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Yayoi

By: songwriter503



1. First encounter 

I met her on my first trip to Japan, while traveling with my wife, who is also Japanese. I was right away drawn to the fact that there is anyone actually named Yayoi, which just sounds like too much fun to be a real, traditional Japanese name, but it is. She seemed very serious when I first met her, dressed in a suit-ish kind of thing, the sort of thing professional women wear before they get in front of a camera and read the news, which is what Yayoi was doing when I met her (or a few minutes afterward, anyway). 

I'm not sure if there's anything sexier than a beautiful young woman in a smart suit reading the news into a camera. There's that whole veneer of serious professionalism that's just crying out to be poked at, broken down, turned into its opposite. 

Yayoi wasn't just reading the news into a camera, though. She was reading a Japanese translation of a leftwing American broadcast, a translation for which she was the principal translator. Her English was impeccable. I couldn't believe she had never lived outside of Japan. Millions of other Japanese people study English for ten years as kids, and by the time they graduate from high school they can't speak or understand a word. 

In some places, like Scandinavia, being fluent in English is just something everybody does, to get by in the world, the vast majority of which does not speak Norwegian or Danish. In other places, though, the people who learn English really well are some the people I'd otherwise be least interested in meeting. English fluency in some places is often a sign that someone is interested in commerce, involved with tourism, or an Anglophone, and being an Anglophone often places one somewhere other than the left side of the political spectrum. 

But as soon as we started talking about politics and music and getting ready to do this interview, it was clear that whatever else Yayoi was, she was young, beautiful, highly intelligent, leftwing, and fluent in English. And though she maintained that air of professionalism throughout, the left side of her mouth would lift up slightly at times, forming what seemed like a little hint of possible other sides to Yayoi. I wondered, somewhat desperately, if I'd ever have the good fortune to become acquainted with any of them. I figured in all likelihood I'd never see this woman again, actually. 

I asked her where in Japan she was from. 

"Kyoto," she replied. I looked at her quizzically for a second at first, realizing which city she was talking about just before she said the name again, changing her pronunciation to be more like the way Americans would be familiar with - "kee-o-to." 

I was glad she was from a city that I knew at least one thing about, aside from the fact that it had some famous shrines in it. 

"One of my favorite punk bands is from Kyoto," I exclaimed - probably, I thought, with far too much excitement for my own good. "Do you know Geronimo Story?" 

Her face lit up momentarily as she said "yes." 

It's a magical combination of events when a woman like Yayoi's face lights up at the same time as she says that potent word. I had to squelch the desire to ask her to say it again. 

She continued: "I've been to many of their shows. I've also worked during them. They play a lot at a club where I used to be a bartender." 

She likes music. She goes out to hear leftwing punk bands, not just because she's working in the bar, but because she likes music. And she worked at a bar as well as working as a newscaster. Brilliantly well-rounded. 

All especially attractive to me given that I was and am a leftwing musician and news junky, here in Japan not only to visit my wife's friends and relatives, but to sing for anarchists in Tokyo, and peaceniks and communists in Hiroshima and elsewhere. And I was a fan of Geronimo Story. 

I believe I succeeded in not drooling at any point during the interview or the rest of the encounter, though whether I managed to sound intelligent is another question. Staying on topic was more than a little challenging. 

After far too little time, we left the studio, bidding adieu to Yayoi and her colleagues there. Aside from the atrociously hot and humid summer weather and the complete unavailability of marijuana, I had a lovely first tour of Japan back then. It was three years and two visits to Japan later that I was again singing for the small but vibrant anarchist scene in Tokyo when Yayoi appeared, as if out of a dream. 

2. Correspondence 

She wasn't in her professional attire this time. She was dressed in such a way that she'd fit right in among the outrageously fashionable women of the surrounding, ultra-modern neighborhood of Shinjuku, wearing tight jeans that had come pre-shredded and those fur-lined boots that go most of the way up one's knee, with heels. I can't remember what else she had on. I was too overwhelmed by the vision of her perfect legs, and the slight bulge of her pelvic bone, being hugged so tightly by those stretchy, torn-up jeans. 

In the context of the anarchist cafe, she looked somewhat out of place, though even anarchists in Tokyo tend to dress a little more upscale than their brethren in many other wealthy nations. And they bathe every day, which definitely differentiates them from many other aficionados of the circled "A" around the world. 

I recognized her right away, but Yayoi introduced herself anyway. 

"We met when I was one of the hosts for a show on community television," she said. 

"I remember well," I replied, trying to modulate my voice so I didn't sound too much like a 13-year-old boy about to come in his pants. "Are you still living in Tokyo?" I managed to inquire. 

"I'm back home in Kyoto now, working in a bar. Geronimo Story still plays there now and then." She remembered our conversation. "I'm going back there tomorrow." 

"When did you get into the big city?" I asked, hoping it wasn't too obvious I was searching for things to say to keep the conversation going, not wanting her to walk away now or ever. 

"I just took the shinkansen here today." 

I don't know if she was trying to let that sink in, or if I was just at a loss for words at that point, but things got quiet after that statement. She had spent over three hours on an expensive bullet train from Kyoto to Tokyo in order to catch my show, since on this trip, Tokyo was the nearest I'd be getting to Kyoto. And she would spend over three hours on that very train the following day in order to get home in time to go to work. In a music venue, no less. 

That's when it occurred to me that she really did like my music. Of course she probably liked to have an excuse to visit her friends in Tokyo, some of whom would fairly predictably be at my show, due to the milieu. But she picked this particular show to make a one-night trip to Tokyo, which I figured might count for something. 

I was trying to come up with a good excuse to ask her for her contact information. The fact that she worked in a music venue didn't even occur to me as a legitimate reason at the time. But I was saved from any further wracking of my brain when I watched her approach my email list, pick up the pen, and write down her name and email. 

Trade secret: this has long been my most effective way to get to know people better as well as the most effective dating technique. It's mainly a matter of paying attention at the right time, because although I may have been talking with someone at a gig and I thought I wanted to have more occasions to do that in the future, I may or may not remember their names when the time comes. But if I see them sign my email list, and I remember what they looked like, then I easily tend to remember and be able to make the face-name connection. 

I was hesitant about writing personal emails to women who signed my email list at first, fearing they would find the idea intrusive. But I've been happy to discover that if someone signs your email list, they're apparently pre-conditioned at that point to not be bothered by me writing them a personal email, rather than just list stuff. This doesn't always result in volumes of intense correspondence back and forth, nor does it always result in a date, or becoming lovers on a long-term basis. 

In the case of Yayoi, my brief email to her would be the beginning of all of those things. 

What began was months of near-daily emails back and forth. A funny, philosophical and often very steamy bunch of correspondence. In the first weeks especially, every day seemed to involve new revelations in terms of just how much we had in common. 

My wife, Sachi, is from a small city in a very traditional, socially conservative part of the middle of the three biggest islands. Going to graduate school in Boston, Massachusetts opened her eyes to many things, including alternative lifestyles she had never heard of in small-town Japan. But it probably wasn't Boston that prepared her for her years of living with a pot-smoking, leftwing, polyamorous touring musician. 

At least as far as polyamorous part goes, Sachi's preparation was her traditional upbringing, more than anything else. If in practice "monogamy" means "exclusivity except when it isn't," which is at least for part of 90% of supposedly monogamous relationships, Sachi understood that in practice well. Those cheating husbands have to cheat with someone, and one of those someones was Sachi. The only long-term relationship she had been in before me was with a married university professor.  

My preference is for a much more open kind of arrangement, but it's easy to get used to "don't ask, don't tell." It's a slight variation on cheating, something most people are intimately familiar with. Cheating in practice, but with a clearer conscience. 

Yayoi, it turned out, had been practicing a more open form of polyamory, or at least attempting to. By the time our email exchanges began, she was preparing to find out if other parts of the world might have more to offer her in terms of a social life more in line with her ideas about how things can be. Her interest in pursuing journalism more led her to the question of graduate school, and she had ended up with a full scholarship in the journalism program at a university in Copenhagen. 

She had already joined a polyamory discussion group based in Copenhagen, and was meeting people online in the way that only people at least a decade younger than I know how to do. She was also reading every blog post I had ever written, and was quickly developing a better recollection than I had about things I had said, written or sung at some point in the past fifteen years. 

Knowing Copenhagen was one of my favorite places to be, it turned out, was a factor in her decision to go to school there, but Yayoi had thought good things of Denmark before she ever heard of me. There is a general positive orientation toward Denmark in Japan. The simplicity of Danish furniture design and architecture is big in Japan. Fashionable, tall, fit and blonde is always popular in Japan, and Denmark exemplifies all of that. Plus nice pastries - and there's a chain of Danish-inspired bakeries all over Japan these days. 

Yayoi's attraction to Denmark, aside from all of the above, was also the reputedly cosmopolitan nature of the Danes, the notion of Denmark as a socially and politically progressive society, relative to most other places, at least. 

I like all of those things about Denmark, and more. After years of touring there as well as getting into significant relationships with a number of Danes, it feels like a second home for me, although I have yet to learn even a smidgeon of the Danish language. My next tour of Europe was coming up, and I was already planning on spending a week off at the beginning of it, recovering from jet lag in Copenhagen. 

It had become abundantly clear that Yayoi and I were destined to spend some time together, and she asked me if I minded if she organized a week-long Danish holiday for the two of us. She said she wanted to test herself on how well she had grew to understand me, during our months of intense correspondence, and also how well she had grew to appreciate Denmark through my blog posts and songs related to it. 

April eventually arrived, and it was time to board a flight to Copenhagen. 

3. Christiania 

Yayoi and I had been corresponding so much for so many months. It had all been either interesting or scintillating or both, at different times, depending on the subject and such. But there had been such a volume of it, it had clearly been occupying so much of our collective time and energy, that I was occasionally concerned about the level of obsession that might have been happening here. Which is a much nicer concern to have than being worried about whether someone is disinterested. 

Something about seeing Yayoi's expression there, waiting to greet me at the airport, banished all such concerns. She was beaming, but beneath the smile was the same confident woman exploring a new continent that I had exchanged so many emails with. This was going to be a fun week, and I already got the distinct impression there would be more of them in the future. 

Jumping ahead of myself, I thought. We haven't even had sex yet. But so many cool women (and men, I'm sure) act like they're cool with polyamory, up until they develop an emotional attachment to you, then they want you to choose between them and everybody else. I have a bit of a sensitive sensor up, looking for that kind of thing, but Yayoi has failed to make it buzz. I so wanted this to work out, and not for this to be some kind of trial week to determine whether it's all or nothing... 

Other immediate impressions as I was walking, guitar slung over my back, wheeling along one suitcase full of clothes and another suitcase full of merch, was that Yayoi had quickly adapted to Danish fashion. Gone were the ostentatiously fashionable shredded jeans and Lolita dresses. Now she was dressed like a typical Copenhagen woman - completely in black. Warm tights on the bottom, a black jacket on top. Only her red and white kaffiyeh provided a splash of color, wrapped around her neck. 

We had never kissed before. I was familiar with the public reserve of Japanese culture, and I was trying to prepare myself for a brief, self-conscious embrace before we headed off somewhere. But once I was out of the mass of the crowd of people exiting the secure area of Kastrup airport, Yayoi carefully helped me unburden myself of the guitar on my back, and once this was done, she squeezed me hard, and kissed me passionately, if only for a few seconds, beaming at me now from inches away. 

Seeing her face up close, feeling her lips and tongue against mine, holding her lean young body in my arms, it was all pretty overwhelming. I felt that wonderful feeling you get in these relatively rare situations, seeing someone I'm wildly attracted to that I haven't seen in a long time, or in a sense, ever, in this case. I've never injected ecstasy before, but I imagined if injecting MDMA was something you could do, it would feel like this. 

"We're going to rent a car," Yayoi said as she led me in the direction of the Hertz booth. "Some of the places we'll be going, there are no train stations." 

The way she enunciated each syllable was the main indication that she was speaking English as a second language. Otherwise her pronunciation was with a perfect American accent of non-Southern but otherwise indeterminate origin. 

We picked up some espresso drinks and then meandered along to the building with the rental cars. Once we had gotten the car loaded up and I had plugged in my GPS, Yayoi spoke. 

"First stop, Christiania." 

"What a great idea," I said. "I'd really like to get some pot." 

"I know!" Yayoi smiled. 

Of course she knew. My pot habit is one of so many topics we discussed over the past months. I also figured I knew the answer to my next question, but I asked it anyway. 

"Have you tried pot yet?" 

It's very rare to come across pot in Japan, it's haram. If you do come across it, it'll be 10-20 times as expensive as in Copenhagen or Amsterdam or Seattle, and it won't be very good. But now, of course, she was living in Copenhagen, one of the marijuana capitals of the world, much to the constant chagrin of some of the country's more conservative politicians. 

"Not yet. But I was thinking I'd try it tonight." Yayoi paused for emphasis, put on her best Lolita expression, and added, "for the first time." 

I was in the driver's seat. There was no question about this, since Yayoi didn't have a driver's license. When you come from one of the bigger cities in the country with the world's best mass transit system, there's not much need for driving. And they make it expensive to own a car there, which is probably good, because if everybody had one, the country would be unlivable. It's crowded enough as it is just with pedestrians, let alone cars. 

Denmark has a similarly great mass transit system, and similarly few drivers, at least among those in the capital city. The favorite mode of transport is the bicycle, which is obvious as soon as you leave the airport. Bike lanes everywhere, filled with bicyclists, whatever the season or the weather. And the bike lanes are actual lanes, not painted onto the roads like in the US. 

We drove alongside the bicyclists, toward the city center, and then toward the spire in the distance that I knew was the center of the Christianshavn neighborhood, where the old military barracks-turned-hippie-commune, Christiania, was situated. 

I was heading toward one of the side streets along the canal near the main entrance, where I've often found parking in the past, when Yayoi directed me toward a different street. 

"This is the nearest street to where we're staying tonight," she explained. 

"We're staying at Christiania tonight?" I asked, seeking further information. 

Yayoi smiled. We had had lots of communication, but she had been completely mum about her many plans for this week. We both knew that surprise parties were not a Japanese tradition, but Yayoi had clearly been enjoying organizing what seemed to be a very elaborate week of surprises for me. 

"There's someone I met through the polyamory discussion group who lives in Christiania. I think you know her. She's home in Spain for the month." 

I do know her, assuming it's the same polyamorous Spaniard I have in mind. In fact, we were lovers, briefly. Couldn't remember if Yayoi knew that or not. I had been to her place in Christiania a number of times. She moved there a couple years after I first met her. Few new people manage to move into Christiania, if they weren't part of the original 1970's era land occupation, but our mutual friend is very resourceful. Christiania is a very popular place to live, given that there's basically no rent, no cars, and it's a lovely place full of hippies and the sorts of tourists who are looking to buy some pot or hash on Pusher Street and chill out in or near one of the many cafes scattered around on area of the sprawling former barracks, from which Denmark used to launch periodic invasions of Sweden way back when. 

Yayoi and I found parking. I took out a change of clothing and some other odds and ends, along with my guitar, leaving everything else in the trunk for safekeeping. Not only are there no cars in Christiania, but there isn't much in the way of paved sidewalks either, so it's not the optimal environment for wheelie suitcases. We walked along the dirt path beside the water, til we eventually came across Maria's rustic little house. 

It was good to be in a house, and not carrying anything. It seemed very much like we both had an initial impulse to lay down on the bed together, and both resisted it. 


Yayoi



"You must be hungry," Yayoi said. 

I was. We walked back along the canal, arm in arm. Feeling Yayoi's little waist in my hand was electrifying. We ate some Thai food from one of the food carts. The smell of the joints being smoked all around us was delicious. On the outdoor stage nearby, covered by a band shell kind of thing, was a bunch of wet-looking hippies playing a variety of mostly stringed instruments. There was no sound system, it wasn't an official event of any kind, as far as we could tell. They just wanted to jam under the band shell, rather than sitting at a picnic table. They weren't very good, but I liked their sense of initiative. 

I sat across from Yayoi at our picnic table, which seemed entirely too far away. I wanted to sit beside her, and just feel her body next to mine, not talking, but I felt like I should try to engage her with words first. Every topic it occurred to me to mention, or to ask her about, were things we had already discussed recently by email or in a chat window extensively. I said as much, and she said she felt the same way. As soon as she said that, I felt so relaxed that I almost had a little nap right there, sitting on the bench. 

In my floaty, euphoric state I really didn't need any pot, but out of habit, I wandered toward Pusher Street, and Yayoi followed. This was an area of Christiania she hadn't explored much. The dealers, who they call pushers here, all look kind of mean, like they're ready to fight each other or fight the cops at the drop of a hat. Which are both things that happen periodically, sometimes often, depending on who's in charge at a given time at the Rathuset, city hall. 

But they have good weed, which I duly purchase, along with little cardboard filter thingies, rolling papers, and a lighter, at a nearby Christiania-themed kiosk. 

"Where shall we smoke?" 

Yayoi's question was so charming, particularly coming from someone who had never smoked weed in her life. And she even had an answer to her own question already, as she pulled me in the direction of the Opera House. 

The Opera House isn't an opera house, or maybe it could be, but in any case it's just a cafe and music venue with that name. Not sure how it was acquired. 

"No riot on this time, though," Yayoi commented. She had read my writings carefully. Or at least she remembered the bit about the riots in Christiania that were happening all around the Opera House last time I had a gig there. 

There was a frenetic klezmer band playing on the stage, entirely acoustic. Some people listened intently, while others talked over the music. We sat down at a table so we were both facing the band. Where I could put my hand on Yayoi's leg and squeeze it, which I did as soon as we sat down, and it then moved closer to me, which is the right direction. 

I borrowed some tobacco from one of our neighbors, and rolled a European-style joint. Back in the US I never smoke tobacco, but then I get to Europe and feel compelled to add tobacco to my joints. Yayoi seemed to be enjoying the whole process, taking it all in. 

She managed not to cough in the course of smoking, attributable to the fact that she wasn't a stranger to smoke in general, just to weed in particular. The more we smoked, the closer Yayoi got to me, until by the end of the joint she was in my arms, and her sweet-smelling hair was in my face. 

Words were failing both of us at this point, but nonverbal communication seemed to be working perfectly. We both knew we wanted to go outside. By which time it felt strange to separate from Yayoi long enough to descend the staircase from the Opera House to the bustling pedestrian area below. 

Everything was getting dimmer by then. The Scandinavian sun was rarely too high up in the sky, but by late afternoon it was near the horizon, and would stay there til well into the following day, although it would be a while before actual darkness would fall, and that wouldn't last very long. 

Yayoi pushed up against me as I wrapped my arm around her, and we walked toward the canal, and then along the canal toward our temporary home. We stopped briefly on a park bench that looked out at the water. Midway through the water was a sculpture of a bird, which we had to stare at for quite a while in order to determine that it definitely was a sculpture. During which period of observation Yayoi sat on my lap. 

No one was nearby, and it seemed like a wonderful opportunity for my hands to explore her body, and there was no question that both hands and body were relishing the experience. At various points beneath her stretchy black garments - at her inner thighs, her waist, her ribs, her stomach - there would be a flinch, as if she were about to be ticklish, but then she'd stay still, rather than laughing or any of that sort of thing. 

Soon I found myself asking, "shall we continue on home?" 

Before I finished the sentence, Yayoi was standing, holding my hand to help me off the bench, leading me on, very purposefully. Soon we were back in the little house beside the water. Yayoi lit an oil lamp. She carried it as I followed her into our bedroom. 

She pulled something out of her pocket. It was about the size of a playing card. She handed it to me, saying, "I have seven of them. One for each night." 

She smiled as I melted. I read the card. It had two boldly-written words on it. HIPPIE VANILLA. 

"Interesting," I proclaimed. "Is this role play?" 

Yayoi looked shy for the first time since my arrival. "If you like it," she said. 

"Of course it's role play. I don't know why I asked." Yayoi already knew I liked that sort of thing. I laughed. "Are you a hippie chick then? You're the best-looking and best-smelling hippie chick I've ever met!" 

I chuckled at that, and Yayoi smiled, the sort of smile that seemed to say that I had just made a stupid comment, but I was forgiven. 

"Definitely got the environment right, though. Spot on. Quite an elaborate hippie plot already, without adding to it with dialog or something. Spending the night in a home-made house in Christiania that has that unmistakably hippie scent to it. I should roll another joint." 

I got out all the requisite bits and pieces for successful joint-rolling, while Yayoi lay on her side on the bed in front of me. She had removed her jacket, I couldn't help but notice, and the outline of her body on the bed in front of a window with the moon shining in behind her was suddenly overwhelming. Though I did manage to finish rolling the joint, after reminding myself that she'd still be right there once I finished rolling, in all likelihood. 

And she was. I lit the joint, and we slowly smoked it, enjoying the quiet of the water, a much different atmosphere than the bustling Opera House. 

By the time we finished it, we both sank into the bed and into each other's arms simultaneously. We lay there for several minutes, just feeling and listening to each other breathe. I slowly began to kiss her lips and her face, pulling her shirt up to reveal her smooth stomach, quivering beneath my hands, and then my lips. 

Yayoi began pulling off pieces of clothing, as I indicated with my fingers that I was in favor of each one being off of her stunning body, and soon we were lying naked beneath the moonlight, intertwined together, facing each other, gazing at each other. 

"Hippies are supposed to be naked, right?" Yayoi asked, rhetorically. "They're not really known for lingerie, right?" 

We both giggled far more as a result of that comment than we possibly might have, if we weren't both a bit nervous, and high. 

"Which reminds me," I thought out loud, "what's your first experience with marijuana like, Yayoi-chan?" 

Referring to her using a Japanese suffix somehow set off a new round of giggling, less easily explained than the last one. After fully recovering, eventually, she spoke. 

"I thought I might get lost in thought or something, and I guess I've had lots of thoughts. Oh that's a profound observation." More giggling. "But mostly I've just been feeling." 

"What are you feeling?" 

I suspected I knew, but the idea that she might be feeling something other than what I suspected caused me to breathe too heavily. 

"Like I want you to fuck me." 

Her use of the term "fuck" seemed unexpected, which made it that much more wonderful, and it caused an involuntary sigh of relief from my mouth, accompanied by a sudden relaxing of the tension that my upper body had been full of, I only realized as it left me. 

"Like I just want to merge with you," Yayoi continued. 

I reached for my shirt, where I had squirreled away a condom for just this sort of situation. Yayoi heard the sound of the wrapping crinkling in my hand, and knew what it was. 

"I've already got what you got," she said, referring to herpes. We had already talked about herpes online. "You can skip that if you want to." 

What a generous offer, I thought, as I pushed my very hard cock into her very wet pussy. I was suddenly overwhelmed, once again. This time with much too much pleasure all at once. I lay still, partially on top of Yayoi, partially propped up beside her on the bed, felt her body pressed up against mine, and gave my heart time to stop pounding quite so hard, breathing deeply, repeatedly, eventually managing to calm down enough that I could move in and out of Yayoi's perfect body, without just coming right away. 

With each movement in and then out and then in to Yayoi's body, I felt progressively less of any kind of sense of separation between her and I. Our arms were wrapped so tightly around each other, it became hard to tell whose arm was whose.  

After a while, Yayoi's body started tensing, and a minute later she spoke, the first verbal communication in what seemed like a long time. 

"If you don't stop moving like that, I'm going to come." 

I stopped briefly to breathe, to collect myself, since her saying those words almost made me come myself. Then I continued moving, and her body tensed more. 

"Do you normally let your lovers know when you're about to come?" I asked. 

"Only if I suspect they'd want to know," she replied. 

Given her avid consumption of fantasies I had written to her about, she knew well before this evening that I had a thing for orgasm control - mine and others. 

I kept moving, feeling Yayoi tense beneath me, until she said in a taut voice, "I'm right there." 

I could feel that if I didn't stop very soon, she'd come. I stopped moving, cherishing the completely tense body beneath me, ready to explode. She made a squeaky noise, but otherwise stayed still, and tense. 

Satisfied that I had learned something about Yayoi that I really wanted to know - what kind of thing could make her come, and what the edge feels like for her - I resumed the steady movement in and out, but this time a bit more forcefully than before, and Yayoi came with an explosive orgasm that went on for at least thirty seconds, and left her panting. 

Pressed up against each other for the entire time, I pushed her over the edge and into one explosive climax after another, until I lost count, and she fell asleep with me still inside her. I fucked her in her sleep, only realizing that I had also fallen asleep while fucking her when she woke me what must have been two hours later, saying, "I can't feel my leg." 

I rolled off of her, giving her blood a chance to flow back into her tingling leg, and went back to sleep as I spooned her from behind. 

4. Back to school 

The sun doesn't really rise in Denmark. It just slowly rises behind the horizon, then eventually creeps above it, usually behind a thick cover of clouds. The lack of direct sunlight can sometimes be a bit disheartening, which I assume is why they're so keen on Christmas parties throughout the month of December there every winter, and putting up lights all over town, tho in a decidedly less gaudy way than we often do it in the USA. 

One would have had to be pretty chronically messed up in the head to feel disheartened on that gray morning. Seeing Yayoi's angelic, sleeping face beside me, her chest rising and falling as she slowly breathed, her radiant warmth, was all enough to melt the coldest heart, I imagined. 

She opened her eyes, rolled her head in my direction, looked at me, and smiled. That little series of events was also overwhelmingly therapeutic. How many times have I awoken in bed with someone with whom you never knew when they were going to wake up in a rotten mood? Kim would often be sleeping with her arms crossed before she'd wake up in a bad mood. At least you had some warning, not that that's really very helpful. 

I tried to remind myself that we had only very recently gotten intimate with each other, and waking up one morning in a row smiling is not necessarily an indication that decades of a happy open marriage will be the result. And then I thought, why have thoughts like that? They're not fun at all. Especially compared to Yayoi's eyes as they seemed to be searching my face for any visible thoughts or feelings. 

"Oshiko," she said. 

I know so little Japanese, but I know that word. She has to pee. I lay back, predicting her route to the bathroom, ready. I watched as she uncovered her lithe little body, and gingerly stepped out of bed, putting on slippers to insulate her feet from the cold wooden floor. I watched each step, each little sway of her ass and bounce of her delicate breasts as she walked past me, and down the stairs toward the loo. 

There was the distant sound of a toilet flushing, and then the running of water, the distinctive sound of the brushing of teeth, then the swishing of water, spitting. The pitter-patter of feet running up stairs. She slowed down as she got to the top. Perhaps she knew how much I would want to see the goose bumps on her body, the hardness of her nipples, in the cold morning air. She walked around the bed and slid under the covers beside me, shivering. 

I held her, felt her body slowly warming up, and getting more and more relaxed as it did. Saying nothing, I started caressing and kissing her from her face to her her neck to her breasts. She was responding to each bit of contact with my lips as if she were being mildly shocked by static. I took this as a good sign, as I entered her, and as I entered her, she spread her legs wider. I looked at her face and she smiled. 

After having at least a fair amount of sleep, I wanted to fuck Yayoi so much more. It felt urgent, like I was making up for lost time. I think Yayoi felt the same way. In any case, her body became taut and her breathing sped up and she came, three times. By the third orgasm her face was looking a bit frazzled, like she needed a change of pace. 

I swung her leg over me and turned her on her side, fucking her slowly that way, watching her wince slightly when I pushed in all the way. 

"Itae." It hurts. "But I like it," she added. 

I didn't really pound. I didn't pull her toward me. I just fucked her deeply and slowly, and it felt so good. After a few minutes I was getting hot, and I rolled over so I was behind her. I held her hips and fucked her from there. Again so good, but different. The wonderful variety of life and sexual positions, and Yayoi's generous spirit and perfect body. 

Fucking her on her side and from behind, whatever else it did, didn't make her come, but she was still very wet, and seemed ready for anything, which in itself was something to revel in. All the money and power and whatever other shit in the world couldn't come close to matching this experience, the experience of Yayoi giving herself to me completely. Life couldn't possibly get better than this, I thought over and over on that gray Copenhagen morning. 

My stomach was rumbling after a while, as it does. 

"Shall we go find some breakfast?" I asked, interrupting the exquisite silence. 

We got into the shower together. I put Yayoi in the water, my hands tingling as I familiarized myself with every inch of her body, massaging soap into her skin, making what was already velvety and smooth even more so. 

"We have plans for tonight?" I asked. 

Yayoi sighed. "At the moment I'm kind of inclined to cancel all our plans and just stay here for the next week. What more do we need? Cafes, Thai food, pot, a walking trail, a bed. But yes, we have plans. But first, breakfast." 

We both put on black clothing again. For me this was nothing new, but for Yayoi it was a recent adaptation to the environment. But while most people in Copenhagen may wear black most of the time, Christiania is an exception to that rule, and with Yayoi and I both in black, we kind of stuck out. (The pushers usually wear black, but it was fairly evident by my lack of tattoos and the fact that Yayoi was female and Japanese that we weren't Danish drug dealers.) 

We ate and drank espresso at the Moon Fisher. Yayoi was starting to look more awake. I was also feeling somewhat ready for doing something outside of the bed for a while. That kind of variety is also important, I know. 

"We're visiting the folk school in Helsingor this evening," Yayoi announced. 

Yayoi evidently knew that I had been there numerous times before. Culturally, the regular Danish schools are run more along the lines of private Waldorf schools in the US, with a heavy emphasis on the emotional well-being of each child, and healthy social relations between them. The folk schools are like the educational equivalent of the old communist summer camps we used to have in significant numbers in places like upstate New York and New England. Some of the kids - and more of the teachers - know Pete Seeger's musical repertoire about as well as Pete did. 

Not only had Yayoi reserved a room for us to sleep in at the school, she had set me up with a paying gig, singing for the kids along with their headmaster, Jan-Robert, the best folksinger among the staff. 

We drove up the coast, reaching Helsingor early enough to have a leisurely walk through the woods to a cafe I remembered from previous trips, which is located in the forest. You can get to it on foot or by stopping on a very local train, but reaching the place by car is impossible, without parking a long way off. There should be more cafes like that. 

The cafe served traditional Danish fare, which Yayoi had never actually seen before, though she had been in Copenhagen for several months at that point. It's a very cosmopolitan international city, Copenhagen, and Yayoi hadn't ventured outside of it much since getting to Denmark. But you're unlikely to encounter traditional Danish food much unless you leave the capital, and Yayoi was face-to-face with pickled herring, and was decidedly unimpressed. 

"Japan is a hot climate," she reasoned. "Most thing we eat fresh, probably because we can. There was never a need to learn how to pickle everything to prepare for the winter." 

"Definitely an acquired taste," I admitted, as I ate another slab of hard Danish bread covered with pickled herring. 

That evening the shaggy teenagers of the folk school were gathered together and the hootenanny began. From a Japanese perspective, I realized at the time that the scene might not have seemed too out of place, aside from the degree of shagginess and lack of a school uniform. In Japan, everybody grows up learning the songs of one Stephen Foster, a 19th-century American songwriter who wrote iconic American songs like "Oh Susanna" that might tend to just get forgotten if they weren't part of the curriculum of the elementary school system throughout Japan. But as a result of Japanese schooling, there is a body of music that anyone who grew up in Japan has some familiarity with. Which is also true of the communist summer camps and folk schools in North America as well as Europe. 

I thought as I looked out at the faces of adorable teenagers and teachers, it might be nice if the kids were wearing uniforms. That way one can have immediate confirmation that this person is not an adult. Not someone to flirt with, and not someone to fantasize about either, though that one's harder. In Japan, of course, fantasizing about school girls is totally mainstream fare. And they wear uniforms, so they're easy to identify. 




Yayoi



Yayoi and I were staying in a simple room, similar to the really low-budget hotel chains. There was a bunk bed, with the bottom bunk a bit bigger than the top, intended to fit two people potentially, or one very big person. There was a desk, a chair, and a very small bathroom. 

We piled our stuff in the one corner of the room that wasn't taken up by a piece of furniture. Yayoi grabbed some things and went to the bathroom, closing the door. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. It sagged, but not as badly as your typical pull-out bed at least. 

After five minutes or so, Yayoi emerged, dressed in a Japanese school uniform. She had none of the baby fat that a lot of the actual Japanese school girls have, and I suddenly felt like I had been transported into a green room in the backstage area for an AKB48 show. 

Yayoi had another playing card in between two of her fingers. She handed it to me. School girl. She then promptly walked out of the room and closed the door. I wondered where she was going, but knew I wasn't supposed to ask. 

Two minutes later there was a knock on the door. I got up, walked the two steps from the bed to the door, and opened it. Yayoi cocked her head, just like one of the women in AKB48. 

"Sensei," she said in a high, cute voice. "I'm sorry to bother you." 

"No bother at all," I said. "Come sit down." 

I held out my hand, offering her the one seat in the room. I sat on the windowsill, figuring if I sat on the bed it might be more awkward for a school girl to deal with. 

She looked a bit troubled. "Is everything OK?" I asked. 

"Well, it's no problem either way. But things are hectic at home, and I was wondering if I could just sleep here at the school, in your room. If you wouldn't mind. I don't want to be a bother." She paused. "I don't snore," she added, hopefully. 

I took a deep breath. This role play business was harder than I thought it might be. Maybe just because it was our second night together, but I just wanted to throw her on the bed and fuck her hard, now, and dispense with the formalities. Another deep breath. Delaying gratification is better, I thought. Stay in your role. 

"You're welcome to stay with me," I said. 

Yayoi's face immediately lit up, and she started jiggling up and down in her seat slightly, smiling broadly. 

"I'm sure there are other rooms that don't have anyone in them, if you'd rather have your own room," I added. 

Her face immediately turned to pouting, and she looked down toward the floor. 

"But you'd rather have company?" I asked. 

Yayoi looked at me silently for a few seconds, and then, holding her gaze, said quietly, "please." 

The way she said the word left the meaning very ambiguous. 

"Would you like the top bunk or the bottom?" I asked. 

She paused again. "Please," she said again, quietly. "Yours." Now her squeaky voice was barely audible. 

She seemed tense, ready to cry if I might reject her, I thought. I stepped toward her and held her hand. She stood up, facing me. I put my arms around her. She hugged me back tightly, and we stood there for a long time. 

I lay down on the bed, inviting Yayoi with hand gestures to join me, which she did, quickly. She lay there, looking at me expectantly. 

"Should we go to sleep?" I asked. 

Yayoi looked like she was trying to maintain a more stoic expression this time. "If you want," she said. 

"What would you rather do?" I asked. 

Yayoi looked at my face intensely for a moment, before saying, "anything," and she emphasized each syllable quietly but carefully, as if to make sure I knew just how much she meant it. 

"Anything?" I said, seeking clarification. 

"Anything you want," she explained, averting her eyes from mine, looking down toward my body. 

"How old are you?" I asked. 

Again she emphasized each syllable for emphasis. "I won't tell anyone," she said, looking straight in my eyes again. "Please," she said again, in a slightly pouty tone of voice that seemed to say, if you don't do whatever you want to me I'll be really sad. 

I decided at this point that I could start giving instructions as requested. She's a high school student, I reminded myself. Take things slow. No matter how eager she seems to be, she's probably very nervous. Indeed, she seemed tense, I noticed, as I had that thought. Then I wondered if the tension was real or fake. Was it actually sexual desire that Yayoi was channeling into a look of nervousness? Or was she just basically totally relaxed, and pretending to be tense? 

I wasn't just wondering idly. It was also that as things progressed, I felt more and more like we were these people we were pretending to be. At the same time, I found myself holding back from jumping all the way in, scared off by the intensity of the taboo nature of the scenario, in my peculiar head, anyway. But what an enticing scenario it was... 

It suddenly occurred to me to make sure the blinds in front of our window were closed. They were. 

"Stand in front of me and take off all of your clothing, one piece at a time," I instructed. 

Yayoi gasped, and I thought maybe it was a real gasp. Was she not expecting such instructions? She dutifully stood up and took off her tights, then her sweater. At that point it was just her blouse and skirt. She paused, looking at me. 

"Everything?" she asked. She paused. I was going to say something, I'm not sure what, when she said, "I've never been naked in front of a man since I was very little." 

Without waiting for me to tell her that she didn't have to take her clothing off if she'd rather not, Yayoi turned around and pulled her blouse off. She then started fiddling with her bra strap, with her back turned towards me. 

"Face me," I instructed. 

She turned around, continuing to take her bra off, letting it drop to the floor. She was breathing heavily. 

"Good girl," I said, which caused her to gasp again immediately. This seemed real. "You like to be a good girl, eh?" I asked. She gasped again, gently nodding affirmatively, as she pulled down her skirt and faced me in nothing but her tight panties. She paused, and then removed her last article of clothing. 

"Lay down," I instructed, offering her the space in the bed beside me. 

Yayoi lay down on her back, her breasts rising and falling noticeably with her pronounced breathing. I touched her face, which seemed to be slightly ticklish for her. I kissed her briefly, and touched her all over the front of her body, her breasts, stomach, thighs, her pussy, which was wet and glistening. She lay still as I touched her, tense. 

I rolled over on top of her, propping myself up with my elbows. Her legs were stiffly spread out to either side of her. I lifted them up and out, and Yayoi kept them in place after that. 

"What should I do?" she asked. 

"Nothing. Just stay like that." 

"I've never done this before," she said. Such a cliché line, among so many others, probably. But it was spoken with complete conviction. 

I slowly pushed inside of her, a little bit at a time, until after a while I was all the way in. I stayed there. Her stomach, her pussy, everything seemed to be pulsing, tense, tight. I could feel her heart beat with my cock, easily, clearly. 

"How does that feel?" I asked. 

"It hurts. And it feels so good. I had no idea." Almost exactly the same three short sentences I remember my lover uttering years before, who was actually in the midst of being deflowered at the time. Maybe that's what Yayoi said the first time, too. 

"I'll move in and out slowly, but if it hurts too much, tell me." 

She's a virginal high school student, I thought. If I'm to be a decent deflowerer, I shouldn't fuck her too hard. I wanted to, but I was also suddenly enjoying what seemed like the very clear knowledge that Yayoi desperately wanted me to move a bit faster and harder, too. 

"Does that feel good?" 

"Yes, really good," she answered. Nothing about the pain this time. She was hoping that by not mentioning the pain, maybe I'd go faster and harder. I kept on moving slowly, wondering if she'd ask me to move faster if I didn't do it. She didn't. She just became more tense. 

"I guess if you've never had sex before, you've never had an orgasm this way either?" I asked. 

"Sometimes I touch myself," she said, vaguely. 

I started moving a bit faster and harder. About the pace that had made her come repeatedly the night before. Her body suddenly seemed electrified, like every cell in it was now made aware that the proper fucking conditions had been created for orgasm to occur. 

Yayoi was tense, and clearly on her way to an orgasm, but not there yet, when a look of pain appeared on her face. She was wincing when I went all the way in, but it was a bit random, not necessarily correlated to how hard I was pushing into her, which was not all that hard. She was faking it. 

I must have been moving too fast and hard for what Yayoi's version of a school girl could reasonably endure. She was sticking to her role, admirably. It always seems especially admirable when sticking to your role means added hardship. 

I slowed down. "Is that better?" I asked. 

Yayoi pretended to relax a little. "Yes," she lied. 

I moved slowly, enjoying every second of it, enjoying Yayoi's lean body in my arms, her soft breasts and hard nipples pressed against my chest. Yayoi wasn't feigning relaxation very well anymore. Her breaths were getting short and quick. I started moving faster and harder. 

Her breathing quickened more, and she moved her hips a little so that I could go in deeper. I could feel that she was going to come soon if I kept it up. Then she seemed to remember who she was, and that same fake look of pain crossed her face. I slowed down right away. 

"Are you getting sore?" I asked. 

"Maybe a little," she replied. 

"A different position might help," I said. 

"What should I do?" she said, not missing a beat. If she was frustrated that I was proposing to move her into a position in which she might be unable to come, she hid it completely. 

"Just relax," I replied, moving her pliant leg around to put her on her side, with me above her. 

I pushed in so deep. She winced, this time for real. 

"Is that better?" I asked. 

"It's better if you like it," she replied. "I want to do anything you like." 

I almost came when she said that, and had to stop moving, and just focus on breathing. I rolled around so that she was on her back and I was to her side, and I fucked her slowly, staying on the edge, feeling like there was something glowing inside my head. 

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked, perhaps mistaking my sluggishness for a lack of interest. "Can I use my mouth?" 

"Have you ever done that before?" I inquired. 

"A little," she said. 

I pushed inside her deeply one more time before coming out and laying on my back. Yayoi perched herself on top of me, first letting me feel her very wet pussy on my belly before making her way down to my cock, and putting it in her mouth with far greater competence than I've ever experienced from a supposed teenager. I put my leg between her legs and felt her rub her pussy up against my leg, yearning for more. 

"Do you want me to come in your mouth?" I asked. 

She pulled my cock out of her mouth just once from then until I came inside it, to utter one tense, quiet word. "Please." 

5. In hospital 

After an early breakfast at the folk school with the kids, Yayoi and I went for a walk. 

"You really are mean," she said. "I figured from your writing that you might be. But you are." 

"You were kind of encouraging it," I said. "But I could have given you a break eventually... Should I be less mean?" 

Yayoi paused to think for a moment, before saying, "what I'd like..." Again she paused, apparently looking for the right words. "What I'd like, what would please me the most, if that's what you're asking...?" 

She looked at me for confirmation before continuing. "What I'd like is just to give myself to you completely, at least when we're together, and for you to have me." With a brief, sultry look that said she knew she was sexy enough that I'd be likely to take her complete or incomplete, she added, "if it pleases you." 

"And so you're giving yourself to me, in a different form each night?" I asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it anyway. 

"That's the idea. Do you approve, my darling...?" 

I surprised both of us with the volume of and enthusiasm in my voice when I said, "I do." 

We walked in a loop in the forest, passing the quaint little train station in the woods that looks like it might have been taken from a Mr Rogers set, if Mr Rogers had a higher budget, talking about the lifestyles of the Danes and other random aspects of life on Earth. 

When we got back to the car, Yayoi instructed: "the island of Fyn, driver." 

Fyn, I knew, is the middle island of the three main land masses that make up the country of Denmark, which contains the small city of Odense. 

"Where on Fyn are we headed?" I asked. 

"The sanitarium." 

It turned out Yayoi had read something I wrote about a tour of Denmark several years ago during which I played in some random locations, including a small school located in a building that used to be a place where people recovered, or more often died, from consumption. Yayoi had gotten in touch with the headmaster there, who happily agreed to put us up for the night in one of the many usually-vacant rooms in the building. 

The idea of the Danish medication establishment back in the day was that people suffering from consumption just needed fresh, cold, wet air out in the coastal countryside of this frigid northern European island. The whole thing backfired spectacularly. But the sanitarium they built was a lovely structure, and of course reputed to be thoroughly haunted. 

We arrived at the place after driving miles down some very narrow roads far, by Danish standards anyway, from the highway. It was as I remembered it years before, a very institutional-looking, cavernous stone structure. If they had central heating in this place, I thought, the cost would probably make using such a large building pointless on the financial front. But the bedrooms were unheated. Better to recover from consumption that way, apparently. Though my favorite combination is a cold warm with a warm duvet. 

Our hosts showed us to our room. The ceilings were so high, and tapered to a point at the top, so the highest point was shaded and impossible to see, in the dim lighting the room was equipped with. 

It was only late afternoon by the time we arrived, but we put out stuff down and I lay down on our bed, which was small. In much of Europe, they haven't discovered the queen-size bed yet (forget about king size). Even in many of the hotel rooms. 

Yayoi went to the bathroom and came out a minute later with a different outer garment. The light jacket she had been wearing was replaced now by a long, white, unmistakably doctor-looking outfit. Yayoi stood above me and reached into her new shirt's pocket. She withdrew a card, and handed it to me. Sex therapist, it said. 

"You're the sex therapist, clearly," I said, redundantly. 

"Yes. Good to meet you. From now until tomorrow morning, you've booked my services. We can hopefully explore any issues related to sex that may be troubling you, or just exploring how to make your love life more fulfilling. Shall we get started?" 

She smiled and tilted her head as she said "get started," tossing her hair around in what seemed like an undoctor-like move, but then she recovered her professional demeanor, looking a bit more self-consciously serious after that. She suddenly seemed to realize that a doctor should have a notebook, and I discovered that the bulge in one of her pockets involved a small notebook and a pen. This doctor was prepared. 

"Can you tell me a bit about your sex life?" she asked, as she opened her pad of paper and prepared to take notes. 

"I guess it's good." I wasn't quite sure what to say. 

"Like," she started, "what is it that you desire from your sex life, and how does that compare to what actually happens? Are you married?" 

I saw where she was going now. "Yes," I replied. "I'm home at least half the time, when I'm not on tour. So most of the sex I have in life is certainly with my wife. She's very loving and generous in bed." 

"Is 'loving and generous' what you're ideally looking for in the sack?" Her mild Japanese accent when using the phrase "the sack" was adorable. "What turns you on in bed most?" she continued. 

For better or worse, this was a line of questioning I didn't need to think too much about, having done a fair bit of that already. 

"Loving and generous is a very positive thing," I said. "That's definitely one of those big turn-ons for me. The other things that really turn me on might be somewhat in contradiction with that one." 

"Such as...?" 

"Pain, obedience, denial." 

"Do you feel guilty about these evidently harmful desires? About your desire to hurt people you love?" 

"Yes." 

"In kink terminology you're tendencies would probably make you a 'dom.' Have you ever met a 'sub,' who enjoys these tendencies of yours as much as you do?" 

At this point I started wondering if we were really talking, or if we were playing roles. Was Yayoi internally oriented around my peculiar sexual tendencies? One of the many things I didn't yet know about this marvelous woman. 

"I have, yes," I replied. 

"Is your wife one of them?" 

"No." 

"Is that difficult?" 

"Not particularly. I have a good time with her. I have to be careful not to hurt her. Some sexual positions over the years have become off-limits. She gets less adventurous over time. But she's still the best cocksucker in town." 

Yayoi wrote something down in her notebook. "I think for tonight we should explore some of the things you don't get from your wife. Perhaps first denial. What kind of denial turns you on?" 

"Bringing a woman right to the edge of orgasm, and then not letting her come. Watching her do that to herself repeatedly. That's the basic idea." 

"Shall we start with that?" Yayoi said, putting down her pen and notepad, and standing up. 

Yayoi turned the chair around to face me, lying on the bed. Keeping her doctor's coat on, she took off her tights, and then her panties, to reveal her smooth, tan nakedness, from her hips to midway down her thighs, where her long black leggings ended. She sat down on the chair, legs wide open. She licked her fingers and started touching her clit. 

After a minute, as her breath quickened, she asked, "do you like this?" 

"Very much." 

Yayoi jumped a little when I said "very much." She clearly liked approval from me, I noted. 

"You're very, very good." 

With that she jumped again. A minute later she was suddenly very tense, and the breathing turned to moaning. As suddenly as that began, she pulled her hand away from her clit, and bit her fingers. She was gasping a bit while biting her fingers. Short intakes of breath. 

"I almost went over the edge," she admitted. 

"Did you want to come?" I asked. 

"Do you like to know that?" Yayoi shot back, regaining her professional air, though with her legs still spread apart in front of me. 

"Yes, it turns me on." 

"Does it turn you on if the woman really just wanted to hit the edge and stop?" she asked, perhaps rhetorically. 

"I don't believe any woman actually wants to do that," I replied. 

"I see," she said. And, legs still spread apart, she opened her notebook and jotted something quick down there. 

"Did you want to come?" I asked again, remembering the original question, just barely. 

"It doesn't matter what I want. I'm a professional." She paused for emphasis. "But yes, I did." 




Yayoi



With that, she began touching herself again. After a minute, her fingers sped up, as did her breathing, and again she pulled her hand away quickly, gasping slightly again. This time she was exhaling in between gasping, and saying, "shit, shit." 

"Almost came again?" I asked, trying to stay calm, and let things unfold bit by bit, which is always contradictory to what I want, but exquisitely so. 

"This is hard," Yayoi said. "What is it you like so much about watching me do this to myself?" 

"You're the sex therapist. You must have a theory about that, don't you?" 

Yayoi paused, needing a chance to consider her response. "Of course. But we'll talk about your diagnosis later. Do you want to explore other denial fantasies with me now?" she asked, trying to sound less breathless than she felt. 

"That would depend on what makes you come," I replied. "But, um, having read your CV, I think I already have a handle on that." 

Yayoi smiled, as I gave instructions. "You get on top of me. You control your movements, I lie here still. You fuck me as much as you can, but without coming, taking breaks only as needed to avoid orgasm." 

"OK," replied my sex therapist, as she gingerly mounted me, sighed, and began moving slowly back and forth on top of me. 

She started moving a bit more forcefully, and after a little while, stopped quickly, tensing her body, lifting herself up off of me slightly, and then stopping again, with my cock halfway out. It looked very much like the movement was too stimulating, as she was trying to get off of me. At least fifteen seconds went by before she breathed again. She sighed. 

"I get too close," she said. 

"There's no such thing as too close." 

A somewhat dispirited look crossed Yayoi's face at that comment. I hoped I wasn't pushing her too much here. I wondered if she knew that we really didn't have to go here if she didn't want to. 

Looking dutiful, but not smiling now, she moved back and forth more, with a slight urgency, until suddenly stopping once more. She held still, momentarily looking like she might cry, before she collected herself, cleared her throat, looked at me, and spoke. 

"Was it a pleasurable experience for you to make me do that?" she asked. 

She was still trying to understand. Or maybe just asking questions like a sex therapist might presumably do. 

"Yes," I said. I don't know what it is. There is something very sexy about that kind of self-sacrifice. No idea why." 

"I think this would be a good time to explore your attraction to pain," Yayoi said. 

"This is a bit of a demanding job you've got, eh?" Seemed unlikely that real sex therapists are doing this sort of thing. 

"Psht. You let me worry about that," she replied. 

Then Yayoi moved her knees up in the air above my hips. She grabbed her knees with her hands, leaned forward, lifted herself up above me, and then came down hard and deep, wincing as she did. 

"Does that hurt?" I asked. 

"Yes," she replied. 

"What kind of pain?" 

"Sharp, and crampy." 

She lifted herself up and dropped down on me again. And again. Each time she landed, she winced, and looked like she needed to collect herself before putting herself through that once more. She lifted up and dropped again several more times, before she took a longer break. She was sweating, little glistening beads were covering her chest, face, shoulders, stomach. I ran my fingers up her stomach, around her breasts, on her shoulders, making patterns. 

"I sweat when it hurts," she said. "I can't come either when it hurts. Does that turn you on?" 

"Hm. Trying to sort these things out is hard. The pain definitely turns you on. Your inability to come that way isn't so much of a turn-on, though. If you can't come, you can't edge, right?" 

"That might be true," Yayoi replied thoughtfully. 

She exhaled for a long time, before asking, "is more pain more of a turn-on?" 

"Hm. I guess it depends," I replied. "If it's so much pain that it makes you cry, that's too much." 

"Some people like that sort of thing, you know," the sex therapist explained knowingly. "Humiliation has dedicated followers." 

"Yeah, I just don't understand it." 

"Interesting," she said. At which point she lifted herself up again and dropped, wincing. Without waiting as she had been doing before, she lifted herself up again and dropped, wincing more this time. 

"How do people do this? Your dick is too big." 

"Is that your professional assessment?" Without waiting for an reply, I thought I'd give an answer to her question. "How people do it is they keep on moving up and down, without stopping when they land. A bit like a bouncing ball." 

"Fuck," she said, imagining what that might feel like. 

"That's it exactly." 

She smiled faintly, breathed deeply, lifted herself up, and dropped. She didn't bounce. But she lifted herself up quickly and dropped again. And again, and again. This was hard for her. 

I didn't know if it would be more or less painful for her if I got more involved, but I did. I grabbed her hips tightly and took over, lifting her up and pulling her down, pushing deep, then lifting and pushing her down again and again. 

Her face was rotating through several different expressions, generally some variation of surprise, shock, pain and pleasure. When I let her go, she collapsed on top of me. Her breathing was shallow, and she was shivering a bit. 

"You OK?" I was a little concerned. 

"I'm OK," she responded, in a way that didn't sound convincing, her face buried in my shoulder. 

I rolled her over, so I was on top, staying close to her body, which was so good to be close to. 

"Maybe now we can explore my desire for intimacy? There's that one, too," I suggested to my sex therapist. 

"But you already get that from your wife," she responded, somewhat weakly, sounding a bit worn down. 

"But I want it from you, too." I started moving slowly, gently, in and out, rubbing against her, while still holding her tight. "Can I?" 

Yayoi's body seemed to be waking up. It felt like in this position I was recharging her batteries with each thrust, like I could feel the electricity between us. "Please," was all she said. Whether she was asking me to do it more because she liked it, or saying "please" in order to sound professional, I wasn't sure. 

It felt like she had had enough of pain and denial, though she hadn't said that. I wanted to do something that would make her feel good, make her come. I could tell I was well on my way to making her have her first orgasm of the day. 

"If you keep doing that, you're going to make me come," Yayoi said with certainty. 

"Is that a problem?" I asked. 

Yayoi didn't answer. She seemed suddenly lost in pleasure. I could feel the orgasm approaching, building, pushing on the walls, and then exploding with an intensity that can only come after all the edging she did earlier. And more so because she seemed distinctively new at the practice. 

I slowed down after she came, enjoying the post-orgasm pulsating between her legs, and the limpness of her body. I could tell that she could just fall asleep any second at this point, but I kept moving, keeping her awake, and eventually stimulated, and then more stimulated, and then I brought her to the edge. Once her whole body was tense, I stopped. 

She opened her eyes wide and looked at me. "Ah, you're awake," I observed. 

"Um, yes," she replied. She seemed to be suppressing a whimper of some kind. 

"It's almost like you didn't come a few minutes ago, eh?" I was into making these astute observations now. 

"I don't need to come anymore," Yayoi said, her body rigid beneath me, a rubber band ready to snap, that was fully expecting to snap. 

I fucked her more, steady, hard, as if I had never stopped, and within a minute she had another shuddering orgasm. I did, too. Yayoi took off her doctor's jacket and snuggled up to me all night long in our room in the sanitarium. 

6. On the road 

The next morning we got in the car. 

"Where are we heading, my love?" I asked. 

"Jutland. Aarhus." 

The biggest city in the western land mass of Denmark, the Jutland peninsula, which extends north from Germany. 

"Well, actually that's tomorrow. Today we'll stop at a hotel by the highway near the bridge." 

The bridge that connects Fyn to Jutland. 

"One of the hotels for truckers and such? I stayed in one of them around there once." 

"I know," said Yayoi, smiling. "Yes, exactly." 

"Yayoi," I said, "Question. Was last night a bit hard on you? It seems like a weird question coming from the guy who's the one responsible for, um, all that, but you know, we don't have to go to those places. I'm crazy about you either way, you know." 

Yayoi was smiling, but when she spoke she did so with an air of authority. "My love. Just because I have a hard time with some things sometimes doesn't mean I'd want it any other way. I like challenges. And I invented these challenges. Yes, based on a lot of input from reading stuff you wrote, but still, it's mine. You're job is to give it to me." She paused. "If you like it...?" 

I was too busy melting after that question, following that eloquent and beautiful statement of purpose and intent, to say much. Eventually I managed to squeak out a phrase. "A lot. I like it a lot." 

"Good," said Yayoi firmly. "Any other questions?" 

We moved on to discussing politics, the Danish countryside, and food. We stopped for some of that, and not too long after, we had reached our destination. 

There were cars and trucks outside the hotel by the highway, in equal measure. Yayoi checked us in at the front desk, and we took luggage to our room. It was a small room with a twin-size bed in it, a chair, desk and lamp on a little table next to the bed. 

Yayoi left me in the room for several minutes, and then returned. I noticed both the keys were sitting on the desk, as she knocked on the door. The most obvious difference, upon answering the door, that was immediately noticeable was that her outfit had changed to a brightly-colored miniskirt. She smiled demurely as she handed me a card. Escort. 

"Someone sent me over here to meet you. My name's Heidi. Mind if I come in?" 

I was still looking at the card, wondering how to act. 

"Gosh, you're very lovely, but I had no idea." 

"Is this a first?" she asked, helpfully, observing my confusion. 

"Yes." 

"Why don't you just pretend you're having a dream? If that sounds nice...? What would happen if this were a dream?" she asked. 

What a question. I don't usually have sexual dreams. Mostly my dreams look like some weird slice of a political thriller action movie of some kind. Too much listening to BBC before going to sleep, when I'm on my own. But if I were to have a sexual dream, there are so many different ways it could go. 

I pulled the chair out to face her and sat down in it. I looked at this woman standing in front of me, glowing with enthusiasm once again, shining with youthful loveliness, wearing the kind of bright, skimpy outfit that just cried out to be removed quickly. 

"Maybe you'd walk up to me and say, 'do with me what you will,'" I suggested. 

Without a second thought, Heidi-Yayoi walked to within inches of me and repeated that very phrase, but in a voice that reflected what sounded very much like authentic desire. "Do with me what you will." 

I stayed seated, so that my face was directly in front of her breasts. I began to lift up her little articles of clothing, kissing and lightly biting her stomach, working my way up to her breasts. I cupped one in my hand and squeezed. It was soft but full, perfect. I began licking and sucking the other one, and caressing it with my tongue. After a while I heard her breath quickening slightly, and I moved on to the other breast, stimulating it in the same ways, until both her nipples were hard, and her breath was quicker still. 

"Then you'd say, 'can I eat you, too?'" 

Yayoi repeated the phrase in a far sweeter tone than mine. "Can I eat you, too?" As she said this, she knelt down in front of me in anticipation, as I unbuckled my belt. She immediately engorged her mouth with my cock, which got harder very quickly under her expert administration of the ancient art of fellatio. 

I relaxed, letting her eat me for quite a while, knowing that she wouldn't stop until I stopped her, enjoying the endlessness of that luxurious feeling. I waited until I found myself exhaling deeply in order to make sure I wouldn't come all of a sudden and cut short our festivities prematurely, before informing her of the next dream sequence. 

"Then you'd lie down on the bed and wait for me." 

She pulled her mouth off of me, kissing the head of my cock before she stood up, walked the two steps to the bed, and lay down. I took off the rest of my clothing, and watched her chest rising and falling as she breathed, lying on her back, her head tilted in my direction, watching me watch her. 

I took out a joint I had rolled earlier from its little case, and lit it. I took my time by the window, smoking the joint, holding it outside the window to avoid any hassles with the management for smoking in a nonsmoking room. 

I walked towards her, got to the edge of the bed, and since my cock was near her mouth at that point, she propped herself up on one elbow and started eating me. As my cock was deep in her mouth, she looked up at me for approval. 

"I like that particular kind of initiative," I said. 

I let her eat me for quite a while again, before I spoke again. "Then you'd take off your miniskirt," I instructed. 

She removed her mouth from my penis and dutifully took off her miniskirt. Now she was naked except for her leggings, and the item that now revealed itself, which had been hidden beneath the miniskirt - a locked metal chastity belt. 

"Could this be part of your dream, too?" she asked, looking at me apologetically. 

She knew it could. She had read about it. I pretended she didn't know that. 

"What's this for?" I asked. 

"My pussy is off-limits under my employment contract," Heidi explained. 

"It's a no-intercourse contract, eh?" 

"Yes," she said, looking even more apologetic. 

"No touching your clit, either?" 

She looked between her own legs and then looked back at me. "It's locked," she said, stating the obvious at this point. 

"Hm," I said, trying to look ponderous. "I think this could be in my dream. In the dream, though, you would desperately want to remove the chastity belt. Do you have a vibrator?" 

I knew she did. She got it from her bag and handed it to me with both hands, like an offering, as a Japanese person would do, especially if they were trying to demonstrate subservience. 

I lay down on the bed so that my face was in front of Yayoi's chastity belt, and my cock was near her mouth. She eagerly pushed it deep into her mouth and began working her tongue around it gloriously, moving slowly in and out as she did. 

As she ate me, I turned on the vibrator, and began circling one of her breasts with it, avoiding her nipple, until it began to get harder, even though I wasn't touching it. Then I started touching her nipple with the vibrator, causing the occasional moan to come from Yayoi's throat. I then moved on to her other nipple, giving it the same treatment. 

Once both nipples were hard enough that the blood vessels were visible, I put the vibrator on her chastity belt. The metal vibrated quite a bit, and there were more moans. I ran the vibrator along her skin on either side of the chastity belt, tracing the belt in each area, and then repeating. Then back to her breasts, one at a time. Then tracing the belt again, to more, higher-pitched moaning. 

"Do you wish you didn't have the belt on now?" I asked, knowing the answer. 

Yayoi pulled herself off of my cock long enough to whisper, "yes, very much," before returning to her task. 

I held the vibrator on her belt, listening to her moan in frustration as I came in her mouth. She eagerly swallowed each spurt, swallowing in rhythm with each one, and kept going until every last drop was out. 

7. Film school 

We each ate bread in the hotel lobby to tide us over til we arrived in Aarhus an hour later, where we ate a couple of classic Danish brunches, which are a sort of tapas mix of the various sorts of items that are popularly eaten in the morning by folks from northern Europe and North America. Usually including dark whole-grain bread and cheesy and meaty things to put on it, along with a little pile of one scrambled egg, one little pancake folded over with a little bit of syrup on it. Another of the Japanese-Danish cultural intersections - well-designed, high-quality, cute little things are common in both lands, in so many different arenas. 

A filmmaker named Kirsten, who Yayoi met since she came to Denmark, was going to be meeting us for coffee afterward. A tall woman in her late thirties with a wild mass of red hair approached Yayoi and I in the espresso bar we had moved to. She greeted Yayoi and I with piercing blue eyes, framed by the kind of angular glasses people tend to wear in this part of the world. 

"Welcome to Aarhus," she said. 

Kirsten taught at the Danish Film Institute there in the country's second city. She and Yayoi talked about the documentary Kirsten was working on, about a local senior citizen who had once been a prominent member of the resistance during the Second World War. I tried to seem interested as Kirsten talked about the ins and outs of getting government grants and the complexities of licensing films for international distribution, and then Kirsten looked at her watch. 

"I have to go to a class." She fished around in her bag. There was a jingling sound, and she removed a set of keys. She handed them to Yayoi. "Here you go. It's all set up. I'm very curious." 

"It's a secret," Yayoi said. The plot was thickening. 

"What secret?" I asked when Yayoi's friend had left the cafe. 

"Well it won't be a secret to you, mister. You want more coffee before we go?" she asked. 

We had another round, and talked about things other than the elephant in the living room for a while. Then we headed off toward Kirsten's editing room. 

It was a studio apartment, but one that was actually being used as a studio. Yayoi said they mostly did editing in there, which was made fairly evident by the big-screen, fancy-looking new Macs and accompanying desks and chairs that took up half of the small room. 

In the other section of the room, though, there were cameras. Three of them, all pointed at a couch. 

"That's for doing a three-camera shoot of an interview or something?" I asked, trying to pretend I knew what I was talking about. 

"That's one option," Yayoi said. "But the cameras move. And the couch folds out." 

The couch folds out. These words started echoing in my head. I don't know why I wasn't expecting it by now, but somehow it was temporarily overwhelming, and I sat down on the couch, surrounded by the cameras, to catch my breath. 

Yayoi sat down next to me and handed me a new card that read porn actor in training. She was smiling, but there was a question on her face, as if she were asking, is this good? I smiled back. I tried to sound authoritative, like I imagined a director might sound. 

"So today I thought we could just get to know each other a bit, and I figured I'd have you do different things, figure out what sorts of things we might want to work on, what kinds of things you excel at, and so on," I explained. "Does that sound OK?" 

"Yes." 

It seemed she had forced her smile into a more attentive-looking expression, but the corners of her mouth were still slightly raised. 

"We'll start with a strip tease, OK? I'll put a song on, and over the course of the song, you remove everything but your panties and your leggings," I instructed. 




Yayoi



I walked over to one of the computers and found a recording of an AKB48 song. As I did this, Yayoi quickly made sure all the cameras were pointed toward the couch from their different positions, and turned each one of them on. I hadn't expected this. I looked at her quizzically. 

"You'll want to review the footage, no?" she asked. 

It was hard for me to function momentarily. Knowing the trust involved with Yayoi allowing this film to even exist in any form, for private viewing or no, was making me melt. In the age of revenge porn, a lot of folks might think again about such a move. I was more enamored of Yayoi with each passing day, that was for sure. 

"Ready?" I asked. 

"Sure," she replied, trying to sound nonchalant. 

I pressed "play" on the computer. 

What happened next was hard for me to anticipate. It was amazing. Yayoi had all of these ridiculously sexy moves, the sorts I had seen regularly on music videos. I supposed she had seen them on music videos, too, but unlike me, she had clearly spent time learning the moves herself. 

With subtle moves of her hips and belly, tilting her head in different ways, while mouthing the words to the song, she took off one bit of clothing at a time. As she sang the second chorus, "I want you, I love you, I need you," she took off her bra and began caressing her own breasts. By the third chorus, she had moved down to her skirt. By the end of the song, she was on her knees on the couch, mostly naked, looking up at me demurely. 

"Very impressive," I said, when I had caught my breath again. "Did you study dance at some point?" 

"No," she giggled, authentically I think. "I just spent a lot of time watching J-pop videos and copying what the women were doing. I had a mirror next to the TV." She looked slightly embarrassed by this admission. 

"What else did you do in front of that mirror?" I asked. 

Yayoi didn't say anything. Perhaps she was blushing, but her lush olive skin had too much lovely pigment in it for me to be sure. 

"Now take off your panties," I instructed. 

Yayoi put her legs together, slid her panties down to her feet, and then spread her legs apart, sitting on the couch, facing me as I stood in front of her next to one of the cameras, and looked up at me, awaiting my next instruction. 

"Now caress your body. Everywhere within reach of your hands, except your clit." 

She started moving her hands along her sides, then up her stomach, circling her breasts, playing with her nipples. Eventually moving her hands down to her thighs, putting a finger into her pussy, being careful not to accidentally touch her clit in the process. 

"Now touch your clit." 

Her fingers moved right away to her clit, and she was moving them fairly vigorously. It was clear from the movement as well as from the moisture beneath her fingers that Yayoi was fairly hot by now. I wondered if she enjoyed this as much as I did. Her breathing was speeding up after a bit, and she was moving her pelvis in little circles as she touched herself. 

"Let's make an edging video," I said. "There aren't enough good ones." 

She looked at me, searching my face for more information. 

"If you're about to come, stop touching your clit, and play with your breasts instead," I explained. 

She nodded. A minute later, her fingers sped up faster and she pulled them away, clenching her legs together, with a pained look on her face. Her hands and arms were shaking in the air, like they wanted to go toward her clit, but she wasn't letting them do that. It was several seconds before she seemed to remember that she was supposed to touch her breasts, which she then began to do, this time squeezing her nipples hard in the process. 

Which gave me an idea. I rummaged through Yayoi's suitcase and found the little black leather bag where she kept her vibrator and other things, including nipple clamps I had told her she should have. 

"They're nice ones," I observed. 

"I'm glad you approve," she said in the cutest voice she could muster. 

I handed them to her. "Put these on," I instructed. 

She put one of them on her nipple. The look on her face said it hurt too much. She squeezed the clamp again and repositioned it, so it didn't squeeze her nipple in the same place. This seemed to be marginally more bearable, though still clearly uncomfortable. She put the clamp on her other nipple, placing it more carefully than the last one, more slowly releasing the pressure. 

"Was it easier to put it on more gently at first like that?" I asked. 

Yayoi's voice sounded strained and a bit tense. "No. It was like getting into very cold water slowly. It's better to just jump in. It's better now." She smiled, though her eyes were watering up. 

"Touch yourself," I instructed. 

She quickly moved her hand to her clit, as if she had been quietly awaiting the command. She touched her clit eagerly, hungrily. 

"Does it distract you from the pain in your nipples?" I asked. 

"Yes," she said emphatically. 

"Stop before you come," I said. 

She frowned, as she kept touching her clit at a faster pace. Then the frown turned to a look of shock as she pulled her hand away. Again her hands shook in the air in front of her, not knowing what to do, where to go, paralyzed by conflicts of interest. Then they moved to her breasts, found the clamps, and pulled them upward. 

It seemed like she felt the pain in her nipples both there and between her legs, which in any case she once again clamped together. 

"Good," I assured her. "Now remove the clamps." 

She did. They had turned her nipples from rounded to flat, and they did not start to return to their normal shape right away. She involuntarily sighed with relief, and then smiled at me, as if her sigh had caught her by surprise. 

"Now, I'll sit behind you on the couch," I explained. "You ride me, facing the camera, so the viewers will mostly see your body and my cock in your pussy. They don't want to see the rest of the guy who's fucking you. For the most part, the viewers are straight men." 

"I'm impressed with your analysis," she quipped, momentarily sounding more the pedagog than the porn actor. But I'm sure a lot of pedagogs double as porn actors, come to think of it. 

I took off my belt and pulled down my pants most of the way, sitting behind Yayoi on the couch. She straddled me, facing away from me, toward two of the cameras, as she slid herself onto my dick, which by this time in the proceedings was in no need of any more foreplay. 

Yayoi went deep, and moved around while I was all the way inside her, trying to find a way to push me inside her more deeply. It felt glorious. Though remembering my role as director, I couldn't have this kind of thing going on for too long. 

"This feels great but it might not be doing so much for the viewers," I explained. "They want to see more action. Like if you're moving up and down, and they can see my dick going in and out. As it is, with me all the way inside you, they don't even know if I'm actually inside you at all, or if you're faking it. They can't see my dick." 

"Like this?" she asked, as she began moving up until only the tip of my cock was inside her, and then sliding down until you couldn't see it, and then coming back up again the same way. 

"Exactly. As you keep going like that, speed up, and come down harder. Play with your breasts as you do that." 

She did as instructed, whimpering a bit as she did. 

"Does it hurt?" 

"Yes," she replied. 

"Can you come this way?" 

"No." 

"As you speed up your movements, then, when it seems like a good time to climax, let's see a convincing fake orgasm then," I instructed. 

Yayoi faked a fairly shattering orgasm, which had her trembling and gasping very convincingly. 

"Good," I said approvingly. "Next, you eat me. I'll move over this way." I moved to the edge of the couch, so one of the cameras had a good view of my cock, in a way that looked like Yayoi's head might not get in the way of it too much. "Now you come over this way." I positioned Yayoi's head above me. 

"As you eat me," I continued instructing, "look into the camera a lot." 

Yayoi engorged her mouth with my cock, gazing into the camera for a while, before pulling it out most of the way and engorging her mouth again. She went on like this quite a while, driving me to distraction. 

"Touch yourself," I instructed. She continued eating me with just as much dedication as she began with, while moving her fingers in circles on her clit. 

"Spread your legs so that camera can see between them," I instructed, as she complied. 

She pulled her mouth off of me briefly to ask a question. "Should I come?" 

"No." 

She pulled her hand off of her clit and kept on eating me until I came in her mouth. 

"I should have come for the camera. That's what they do," I said. 

Yayoi looked a bit frantic. 

"I think you'll make a good actor," I assured her. 

"Good," she said, seeming like that might not have been exactly the message she was hoping for. 

"Now," I said, pausing for emphasis, "you look into that camera, and touch yourself." 

"Until I come?" she asked. 

"Do you want to come?" I asked. 

She paused, thinking. "I just want to do what I'm supposed to do," she lied. 

I waited to reply, watching her touch herself more excitedly by the second. 

"Come," I instructed. 

Within twenty seconds of my command, this time her couch-shattering orgasm was real, and the sigh that followed it was much more pronounced than the last one. 

8. Home 

"Now we go home," Yayoi said as she got in the car. 

"Home?" I was momentarily confused. 

"Copenhagen. We go to my apartment." 

I suddenly realized that I hadn't actually seen where Yayoi lives yet. I was looking forward to it. Our travels around Denmark had been wonderful, but somehow even more exhausting than touring, even though I only had one actual gig of any kind. 

It was a meditative drive across Denmark, across the two big bridges, across the windy stretches of ocean, and eventually into the densely-populated, cosmopolitan city of Copenhagen, where much of the country's population dwells. 

We got into the Norrebro neighborhood, which has gone through many transformations over the years, from a working class neighborhood to ground zero for the punk squatter movement that had its heyday in the 1980's, to more of an upwardly-mobile hipster neighborhood today. We found parking, and walked down the side streets, past the cafe named after a Colombian drug lord, where the local drug dealers hang out during their off time. 

We dined at a little Greek restaurant nearby, before walking to the building Yayoi lived in, and up five flights of creaky wooden stairs. She found her keys and unlocked the big brown wooden door, and we went inside. 

It was a small place, a little living room, a tiny kitchen, and a bedroom about half the size of the living room, mainly with a bed in it. 

"Welcome to my place. Would you like tea?" Yayoi asked me. 

I never drink tea, but I couldn't say no. After a few minutes, Yayoi brought two cups of tea out to the living room. We sat on her little couch together, and talked about what we each had planned for the coming weeks. I'd be leaving the next day, with gigs booked in various parts of Germany next. Tomorrow I'd be going back across those windswept bridges, and then heading south toward Flensburg, rather than north toward Aarhus. 

As we sat there with the steaming cups of tea, Yayoi reached into her purse and pulled out a card. Yayoi. She handed it to me. 

"Is this mine?" I asked, somewhat provocatively I suppose. 

She smiled. "Keep it. Bring it back next time you're in town, and we'll see. But as long as you give me advance warning, so I can clear up my busy social schedule..." She cleared her throat emphatically, and paused, looking vulnerable. "The answer will be 'yes.'" 

I was probably expecting some kind of reserved dodge of my fairly blunt inquiry, but that's not what I got back. 

She put down her tea, and buried her face in my chest, inhaling as she did. 

"What do I smell like?" I asked. 

"You smell good. Manly, for sure, but in a particular way, like, you. You smell like you. And I like you. And your smell." 

We watched the evening news together. Not very romantic, perhaps, but somehow watching much of the world out there in what appeared to be a state of chaos and disorder made the couch and the woman on it seem that much more of a haven to me. 

"I normally sleep in pajamas," Yayoi announced as we were getting ready for bed. "When I sleep alone." 

"But the men object when you're not sleeping alone?" I asked. 

She just looked at me as she took off all of her clothing, standing naked in front of me, shivering a bit. 

"But it's cold," she complained. 

"Get under the covers," I said, as I did so myself, and made room in Yayoi's bed for Yayoi to join me, which she did. 

She burrowed in close to me, and we stayed still like that for several minutes, as our body heat warmed up the bed beneath us and the down comforter above us. 

Once she was all warmed up and bear a little exposure to the air, I started exploring her body with my lips, relishing each mound and each crevice, the soft parts and the bony parts and the lean, muscular parts. 

When I pushed inside of her, she was already wet. We kissed deeply as I moved in and out of her very welcoming vagina. It was just slow and close like that, both of us lost in a world of affection, for a long time, I guess a couple hours. Eventually we both fell asleep, completely entwined as we were. 

In the morning, after a painfully lingering good-bye, I went down the stairs and out to the car, and drove back west across the little country, trying to figure out when I could manage to work in another visit to Copenhagen.

*****

I'd be really interested in any and all feedback. Really working lately on improving writing skills. Thank you.