Atsuko had reached her limit.
Slamming her plate full of food into the pristine Belfast sink, she watched the ornate, hand-fired disc shatter, its contents of stir fried meat and soft, mushy rice slumping amongst the shards. Somehow, within the fracas, two wine glasses fell to the tiled floor, smashing into precious crystals haphazardly. Standing at the doorway of the kitchen, her husband leered slimily like an eel in wait, slow-clapping the events unfolding.
“Well, isn’t that just something, Suki?” Marcelo asked, calling her by her childhood pet name, hoping to get an even bigger rise out of her. “From vocal theatrics, straight to your own stunts. What next, pyrotechnics? Fancy taking a lighter to my rug collection, or is that too obvious?”. Atsuko downed the contents of her cold wine glass, before sliding on her simple plimsolls, recovering her jacket from the door.
“Piss off Celo. You are a fucking prick. You know that, right?”
“Well, I hate to break it to you sweetheart, but it takes one to know one.”
She gestured two fingers at him, searching for her woollen beanie. Ever since Atsuko had returned from her trip back home to Osaka, the two had been arguing like cat and dog. If being engaged for five years and counting wasn’t enough, the weight of being within one another’s proximity for three months was enough to tilt the precarious balance of their partnership over a very sheer edge. Things were easier when the two were resigned to Zoom calls— to sharing dirty WhatsApp voice notes, made with the audio of Atsuko masturbating breathily and furiously in the backseat of her limousine to work, or Marcelo’s handwritten notes, accompanying lavish packages from lingerie shops like Fig Leaves, expedited to his wife tens of thousands of miles away. Yet, this was different— it was a thick, sludgy, sloping era of their partnership, which made both parties feel like doomed elephants, sinking in a sea of quicksand. Atsuko grabbed her keys.
“Well, I’d rather be a fucking prick, than a fucking shit cook.” She pointed to the sink. “Honestly? Probably the best place for that dog’s dinner. Next time, order in, OK?”
Marcelo scoffed.
“Order in? You’re hilarious, babe. Hil— arious. The only thing I’ll be ordering in, is a hooker. I’m sure she’d be able to work my dick. Five years of acquainting yourself with it, and you still can’t even work the bloody thing.”
Shooting him a side-eye of as much contempt as she could generate, Atsuko slammed first the kitchen and then front door, stepping out into the early, Autumn night. She had no place to go, and no place to be, but there and then she decided that she would walk as long as her legs would take her as far away from that house as possible. It was true— Atsuko Fujimara was not the most sexually experienced, nor the most sexually capable woman in south west London: a realisation which although she knew it to be accurate, frustrated her greatly. She’d bought all of the latest books that were waxed lyrically over by those overweight, mumsy women she’d see on day-time television: How to make your man muster in 30 seconds or less— The New Bedroom Athenian— S.L.U.T.S make better lovers. She’d read and studied them all, but despite her dedication to the craft of male sexual pleasure, she could rarely make her partner’s cock as happy as she, or he’d have liked.
Not that Marcelo was anything to shout about in the sack. Sure, he could get and guide an erection in the direction of her tight, tiny pussy. And sure, her leaving for work, slightly sore and puffy, to have to then lead a keynote presentation in front of two thousand employees and subordinates, while leaking with his sticky load, was always a rush. Yet, Marcelo, as virile and eager as he was when it came to fucking, had very early on, reached a plateau of pleasure that Atsuko had, with previous partners, greatly surpassed.
Crossing at the traffic lights, she aimlessly paced towards Charter’s Forest, looking between the shadowy huddle of tree trunks, dense and ominous. Although scared, she batted away at the looming fear, entering in a rebellious act of spite to no one present. Onwards, she walked on into the darkness, wiping at her eyes as she cuddled herself for warmth, each step crunching on dead leaves. She missed home— home, home. The food, the bustle and of course, the hot, sexy businessmen she used to see on her way to work. Nothing in the world made Atsuko’s clitoris pulse, or labia stickier than the sight of a middle-aged Japanese businessman, complete with oversized, rectangular glasses, a mid-ranged three-piece suit from a lowly department store and a shiny, prominent bald spot. Sometimes her panties would get so wet, back when she was an intern in her native country, and daydreaming between spreadsheets and conference calls, that would have to bring spares with her, changing them secretly in toilet cubicles after sniffing and licking clean their clammy white contents. She smiled to herself, as she walked on, knowing that Marcelo, in all his infinite wisdom, had no idea that his wife-to-be had often climaxed while imagining him during their fucks as a sexless, fifty-year-old, complete with a beer gut, wandering hairy hands, and bad breath, burdened with soy sauce and fermented wheat.
Heading towards a clearing, Atsuko stopped by a large, looming tree. Turning to it, she pulled down her black jeans, followed by her panties and sighed in relief. A jet of sharp, warm urine rushed from her slit, aimed towards the bulbous stump, dousing it in an afternoon’s worth of repurposed green tea and white wine. In the generous light of the moon above, she watched curiously as the stream of warm, salty liquid glistened, forming mini lakes, rivers and streams, absorbed into the cold black earth. Atsuko often wondered if her relationship was being pissed away like stale, useless urine, into a pit of nothingness.
Before she had time to dab at her soaking delta, something in the distance startled her. Upward she shot her head, curiously cocking it to the side to listen. It was a car horn, up in the lightless distance. Looking outward, past the large oval of a forest clearing, she strained her eyes, searching for any sign of life. Again she heard it. This time four soft toots sounded. Sliding her panties back up into her pissy crotch, she belted her trousers and slowly pacing onwards, walked towards the source of the commotion.
Each step made her ears thud with adrenaline, as she huddled herself, excited at the prospect of danger. To the far side of her, she heard a twig snap. Frozen to the spot, she looked for the source of the rustling, but no shadows moved or stirred. Grinning to herself anxiously, she paced onwards, shivering with cold. A part of her was excited at the prospect of something bad potentially happening to her. Atsuko had never really been one for danger— an aversion which was only cemented further by Marcelo himself, who despite his ease in bragging whenever possible, and oozing unbearable male bravado at all given times, was actually one of the biggest wimps she had ever laid eyes on. The idea of her being mugged, or worse, gave her crotch a warmth, and her heart a quickening that spurred her on like a mare in heat.
As the rugged, narrow path between the trees began to decline downhill, Atsuko’s pace began to quicken gradually with each step. That’s when she spotted them. About fifty metres in the distance, a duo of headlights gleamed between the trees with three slow, scattered flashes, before plunging into darkness once more. She tried to control her breathing. Up ahead, deep, gruff, voices could be heard, as if imitating wild beasts: guttural grunts with high-pitched answers in an uncanny call-and-response. Atsuko’s pace quickened and quickened until finally, the vehicles were no more than ten metres away. It was another clearing within the thick trees. In a semicircle, a range of cars, of all makes, models and ages were parked. Hiding behind the rough, cracked bough of an oak tree to spy, she allowed her eyes to adjust with the aid of a moonlight beam, shining down from the cloudy heavens above. When she realised what she was looking at, she gasped.
Lying on top of the nearest car bonnet to her, a figure with long hair was being fucked, violently. Each of her moans— enthusiastic and otherworldly, pierced the cold air, as she pleaded on and on for more of what was being given to her. The shadow of a man, his torso exposed to the autumn winds, leaned over her, handling her trim form like a ragdoll as he selfishly penetrated her before making the universally known sounds associated with sexual completion, in all its stickiness. Atsuko didn’t even notice the queue that snaked behind the primary fucker; eight men deep, and each playing with their cocks. Even though she couldn’t see his cock from her vantage point, each of the woman’s sounds implied that he was big, or knew how to use it. Or both. The scene before her, was like an overwhelming puzzle— the more she stared, the more things began to appear. Closer, she crept to the next row of trees, her pussy wettening against her three-figure panties, with the commotion of female and male voices, intermingled in the outdoor orgy.
“Yeah! Ugh— cum inside me, daddy,” one female voice begged, with a deep desperation.
“Take it, you fucking whore!” one mane voice barked, finishing his sentence with an open palm slap on an arse cheek.
“That’s right, girl,” exhaled another, “lacquer my fucking face.”
Gripping a tree to steady herself, Atsuko began rubbing her nipples, pulling at them slowly in a taut grip between finger and thumb. She’d never seen people having sex before— well not in real life, apart from accidentally walking in on her brother and his wife one family holiday three years back. The excitement; the crowds, the sheer animalistic nature of it all, pricked her skin with goosebumps, causing the networks of veins around her vagina to coarse with warm, potent blood. Suddenly, she felt a hand. There on her right buttock, a wandering, snaking palm rubbed her slowly, snaking across the fabric of her fashionably faded jeans. She froze, leaving it to pry, grope and poke at her flesh, as it gradually rose up behind her jacket to hidden skin.
“Yeah… you’re loving this, aren’t you darlin’?” asked a gruff, elderly-sounding voice next to her in the shadows, whispering with vodka-laced breath. “Oooh, yeah. I can feel it. Love a wet, hairy pussy, me. You’re loving this, ain’t you girl?”
Atsuko, although terrified, didn’t turn to face the perpetrator, keeping her eyes fixed on the scene in front of her as she felt his warm breath on her neck. In the farthest corner, a man was wanking what looked like another, wearing a long flowing dress-like garment. In the centre, in a space between two hatchbacks, a woman crouched, her legs apart, urinating, while a crowd gathered around her, each member removing their penises and jerking them over her in a perverted salute of semen.
Beside her, the anonymous old man’s hand snaked towards Atsuko’s bushy vulva, struggling in the narrow void of space between her belt and modest stomach, before unbuttoning her, his palm tickling her oversized, sensitive clitoris, which pulsed at the sensation of coarse skin upon soft, and the violation which was taking place. She flinched, as one of his digits, slipped past her pissy lips, arcing upwards, and slid inside her effortlessly, fingering her with a selfishness that her pussy craved from past partners.
Standing there, Atsuko closed her eyes and listened to the commands, moans, and groans from the group of strangers. As others lurking the in the surrounding darkness began handling her; tearing open her jacket, massaging her tits, groping her buttocks, kissing her neck, and even further penetrating her holes, two sets of digits now inside her sticky cunt, she closed her eyes. Gripping two slim trees either side of her to support her weight, she imagined this perverted groping of her body was at the hands of sexless businessmen, six thousand miles away in a distant land of perverse, heavenly pleasure.
