Awesome Authors Presents M Christian
- Four Views of Mount Fuji (From Coming Together Presents: M. Christian)
- About M. Christian
- Books by M. Christian
Four Views of Mount Fuji by M. Christian
from Coming Together Presents: M. Christian
From the apartment’s little window
I love Japan. No, not a total, complete, blind kind of love—I’ve got a clear sight of her blemishes, her flaws. She is not the perfect mistress, but, still, she does the job. Cool, tranquil, precise, elegant. There is something there that touches me. I imagine walking down quiet streets busy with smiling masks, chaotic with brilliant kanji—feeling an affinity, an excitement.
I dream of Japan—but not a too complete a fantasy. I know enough to capture a half-truth, a partial idea of reality—the details that only a blind lover might see. So, I get things wrong; I make mistakes in my personal illusions. But fantasies aren’t supposed to be too real—I enjoy them just the way they are, with blemishes, flaws. Enough to be hot, not enough to be blindly, neurotically perfect.
On a futon, in a tiny apartment. Highway out the small window, low hill, distant clouds, and the slopes of the great mountain. Hokusai comes to mind, my own view of Mount Fuji. Murakowa is her name, and for someone from a doll land she is not tiny or delicate, which is why she is daring when she’s alone with me, the bearded gaijin, the foreign devil in her precise country. You wouldn’t see it, but she does, they do, and I do—a few extra pounds, breasts too large, too plump. Too short in a land of bonsai and perfect miniatures. Small, heavy, she is not the elevator-girl, the cookie-cutter view of marriageable perfection. In my fantasy, she has a giggling fever about her, a genie released from too tight confinement. Too many years being an ugly duckling—but in this place, this strange gaijin’s apartment, she can be a swan.
On the streets, eyes downward, small steps. Here, in this very expensive, very small apartment she explodes. We kiss, mixing breaths. My hands on her body, the body that she’s been told to hate, but which to me is precious and exciting. I’m not a savior, but giving lust feels good. My cock is hard, pressing through the thin cotton of my pants. Her breasts, her shame, are heavy, hanging, tipped by large nipples. I bend to taste, to sample, and find them salty—filling my mouth with a plump, firm knot. First the right, then the left, each kiss, each suck making her high, musical voice reach new octaves, new melodies.
With her facing the window, big breasts resting on the sill, staring out at the distant haze, the very distant mountain, I stroke her back and cup the twin mounds of her ass. Tight and firm, tensed from shivers of sensation and anticipation. I gently part them, surprised at her willingness, and run a single finger front (downy hair) to back (puckered asshole), fondling with my solitary stroke the fat lips of her cunt. Again, a little firmer touch, more insistent—and I feel those lips part, ever so slightly. Again, and my pass is faster, lubricated by juices that I can’t quite feel. Again, and a small hand reaches down to take mine, to push me up, inside. Heat, like a small kettle on a long fire. Wet, like warm soapy water. Satin, like folds of a fine dress. Deep within, and—above me, looking out at her own view of Mount Fuji—she moans and almost cries.
I bow down to her neglected shrine and taste sweet. I taste the dark earthiness of her asshole next, the base with the celestial. But I know what she wants, what I want. In fantasies, any position is easy, never causes cramps, never makes the back of my neck ache. So this is not a concern as I bend under her and take her sweet clit between my soft lips. There, that magic spot for her and for me—the bead of her ecstasy in my mouth.
She screams her delight—and then her release—to the distant slopes of Mount Fuji.
On the stage, in the club
I had some friends who lived this way and it has always fascinated me. The foreigners in their land, paid to perform on stage. I have this lady friend, an occasional lover. Wouldn’t that be exotic enough, the fantasy goes—lanky me, with skin the color of old cream, and her with polished black skin, large breasts, and plump ass? Wouldn’t that attract the attention of some cabaret owner, entice him to give us enough to live in that other world?
The stage—more of a runway. A narrow strip of firmly anchored plywood painted with thick coats of vinyl paint. The walls are mirrored, shot with gold veins. In the ceiling, a clotted constellation of pinspots. The place is cool, but not cold. Sometimes I imagine snow outside, a static of softly falling flakes. Sometimes it’s just bitterly cold, a chilly slap that rolls into the club every time a patron enters or exits.
The announcer is short and stocky, eyes hidden behind yakuza shades. I don’t speak the language, but always feel a slight bite of anger at his mocking tones, his giggling introduction. Still, I remind myself, running a hand down my lover’s back as we wait in the narrow wings, the audience hasn’t come, hasn’t paid, to laugh at his bad jokes.
To some old tune, some forgotten top ten, we walk onto the stage. Me, knowing a few words, parrot a joke at my own expense. Still, I am the star, and the charge is obvious. There might be shame as I drop my kimono, revealing my hard, naked self, but it is also a kind of accolade. We are the stars here, and they wouldn’t be there, sitting in silence, if they didn’t want in some way what we do every night.
As my lover takes my cock in her mouth, kneeling down on a convenient piece of foam padding, I groove on their power, the silent salarymen. The business men concluding a deal, the few pervs—their hunger coming over me in waves of lust.
She sucks me, feeling their eyes on her. Such a perv herself, rolling in their disgust and envy. She is so alien to them, so different. Pick one. Fat, in a land where size and health are always related to behavior. Fat means you are bad. Handicaps are evidence of some wrong-doing. Black, where you are nothing if you are not Japanese. Sexual, where the mask preserves and protects everyone.
So, the fantasy goes, she sucks me on stage. She has a strong scent, and after a point it tickles my nose, a silent signal honed from many nights, much practice. I turn and make another joke, again in a language I do not speak, and she turns away, still stroking my cock, to feign a blush.
Then she turns and shows herself off to them, as the bad comedian makes jokes from the darkness. She holds her great breasts before them, like the fonts of all life. She pulls on her darker nipples, pinching them as she pushes her great hips forward—a pelvic scoop towards their straining cocks. They are rapt, staring at the tangle of her bush as it pushes out towards them.
On cue, she kneels down, bends at her soft belly till she is on fours—brown eyes looking out at their calm masks. We change every so often, to keep the regulars just that. But this one is easiest—some of the more acrobatic positions are wonderful for casual fucking, but for stage exhibitionism they can tear up the back, the knees.
And so, in the club, before their rapt eyes, I fuck her—slide my cock into her hot, wet cunt. It embraces me, and for another night I know that this is a show as much for her and for me. We fuck, her groans half real and half acting—but I know that even she doesn’t know where performance and reality separate. Sometimes she comes, a rarity, but it’s a treat for us and another validation for me.
As the male star of this exotic zoo show, I try to come most nights—pulling my hard cock out of her hot wetness to shoot very Japanese-looking come onto her so-dark ass. Sometimes, though, I fake it, too—a bull-roaring orgasm owing more to Kirk Douglas overacting than for my real climax.
To their constant and tempered applause we bow, celebrities on stage for just the moment—but more than likely the stars of their fantasies for many days to come.
In a car, looking out over the city
Sometimes they’re places of satisfaction, a kind of erotic home you can come back to time and again. But sometimes fantasies are places to think about what you wouldn’t ever do.
For someone who likes Japan, I have very un-Japanese desires. I like dark … no, black skin. I like big women, broads who act their mind and let their desires take control once and a while. Not very Nippon.
Still, I think about this sometimes, trying on new shoes to see if they fit: a new dream to possibly add to my catalog of fantasies.
She’s young, but old enough. A schoolgirl icon. Unlike many of my fantasies, she doesn’t have much of a background, not much realism to additionally flesh her out. She exists like a totem dropped from the Japanese collective consciousness into the passenger seat of my car. The Schoolgirl. Doe eyes and plaid skirts. Tiny white shoes, tiny white socks. A simple white blouse and a tie marking her educational institution.
She hides her porcelain face behind delicate hands as I glance my fingers across her tight thighs. “You’re beautiful,” I tell her in my suddenly good Japanese.
She giggles, a cotton-candy sound, a Hello Kitty melody of shyness. But she doesn’t scream, doesn’t pull away.
Out the front windshield are the lit windows of Tokyo—the myriad little glowing squares revealing people’s lives. It’s like a great monster’s attention, a Godzilla with a million eyes—watching our every movement.
Never one to disappoint, I reach over and knead her small breasts, feeling her hard nipples through the simple bra. I am shocked, pleased, that they are so large, easily coins—though I don’t know the denomination yet. She moans, pulling slightly away but not enough to completely break contact with my hand.
With my other I return to her thigh, massaging the tight muscles, enjoying the silk of her skin. I try and part them, pulling gently but persistently on her leg—but she gives a chirp of disapproval, so I stop—changing my focus to her breast, to the nipple that I can now see as a shadow rise on her blouse, even in the dim light cast by those distant windows.
I know she can see it too, know that her cunt is growing hot, wet from my hand as well as the city’s distant eyes. The stage might be small for this girl, but she’s on it nonetheless: standing proud, eager to be seen, to show more.
The blouse parts—buttons slipping free under my feverish, yet skilled fingers. So young, so cherry, for a beat of my throbbing heart I can’t tell skin from silk, the two luxuriously similar. Quickly, I rub a finger across the roughness of her bra, feeling the tight knot of that nipple. Entranced by those staring windows, she does not giggle, does not pull away. Instead, she grips the side of the seat, as if expecting to be lifted up, flown through the windshield and out into the hungry city.
She doesn’t resist this time. No, she is fluid, melting under my hands, fingers, their eyes. Her thighs part, swinging wide, and in the dim light cast by those windows, her panties shine pure white. Brusquely, feeling her excitement, I dip a finger down—smooth skin, with only a hint of hair, fuzz. Smooth and—pushing down farther, back—wet. So wet—not just slick, not just damp. A wetness.
She was moaning before, soft—almost quiet. But now she cries, the sweet little sobs not of sadness but of screaming desire. Her hips start to buck, start to eagerly fuck my finger, rubbing her clit on my knuckle.
Feeling her start, feeling her cunt grip, grip and grip again around my finger, I reach with my other, free, hand and grip that small breast, cup it, then squeeze hard—clutching the tenderness in my strength, pushing her up and over.
Her tears and screams echo around the confines of the car, bouncing around like a rubber ball thrown hard. I don’t stop, and instead knead and fuck her even harder, pushing her over and over and over again. Finally, when the tears start to sound like those of discomfort, I stop.
She sleeps like an angel, curling in the smooth embrace of the seat, pale legs glowing in the distant lights. I pat her head, feeling a soft tickle of hair. She coos like a contented cat as I start the engine, pull out into the cool light. After a point, I have to watch the road and not her—but I know in this dream that they, from those thousands of windows, are still looking, appreciating.
On the train, during rush hour
To ride the legend. To be pressed into the bullet train, blasting through ancient countryside in state-of-the-art technology. I long to experience the sociological compression. The landscape a blur of green, brown and shimmering steel. The floor of the train trembling with velocity. The sickly sweet tones of the automated destination announcer. I crave them all.
Or the suburban routes and the tangled subways, packed with humanity, each passenger striving for polite confinement. The air is light with perfume and sedate cologne. We, all of us, are part of some great collective organism, swaying, jostling with a single-minded biological urge—not to touch, not much at least, and to get home as quickly as possible.
Or so I’ve heard. I’ve also heard rumors, stories of the train, of salarymen with their heads buried in bondage and rape comics as flesh and blood schoolgirls stand next to them, reading their text books.
Maybe it’s this surface tension—stretched too tight between elaborate fantasy and too-firm reality. The id of media, the superego of work, responsibility, the face. The nail that stands up gets pounded down—so you don’t stand up, you just bend, and keep on bending.
The word itself—face—is lost to me, but the concept is there. Not really my cup of tea, but the concept is fascinating, enough for me to imagine it, and feel the tension in my cock rise.
Face—the mask is all. The role, appearance, is everything. It must be preserved against embarrassment, against standing out. It’s a strong force, a cohesive, binding element of Japanese society.
But, still, this is me, and even in fantasy I must have an element of permission. So let’s add some eye contact where it doesn’t exist, a flirt with the eyes, a pursing of lips. She’s an idol model, a hip bodi-con (body conscious) girl—one of the new Japanese girls with money, time, and a sexuality that is finally allowed release.
Coming back from a night wandering from one club to another, dancing under twirling lights. Tired, high, and excited. Maybe the train is having an effect. She, the flamboyant girl, the one burning with sexuality in a land where the mask keeps it firmly in place for everyone else. A latex dress that shows off her girlish but still womanly figure, a pair of fancy black shoes. Hair flamboyant.
My hand on her thigh. We’re shoved together, people next to people next to people. Crowded as only a society that employs professional “pushers” to cram just a few more passengers into each car can be.
And my hand is on her thigh. Oh, sure, she could pull away—we’re not that pushed together. She could certainly slap me away. Absolutely, she could spit something nasty in her high, fluty voice. She doesn’t. She doesn’t mover closer, and she doesn’t pull away.
Bodi-con or no, the mask is there. The preservation of cool and dignity in the face of everything. It rolls through her mind, a choice of hells: a private, personal one where this gaijin puts his huge hairy hand on her thigh, or the public one of showing a reaction, making a scene.
Besides…well, maybe the choice is not so absolute. Maybe there’s another force at work in her elegantly narrow eyes. A firm, strange hand just inches from her cunt, dance-beat pulse still rocking through her body. The high of the clubs, the taste of the sexual undercurrent. The faceless bodies around her, trapped in their social insulation.
She doesn’t pull away. My hand gets higher. Silken, firm thighs. Toned muscles. Hot. For a moment I relish that feeling—a special kind of heat: part inside of a latex dress, part crowded train, part…she moves a little closer.
Soft, smooth skin—then satin. I know, then, there, that I have reached the goal, the Nirvana of every man on that train. A hovering layer of fine material between my fingers and her wet cunt. Again, I hover, enjoying the summit, just within sight of the peak.
I am not eager to penetrate—that’s not the point. It’s not a goal-driven thing. Just to be there, amid all this normality, this averageness—no matter now exotic—and have that connection, that permission. She and I: not really lovers, not really friends, but not strangers either. Standing there, my hand against the heat of her panty-covered cunt, we are different from those others around us. Our heat is because of them, though, because of the need to preserve face, to keep the mask intact.
Sometimes, when I think of this, I imagine slipping a finger between satin underwear and body and feel her heat, her wetness, maybe even the tight, hard bead of her clit. Other times, though, I just relish in that intimate connection and it’s enough.
It’s enough that we stand there, relishing in our heat, amid all those cold and reserved faces.
About M. Christian
Calling M.Christian versatile is a tremendous understatement. Extensively published in science fiction, fantasy, horror, thrillers, and even non-fiction, it is in erotica that M.Christian has become an acknowledged master, with stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and in fact too many anthologies, magazines, and sites to name. In erotica, M.Christian is known and respected not just for his passion on the page but also his staggering imagination and chameleonic ability to successfully and convincingly write for any and all orientations.
But M.Christian has other tricks up his literary sleeve: in addition to writing, he is a prolific and respected anthologist, having edited 25 anthologies to date including the Best S/M Erotica series; Pirate Booty; My Love For All That Is Bizarre: Sherlock Holmes Erotica; The Burning Pen; The Mammoth Book of Future Cops, and The Mammoth Book of Tales of the Road (with Maxim Jakubowksi); Confessions, Garden of Perverse, and Amazons (with Sage Vivant), and many more.
M.Christian’s short fiction has been collected into many bestselling books in a wide variety of genres, including the Lambda Award finalist Dirty Words and other queer collections like Filthy Boys, BodyWork, and his best-of-his-best gay erotica book, Stroke the Fire. He also has collections of non-fiction (Welcome to Weirdsville, Pornotopia, and How To Write And Sell Erotica); science fiction, fantasy and horror (Love Without Gun Control); and erotic science fiction including Rude Mechanicals, Technorotica, Better Than The Real Thing, and the acclaimed Bachelor Machine.
As a novelist, M.Christian has shown his monumental versatility with books such as the queer vamp novels Running Dry and The Very Bloody Marys; the erotic romance Brushes; the science fiction erotic novel Painted Doll; and the rather controversial gay horror/thrillers Finger’s Breadth and Me2.
M.Christian is also the Associate Publisher for Renaissance eBooks, where he strives to be the publisher he’d want to have as a writer, and to help bring quality books (erotica, noir, science fiction, and more) and authors out into the world.
Find M. Christian Here:
- Website: www.mchristian.com
- Facebook: facebook.com/mdot.christian / facebook.com/zobopmchristian
- Twitter: twitter.com/mchristianzobop
- Tumblr: rude-mechanicals.tumblr.com
Books by M. Christian
Coming Together Presents: M. Christian
Altruistic erotica supporting Planned Parenthood: M. Christian classics as well as stories not included in any other collection!
Erotic. Terrifying. Fascinating. Disturbing. Intriguing. Haunting … you have never read a book like Finger’s Breadth.
The cutter is haunting the streets of near-future San Francisco, drugging random queer men and amputating the tip of their little finger.
But so much worse than this brutality is how fear transforms the city, revealing the inescapable nature of society … and the darkest depths of human sexuality.
One of the pleasures of a dystopic future is the erotists, professionals who paint their clients’ bared skin with neurochemicals that induce all forms of sensation – even pain. Erotists offer landscapes of ecstasy, sexual extremes, joy, and delight. Few citizens can afford the skills of the talented Domino. Fewer still know her identity is but a mask. Beneath the facade, Claire hides from a vicious crime lord who would not only kill her but her childhood lover. But the mask of Domino is beginning to crack… Strange sexual pairings and strange sexual practices highlight this futuristic noir tale, set in a wildly imaginative erotic future, exploring who we are and the sexual awakenings that occur when we become someone else.
The Bachelor Machine
Here are riveting as well as arousing tales of technology and desire, and arousal and innovation … told in an engaging and evocative style guaranteed to amaze as well as excite. Down and out hustlers, enhanced sex workers, enigmatic aliens, bleeding edge erotic technologies, and more — The Bachelor Machine is a unique vision of the future, while celebrating humanity’s oldest pleasure … sex!