ten years ago? He had given birth on the page, but all he had created was body and not mind.
But he was wasting time. He should get back to this new doujin, even if he wasn’t enthusiastic about it. Terry set the drawing of the girl who looked like Sarah aside, but not before scrawling on the bottom: ‘SAKURA TANIGAWA.’
—
Other than looks, there weren’t many similarities between Sarah Tamblin and Sakura Tanigawa, but one of the few was that both were virgins at age eighteen. Sakura hadn’t preserved her cherry out of any kind of prudish reluctance, but simply because the boys around her (and they were, after all, nothing but boys) were so stupid, immature, and for the most part just plain ugly. Her eyes were set on only one man, who was on a completely different level from these children, and who just happened to teach her English class.
Sakura was a B student in every other class, but even though she rarely payed attention to the material in English class, once she was at home she threw herself into it, hoping desperately to impress Mr. Bradshaw. And it worked, or so it thought.
‘Very good,’ Mr. Bradshaw said to her in English as he handed back her test, a sterling blue ’92’ written on the top corner. ‘To tell you the truth, you know English better than a lot of Americans.’
Sakura flushed. ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Bradshaw,’ she said in English. She still had a fresh-off-the-boat accent, but her grammar and vocalbulary were near-perfect. An unexpected benefit of her love.
And it was love – not some stupid schoolgirl crush. She had found the gaijin handsome from her first day of high school, and over the year she learned of his sense of humour, his compassion, his obvious intelligence, and fell deeply in love. He was her ideal man, really. Sakura had left Mr. Bradshaw a love letter in second year, in faltering but very explicit English, and handed it in between the sheets of her homework. He had never responded to it in any way. At first she was crushed, sure it was a rejection because she was ugly or irritating. Sure, it was against the rules to sleep with your students, but why would you fly halfway around the world to teach English unless you wanted to score with some young, nubile Japanese girls? He must be sleeping with the prettier girls, and had no time to fit her into his schedule. Sakura had spent the weekend after that crying and moping, her friend Natsumi holding and comforting her as best she could.
Over time she had come to believe that Mr. Bradshaw was just that pure-minded. No stories, not even rumours, of affairs with students had ever surfaced – and these things were fairly common at her school. So Sakura bided her time. She was already eighteen, and had turned from a gawky teenager into an adult woman with long legs and full, ruby lips and C-cup breasts (one of the biggest in her class). In a few months she would finish high school and they would no longer be student and teacher but just a man and a woman. She would have him then.
Until then she would just smile, wear her skirt high, and keep studying.
—
Three hours later, Terry had only done three pages of the doujin he was supposed to be working on, and they were crap. Every sex scene he drew looked the same, just with the names and hairstyles changed. Every artist has moments where they suspect that they’re a total hack, but Terry was pretty sure those moments weren’t supposed to last six months. On the other hand, he kept returning to
his sketch of Sakura Tanigawa, adding in background and thinking up the story this girl belonged in. She was a schoolgirl, of course – some conventions had to be followed. He decided she was in love with her English teacher. Her foreign English teacher. He realized it was kind of masturbatory, but who would know? To the few who even paid attention to the byline he was Taro Ozuma, just another Japanese artist.
Naomichi emerged from his dank room, experimentally stretching his legs. ‘How’s it going over there, Terry?’
‘It’s, uh, going. I’m almost out of paper, of all things.’ He thought of a way to kill some time. ‘Actually, I think I might head down to the store now.|
‘I can do it, man. You’re way behind on your pages.’ Even though they were supposed to be partners, Naomichi acted like a disappointed boss most of the time.
‘Come on, the art store’s right on the corner,’ Terry said, faintly angry that he had to plead. ‘And stretching my legs could do me good. Get the creative juices flowing.’
‘It’s a bad excuse for a break,’ said Naomichi. ‘But I guess I can’t force you to work. Just make sure it’s done by the end of the week. And get some ink too, I don’t think what we have will be enough for this one.’
Terry knew he shouldn’t resent Naomichi. It was only because of him that Terry could stay in Japan, and it was only because of him and his job (usher at a movie theatre) that they made rent and food every month. Terry, on the other hand, was practically a charity case. But with the tight quarters and tight deadlines bickering and resentment sprung up like weeds.
After descending several floors of his apartment building, deciding to take the stairs rather than the temperamental elevator, Terry burst out into the the sunny, crowded street. He was used to the stares that came with being a blonde-haired white guy in Japan, as well as the bubble of space around him on even the most crowded subway car. He walked down to the small art store on the corner and got some decent paper and ink. Terry wondered if and how he could get out of his present situation and start being able to afford the fancy pens and tools he saw in the glass display case.
He paid for the paper after convincing the cashier she didn’t have to try and speak English with him. Terry left the store and headed home, or what passed for home nowaays. Usually when he walked in the city he was on autopilot, his mind far away while his feet took him mechanically from point A to point B, but perhaps to stall he took a look around this time. And that was when he saw her.
Terry’s first impression was that she was beautiful. That was the one thing about her he’d never question. She had long, reddish-brown hair, a modelesque face, and a slender but curvy body. Her skin looked like porcelain. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen talking into a sewer grate.
Looking at her closely, she did appear a bit dishevelled. Her hair was sweaty and damp, her white blouse had a number of mystrious stains on it, and it and her black skirt was wrinkled and dishevelled. Everyone on the street walked on by, taking only a glance at the crazy, beautiful woman. Terry stopped and stared.
A Japanese man in a suit bumped into him and gave him an earful about holding people up. Terry didn’t listen, so the man went into a further rant about foreigners. Terry walked forward and looked down at the girl, who stared into the sewer intently.
‘What are you doing?’ he finally got the nerve to say.
She looked up. ‘There’s a kid down there. There’s a kid down there and he’s getting hurt.’
‘Oh my god, are you sure?’ Mark shoved past her to look through the great. He didn’t hear or see anything.
‘Can’t you see her?’ the girl asked.
‘Who?’
The girl shuddered. ‘Oh God, not again.’ She then recoiled suddenly, standing up and backing off. She backed into a woman who swore at her and then continued on her way. ‘You have to get me inside.’
‘What?’ Terry said.
‘If I stay out here they’ll get me,’ she said, jerking an accusing finger at the air. ‘Please, can you get me inside? Somewhere with no holes…’
Terry didn’t know what to do, but his instincts wanted him to help a pretty girl in distress, even if that distress was insane. ‘Uh, sure, yeah. You can come up to my place.’
She rushed into his arms, holding him like a talisman against the darkness. ‘Thank you so much. You won’t regret it, I swear.’
They entered Terry’s apartment building, and she instantly looked less scared and more cognizant of what was going on around her. ‘You here on vacation?’ she said.
‘No, work visa. I’m a freelance artist.’
‘Ooh, an artist,’ she said with a giggle. ‘Probably some genius American. Can you draw me?’
Terry wanted to say that he’d been drawing girls like her for months. Instead, he just said ‘Maybe. My name’s Terry, by the way.’
‘Te-ri,’ she said, trying the syllables on her tongue. ‘Like in Teriyaki. My name’s Mika. Mika Otori.’
Terry wondered where he had heard that name before.
—
Natsumi’s parents had the most loving relationship she had ever seen. After twenty years of marriage they still loved the sound of each others’ voices, danced spontaneously in the kitchen, and had frequent and vocal sex that made Natsumi very uncomfortable. That wasn’t to say that they never fought or were unhappy, just that there was an obvious passion and love that carried them through it. They loved her too, and were kinder than most parents, but it was obvious that their main interest was in each other, and she was just the product of that, a spillover of their love given solid form.
When she asked her mom the secret to having a marriage like that, she said it was simply: she had married her best friend. Natsumi wanted to follow her advice. The only problem was that her best friend was a girl.
Being in love was, Natsumi had decided, incredibly frustrating. She had math homework to do, but every time she stared at the clusters of numbers all she could think of was Sakura. It was impossible to focus on much else besides her raven-haired maiden, with the shapely legs and the slender body and that ravishing smile and the breasts, by God the breasts…
And there she went again. One thought about Sakura and Natsumi found her hand halfway down her panties. This had to stop. She wasn’t going to graduate if she couldn’t focus on her homework.
Leaving math aside for now, Natsumi turned to her computer and checked the program she used for chat. Sakura was on and, like a moth drawn to flame, Natsumi went to talk to her.
SuperNatsumi: hey beautiful
SuperNatsumi: what are you up to?
girldustin: i’m starting a novel
SuperNatsumi: wow, you’re a lot more productive than me
girldustin: not really
girldustin: i’ll probably give this up after the first chapter
girldustin: just like all the other ones
SuperNatsumi: what’s it about?
girldustin: it’s kind of a romance thing
girldustin: about an american who comes to japan and ends up drawing hentai
girldustin: and he meets this girl who’s like a model
girldustin: but she has a lot of issues
girldustin: which i haven’t exactly figured out yet
SuperNatsumi: hmm, a romance about an older gaijin
SuperNatsumi: i wonder where this is coming from?
girldustin: ????
girldustin: did you see him today tho?
girldustin: hotter than usual, even
girldustin: i could eat breakfast off that man
SuperNatsumi: like what, toast or something?
girldustin: no, i mean a full western breakfast
girldustin: fried eggs and bacon and maple syrup
girldustin: yum yum
SuperNatsumi: i dunno if mr. bradshaw would like having fried egg on him
girldustin: well tough
girldustin: he deserves it for being so unobtainable
g
irldustin: he’s like
girldustin: what’s the male equivalent of a cocktease?
SuperNatsumi: a cunttease?
girldustin: wow, my girl natsumi is picking up some dirty words
SuperNatsumi: I know i’ve gone through this spiel b4
SuperNatsumi: but i really think you shouldn’t be so fixated on this guy
SuperNatsumi: i mean, he’s a teacher, and a gaijin to boot
SuperNatsumi: he probably has a big-titted american girl back home
girldustin: just you watch
girldustin: i’m going to get him
Natsumi sighed and cast her head back, looking at the ceiling. Such was her punishment – to be so close to the girl she loved that she got to hear him dishing about the man she loved constantly. Every word she said about Bradshaw was like a knife in the gut, but Natsumi smiled and tried to pull through. Just act like everything is normal. The worst thing to do would be to lose Sakura’s friendship. So she kept up the smile, even when it felt like a straightjacket.
Natsumi changed the subject away from Bradshaw and asked Sakura for help on her math homework.
—
Terry had taken Mika up to his apartment, having to practically carry her up the stairs, and sat her down on the couch. She was asleep within a minute. Naomichi emerged from his room, carrying a bag of chips whose crumbs formed a kind of Van Dyke around his mouth. ‘Dude. I send you out for ink and you bring back an unconcious chick?’
‘She was in bad shape out there,’ Terry said. ‘It looked like she was hallucinating something. I decided to take her in before she got hurt.’
‘Well, I think you managed to find the hottest crazy girl in Tokyo. Just keep an eye on her, okay? Don’t want her stealing our stuff.’
‘We don’t really have much worth stealing.’
‘Which is why it’s important we hold onto it,’ Naomichi said. ‘Now give me the stuff and go get your pages done.’
Fortunately, Terry’s bedroom door opened up into the combined living room/kitchen (it wasn’t a big apartment) and he could sit at his work desk and still see Mika laying across their ratty old couch. She looked serene, almost angelic, pink lips flat against her ivory face, chest slowly rising and falling with her breath. Grudgingly, Terry returned to his work.
He was surprised to find himself caught up in a storm of ink and creation. The images and words almost leaped from his head to the page. Terry was delighted, and sure he would be done this today, until he noticed that somehow the centrepiece of the comic, the flat-chested moe girl from a show he hadn’t seen, had slowly morphed into the vixen that lay on the couch across from him. The early pages could still be mistaken for the character, but they were mostly completely unusable. He crumpled the offending pages up and angrily tossed them into the wastebin. He felt like such an amateur, unable to concentrate on a simple – moronic, even – project. Terry pounded the thin wall, which shook and rattled.
The noise seemed to revive Mika, who cracked open sky-blue eyes to stare across the room at him. She slowly sat up, her long hair falling back into a straight line, and tried to rub the sleep out of her eyes. ‘Oh my god, I am so sorry. You brought me in off the street, right? You didn’t really need to do that.’
‘Uh, don’t worry about it,’ Terry said. ‘I’m just a Good Samaritan.’
‘A what?’
‘Guess that’s a Western thing,’ he said.
‘Anyway, like I said, I’m sorry for causing a scene,’ Mika said. ‘I’m on these sleeping pills, you see, and at first they were great but now they’re starting to give me hallucinations, and it’s getting worse. I think it’s the sleeping pills, at least – I’m not taking anything else.’
Terry didn’t know what to say. ‘You should probably get off those pills then. Er, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Mika got up and started walking around the cramped apartment. Naomichi’s door was still sealed shut. She wandered past Terry into his room. ‘So what do you do, besides rescuing girls all day?’
Terry turned around and frantically tried to stop her from seeing his room, but it was too late. His dank bedroom was practically a temple to hentai. In addition to the sketches sprawled out across his desk there was a small stack of the work he and Naomichi had finished and self-published, and a larger stack of other hentai comics, done by the best in the business – it always paid to check in on the competition. There was also a bookcase stacked with comics and DVDs both Japanese and American. Terry knew it made him look like a freak.
Angelica
- 13.06.2021
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