We_Always_Do_It_For_Real.02

THE MEGUMI STORIES
BY MEGUMI KATO AND FRIENDS

VOLUME 01: WE ALWAYS DO IT FOR REAL
BY MEGUMI KATO AND BOB WILLIAMS

PART 02

CHAPTER II

A Tour of the Marucho Film Company

The next morning I messed around in the apartment as I 
had promised myself, fixed something for lunch and 
then got ready for the studio. I put on my guide 
uniform and as it was a blustery May day wore a short 
coat over the top. I wouldn't need it once I got to 
the studio as the heating is always kept fairly high 
throughout the building: our actors and actresses risk 
catching colds otherwise, and if they can't work it 
costs the company money! I decided not to bother with 
a handbag as I could get anything I needed in the way 
of make-up at the studio, and the official 
shoulder-bag was kept at the office - it contained 
copies of the company brochure, which I didn't need at 
home, and things like swipe-cards for the doors which 
we weren't allowed to take home anyway. I slipped a 
discreet battery-powered egg-shaped vibrator into my 
cunt to give myself something to enjoy during the 
journey, put a little pad over it to absorb the 
love-juices which would soon start flowing, rearranged 
my clothes and was ready.

It was a short walk to the subway. It was warm inside 
the station and I unbuttoned my coat. I knew the 
short, clinging skirt and the slender high heels of my 
gold sandals made my legs look especially long and 
shapely. I love to make the most of my legs, and 
always wear the shortest possible skirts - I can never 
understand those girls who don't. Today I could feel 
the few office-workers, out on their companies' 
busi­ness and sharing the platform with me, caressing 
me with their eyes, but I innocently pretended not to 
notice. The train was nearly empty in the early 
afternoon and I spent the 25-minute journey sitting 
with my knees and thighs neatly together, my hands in 
their little gold gloves folded over my lap and my 
eyes modestly lowered. Lots of Japanese girls like to 
wear vibrators to while away their tedious commuting 
journeys; and of course they learn to look modest and 
unemotional in public, regardless of the waves of 
pleasure flooding through them or the thrilling sexual 
fantasies occupying their minds.

When I am needed for an all-day session at the studio 
I have to travel in the rush-hour, part of a solid 
mass of people hanging on as best they can. Even so, I 
often seem to find myself standing by a _chikan_, as 
we call them: men who like to stroke and grope young 
women in the subway crush. Given the difficulty of 
moving at all, it's astonishing how skilful some of 
them are. Much as I enjoy wearing a secret vibrator, I 
find being stroked and petted by an experienced 
_chikan_ is even nicer.

Nowadays Japanese women are encouraged to resist that 
sort of treatment, and even complain when it happens. 
Since no one used to talk about it before there wasn't 
even a word to describe it, but now it is called 
_sekuhara_, from the American expression "sexual 
harassment". I'm glad to be an independent Japanese 
girl with her own career, but I can't see what the 
fuss is about. I suppose being stroked and petted by a 
strange man must be tiresome when you aren't in the 
mood for it, or he is clumsy, but I nearly always find 
it a delightful way to start the day and get into the 
right mood for work. The Gods made girls' bodies 
attractive to men, and made girls enjoy being 
attractive; and personally I get as much pleasure from 
the secret attentions of the _chikan_ as I do from the 
frank lust of an appreciative audience for whom I am 
stripping or posing nude. More, perhaps, as a _chikan_ 
can show his appreciation by direct contact. 

There are bars with straps to hold on to all along the 
carriage, of course, but there are also straps hanging 
from transverse bars near the doors - much higher, so 
that people don't bang their heads on them. If I can 
manage it, I stand by one of those, because I have 
discovered some of the most skilful gropers do the 
same. They know a girl really has to stretch when she 
reaches that high, and naturally that pulls one side 
of my tight, short skirt up a long way. Then my 
_chikan_ and I have a lovely time together. At first I 
pretend to ignore him, but soon I find my breath 
coming faster and my heart beating more quickly, 
letting him know how much I am enjoying his 
attentions. He delicately fondles my thighs and 
bottom, while I respond very discreetly, giving him 
the tiniest hints of how much I am enjoying it and of 
what else I want him to do to me. I move my feet, 
braced against the movement of the train, very 
slightly further apart so that his wonderfully teasing 
fingers can find their way between my legs. I daydream 
about how lovely it would be if he could secretly fuck 
me without anyone in the crush noticing, and I expect 
he does the same. 

What fun it would be, I think, to whisper to him under 
the noise of the train, "I'm getting out next stop ... 
please ..." I know exactly which stop that would be. 
Just after Shibuya, where the studio is, comes a 
station serving a district called Gaienmae where there 
is a big public park. There won't be many people there 
at that time of day. He follows me out of the train 
and stands close behind me as we go up the escalator 
together. Without looking back for a moment I lead the 
way into the park and to an empty bench. I slip off my 
jacket and sit down, pulling up my short skirt as far 
as possible - but discreetly, making it look as if it 
rode up my thighs naturally as I sat. I lean back and 
close my eyes, my lips parted. I still haven't looked 
at his face. 

I feel his hands gently stroke my breasts and open the 
buttons of my blouse. How delighted he is when he 
realises I am wearing no bra! Am I ... am I perhaps 
wearing no panties either? He will soon find out, he 
thinks excitedly. But I want him to wait. I lean 
forward and begin to slide my unbuttoned blouse back 
over my shoulders. "Help me ..." I murmur. His hands 
caress my upper body, and soon I am fully naked above 
the waist in the fresh spring sunshine. My nipples are 
already erect and hard. I feel him stroke them, pinch 
them, suck them, nibble them gently ... 

Now he is free to explore the rest of me. His fingers 
stroke the inside of my thighs, making the delicate 
skin tremble and quiver with pleasure. Gradually his 
fingertips move up towards my crotch. Yes! I am naked 
under my miniskirt, just as he had hoped. My skirt is 
the wrap-round type, fastened by a row of buttons down 
my left hip. He undoes them slowly, and at last opens 
the skirt. He spreads it out on the bench and now I am 
fully naked, just sitting on the little strip of cloth 
which was once a skirt. He is kneeling in front of me 
now, his hands resting on my thighs which I am 
willingly holding wide open for him. I feel his mouth 
kissing my cunt-lips and sucking up the flow of 
love-juice. His tongue is now deep inside my cunt, but 
then withdraws so that the tip can move up my labia 
and play deliciously with my erect clitoris. The 
muscles in my calves and thighs are tense with desire; 
even in my high heels I feel my feet lifting 
involuntarily off the ground so that I am touching it 
only with the tips of my toes.[1] My fingers are 
entangled in his thick hair as I press his mouth ever 
more intimately against my pussy. How clever he is, 
and how lucky I am to be pleasured by such a man!

I am past caring about discretion now. I am panting 
and moaning as I approach my first orgasm. What does 
it matter if I attract the attention of passers-by? 
They are welcome to watch - to join in if they like.

My eyes are still closed so I do not see him pull away 
from me and lower or remove his trousers. But I know 
what is about to happen, so I take the opportunity to 
slide forward on the bench so that both my lower 
love-holes are available to him to take as he wishes. 
At last I feel the head of his thick cock press 
against my cunt. It is so well lubricated with my 
love-juice and his saliva that the whole wonderful 
tube of solid flesh enters me smoothly, as I moan and 
squeal with pleasure. For long moments we are locked 
together, a single being consumed with shared delight. 
Then he begins to rock gently out and in, out and in, 
the friction driving me helplessly to another climax. 
His cannot be far away, and I do not want him to pull 
out and come over my face and breasts. I am sure that 
is what he is planning to do; but I choose that he 
shall stay where he belongs and fill my cunt to the 
brim with his creamy cum. My hands, which had earlier 
imprisoned his head between my thighs, now reach out 
again and seize his bare, muscular buttocks. I relish 
the feeling of the powerful flesh under my fingers. 
Daringly I explore the crack of his arse and tickle 
the entrance to his anus. With the extra pleasure he 
loses all control, and I feel the swelling of his cock 
as the cum explodes along it. I climax again and he 
with me. 

I have no idea how much longer he remains inside me. 
At last he pulls out and I hear him wiping himself, 
putting on his clothes. 

"Thank you ... thank you!" I say at last. He does not 
reply. 

"When I take that train, I'll always stand there ..." 
I continue. "In case you want to use me again." Or in 
case _any man_ does, I nearly add - but do not want 
him to think me immodest.

"I'll remember," he says. It is the first time I have 
heard him speak. 

I feel his hand stroke my hair, then caress my cheek. 
I try to catch his fingers in my mouth, but he 
withdraws them. After a moment I hear footsteps going 
up the gravel path. For the first time since I sat 
down on the bench, I open my eyes - just in time to 
glimpse his back as he turns the corner out of sight. 
I am alone, slumped on the bench in the sunshine, 
completely nude except for my high heels, his cum 
dripping slowly from my cunt onto the grass ...

One day I shall summon up the courage to make my 
fantasy come true. That is a promise I make to myself. 
One day ... But for the time being I content myself 
with the pleasures of being fondled on the train. 
Outwardly of course I seem to do what nearly all other 
women do: pretend nothing is happening. Other 
passengers who can see that I have fallen victim to a 
_chikan_ pretend the same, and probably admire me for 
putting up with it without complaining. It seems 
strange in a way that they probably assume _he_ is 
molesting _me_, while in fact _I_ am using _him_, and 
silently guiding him to pleasure me according to my 
requirements. Of course I never let my molester know 
that. Inside me, laughter is bubbling up at the 
thought of how astonished he would be if he could only 
guess how this apparently virginal little office girl, 
at his mercy for a few stops and blushing to find 
herself timidly aroused at his unaccustomed touch, 
will in fact be spending her working day. 

Well, my job is giving pleasure and satisfaction to 
the men - and girls too, I guess - who buy or rent the 
videos I act in. Quite often I play the part of a 
young innocent girl only just beginning to discover 
her sexuality. And the _chikan_ sees himself as a 
gentle older man, tenderly leading young girls into 
the joys of sensual experience. So we are both acting 
as we stand together in the crowded train. The two 
realities we are creating are far more true than the 
mundane facts that I am an eager young slut who 
happily earns her living joyfully fucking before an 
audience, and that he is a male predator who gets his 
kicks sexually exploiting young women who are in no 
position to resist. My Western friends and lovers 
often have a hard time grasping that for us Japanese 
reality is what we mutually decide it shall be, not 
some sort of absolute. I am beginning to see that one 
of the reasons I am writing this book is to help you, 
my reader, to understand. 

The Marucho Film Company occupies a six-storey 
building in a side-street in, as I mentioned, a part 
of Tokyo called Shibuya. It is not far from the main 
studios of the Japan Broadcasting Corporation, NHK, 
which would probably despise us and our work if they 
ever condescended to think about us - but I wonder 
which of us gives more pleasure to our audiences. 

The building was put up as a block of apartments, one 
each side of the elevator on each floor. The first 
floor now has the boss's suite on the right, where I 
had my first introduction to the company, and a 
preview theatre and warehouse on the left. On the 
second are the reception area and offices. Studios, 
make-up rooms, the costume department etc are on the 
third and fourth: one studio is a great big barn of a 
place, but the other has mostly stayed the way it was 
as an apartment because our productions, if they have 
plots at all, are often set in domestic interiors. 

In fact the company never really managed to get 
approval for changing the use of the building from 
residential to film production. Every now and then we 
organise a special private visit to the company for 
local government officials who, if they really 
insisted, could make us pull the building down and 
start again from the beginning. After they have been 
shown round the studios and watched a scene of a video 
being shot, we girls shyly and prettily invite them to 
join us on the set so that we can get to know each 
other better. Then they depart, discreetly wrapped 
souvenir videos in their briefcases, content to leave 
us in peace to do our jobs for a few months longer. 

Publicity, marketing and personnel are all on the 
fifth floor and this is where Mr Niijima has his 
office. As I told you, the building is kept well 
heated, so I hung my coat in my narrow steel locker, 
the two characters of my surname on a paper label 
tucked into a little slot in the door, in the hallway 
on the first floor. I picked up my guide's 
shoulder-bag from my locker and quickly checked that 
it contained the material I would need. Then I visited 
the ladies' room, slipped the vibrator out of my cunt, 
and checked that I was looking my best in my guide's 
uniform. At last I was ready to receive Mr Niijima's 
instructions. On the fifth floor I knocked on the door 
politely and bowed low when he told me to come in. 

"Ah, Kato-kun," he said, and then added after a pause, 
"So you are here today." 

That sort of thing is Mr Niijima's idea of sympathetic 
staff management. He is a weedy, thin-faced man of 
fifty or so who always wears an ill-fitting suit in 
the office. He lives with his wife in Yokohama and has 
a long commute each day, carrying a briefcase 
containing a newspaper and his lunch. Mr Niijima has 
never been known to take a holiday. None of us can 
understand why he works in this industry. He doesn't 
seem to get any obvious pleasure out of it, though 
you'd think if a man didn't actually _enjoy_ working 
in close contact with a group of sexy and frequently 
naked girls he'd go and work for an insurance company 
or something instead. But I have come to think he does 
get his quiet kicks after all, especially from me: he 
has never touched me, but he always seems to be there 
when I'm being fucked on set, or waiting around in 
costume - or out of it - till I'm wanted.

I said how glad I was to be able to do what the 
company required, and waited for him to tell me what 
the special visitor was all about. He didn't. Suddenly 
the phone rang and I could just hear Reiko, the 
receptionist on the second floor, say that a Mr 
Williams had arrived for his appointment. 

Mr Niijima hadn't told me that the visitor I had to 
look after was a _gaijin_ or Westerner. I guess it was 
his little meanness towards me to let me find out only 
when I met him on his arrival. Mr Niijima doesn't like 
_gaijin_ and he doesn't have enough imagination to 
think that other people's tastes could be different. 
He probably thinks that no proper Japanese girl would 
want to have anything to do with foreigners with their 
hairy bodies, sweaty hands and insatiable appetites. I 
expect his mother had it off with American soldiers 
during the Occupation. 

Fortunately I'm not a proper Japanese girl. Proper 
Japanese girls don't have much fun in my opinion, and 
end up married to proper Japanese men like Mr Niijima. 
Ugh. 

"Hurry up, he's waiting," said the proper Japanese 
man. 

I took the elevator down to the second floor. In 
reception there was only one visitor waiting. He 
seemed to be about six feet when he stood up for me - 
something no Japanese would have done - solidly built 
but not fat. (I hope I'm getting this right: I’m still 
not used to foreigners who don't understand metres 
like everyone else.) I bowed politely. So did he, in a 
clumsy way. I felt his eyes rapidly appraising me: he 
lingered a moment over my legs, which was a good 
start, and I guessed he was hoping for a peep at my 
breasts if I bowed again. So I welcomed him shyly, 
with another low bow, in an English sentence I had 
hastily prepared in the elevator. He replied in 
Japanese as clumsy as his bow. Not what I had 
expected.


FOOTNOTE

[1] Just in case you didn't know - some men are very 
ignorant! - when a girl comes she often has a muscular 
contraction in her calves which makes her lift her 
heels and point her toes. That's one of the reasons we 
girls like wearing high heels: not just because they 
make our legs look long and slender, but because they 
hold our feet in a position that subtly suggests we 
are sexually aroused or even on the verge of coming. 
 

[Next in Part 03: Chapter II concluded]