Try, Try Again
Joe Driscoll stood on the platform, watching the sky. It was hot. A tropical, sticky heat. The acrid smell of some oil-based thing, burning somewhere, filled his head.
Japan. For reasons he could no longer remember, Joe had booked a hotel in the Tokyo suburbs, which meant each day he had to commute into the city. He stood head-and-shoulders taller than all the other commuters on the platform. The hotel had a 24-hour news channel that featured an attractive young woman reading the news while a procession of nude men marched out, one at a time, and ejaculated on her face. By the time she finished reading, a sludge of milky semen dripped from her cheeks and matted her hair. What kind of job was that for a young woman?
The train slid into the transit station and hissed to a stop. Commuters gathered at the doors. Joe stood at the back of a small crowd and waited. When the doors slid open, a young man in front blocked his fellow passengers, allowing Joe to pass into the car.
Joe hurried to a free grab handle.
He didn’t want to make a big deal about the young man’s deference to him. Joe knew it was because he was an American. Because he was bigger, physically, than most Asian men. Because he came from the land of Muhammad Ali, The Jackson Five, and Richard Nixon. Tonight Joe’s host, a big player in the fishing industry, would take him to a lavish dinner at a special club where patrons were encouraged to grope the wait staff. Waitresses, hostesses, even the busboys were fair game. No experience growing up on the farm in Monroe, Nebraska, had prepared Joe for anything like this. Tonight he would invite the young waitress to sit next to him, drape his arm over her shoulders, and then slip his hand under her skirt as his hosts watched. The more outrageous his behavior, the better it was for business. Once, in a similar club, a slim boy with slender wrists and hair hanging in his eyes had accidently dropped a bin filled with dishes. The hostess, a stern woman in pearls, had berated the boy until Joe intervened, insisting the hostess kneel and fellate the young man to completion. This was just the sort of thing the fish-industry moguls loved. They signed multi-million dollar contracts their corporations didn’t really need, in the hope that their careers would benefit from a shared sense of American entitlement and outrageousness. Joe considered them dreadful little men, hitching their careers to smoke and vanity.
A young girl in a school uniform entered the car as it lurched forward. Her shiny black hair gleamed in the fluorescent light. Big black eyes, a delicate nose. Joe ignored his newspaper. She squeezed between people, pulling a heavy backpack slung over her shoulder through the crowd. She used those big eyes of hers to beg forgiveness of the other passengers, earning many polite nods of the head. She finally came to an opening in the middle of the car.
Joe went back to his paper.
A man took a position behind the girl, angling away from her. Raising his eyes, Joe watched the guy fumble with his fly, take out his penis, and then stroke it. The girl’s backpack blocked the other passengers’ view. Joe glanced at the headlines, shaking his head.
The guy had a little cock.
She turned her head toward the man, eyes rounding with alarm. She was just an innocent. Plaid skirt, knee highs, patent leather shoes. Looking around, she couldn’t solicit help from any of the other passengers. Her eyes dropped back to his penis, an uncomfortable look on her face. There was nowhere to go. She looked around again, the urgency in her expression gone. Dropping her hand to her thigh, she smoothed her skirt. He turned toward her. Her eyes went back to his cock. It looked like she might reach out to touch it, but she didn’t. She just rubbed her hand over her skirt, as if she were protecting the fabric.
The train slowed for a long curve. Joe shifted his weight, gripping the loop.
The guy lifted her skirt, exposing her white cotton panties. She grabbed for the hem, a panicked look on her face. He stepped closer to her, stroking himself faster, until he ejaculated on her thigh. She held her skirt up and watched, a detached, repulsed look on her face.
An alarm rang out, the doors opened, and the man exited the car, adjusting his pants.
She looked indifferent. Holding her skirt away from the semen, she made her way to the back of the car, towards Joe. People wordlessly moved to let her pass. No one made eye contact. She was eighteen or nineteen. How many times had someone lifted her skirt and masturbated onto her bare thigh? Joe thought about the anchors from the hotel, their blasé expressions as the cum anointed their pretty faces. They just kept reading whatever it was they were reading in a language he didn’t understand.
A boy her age entered the car. He greeted her and she acknowledged him, discreetly positioned herself so she could keep her skirt up, away from the semen, but keep her wet thigh concealed.
Joe looked at her plain white underwear. He moved a little closer, offering her a shield.
His cock throbbed in his pants.
The boy wore the same dark blue blazer as her, the same color tie. They were schoolmates, wearing the same uniform. She was outgoing, buoyant. Did she like him? Sweat trickled down Joe’s neck. The burning smell was back, but more intense now.
Was Tokyo burning?
She was using one hand to explain something to her friend, the other hand twisting the hem of her skirt. Joe cupped her ass cheek. She gasped, turning to face him. He met her eyes and smirked, mumbling an apology. But this was pure theater.
He wasn’t sorry and kept his hand squarely on her ass.
She quickly turned back to her friend, asking him something. He was distracted, looking at a notebook in his hand. Joe didn’t know what she’d asked, but the lack of urgency from the boy gave him all the information he needed. The shame of allowing her school friend to know she was being groped was greater than the shame of actually being groped. Joe grinned. He watched her in the reflection of the window. He had her. He could do whatever he wanted with her.
The train lurched and he grabbed at her dress in the back. Holding on to her skirt, he shifted his weight to keep his balance. The girl stumbled forward, reaching for a grab handle with both hands. He was holding the dress up in the back, just as she’d been holding it. Her grip on the grab handle anchored them both.
He traced his middle finger along the crack of her ass.
She chirped excitedly, making a phony laugh. Reaching behind herself, she swatted at Joe. He scooped her wrist in his hand, and she tensed her arm. She resisted, but he was much stronger. He smeared her hand in the semen wetting her thigh. Letting her hand go, he slipped his middle finger between her legs, rubbing along the cotton crotch of her panties.
She continued her conversation with the boy, but held her hand away from her, as if it were contaminated.
The boy’s eyes darted towards her, but they didn’t linger. Joe guessed the boy knew by now, but that seemed fine. If anything, Joe found it heightened his arousal. He crouched over the girl to seat his finger on her clit. Her young friend understood what was happening to her, but he was willing to act as if he didn’t, to allow her to save face. It was glorious! Rather than shame her himself, he would watch as Joe debased her.
Joe’s cock swelled in his pants. Letting go of her skirt, he slipped his fingers through the leg holes of her panties, just under the waist. He made a fist, narrowing the fabric into a thong-like undergarment.
He tugged at her panties, making her stand up straighter. She threw her chest out. Some of the buoyancy in her chatter had passed, but she kept up her charade.
Her ass muscles went taut. There was still a little semen on her upper thigh. Joe grabbed her ass with his thumb and index finger. He enjoyed the way the fleshy part of her ass cheek moved when he pinched it. He experimented with his grip on her panties, making her squirm and clench the muscles in her ass. When he looked up, the boy quickly looked away.
The train pulled into a station. Joe released her panties.
She and the boy spoke.
She let her bag slip from her shoulder, then set it near her on the floor. The boy nodded. The alarm rang out and the doors slipped back.
The boy made his way out. For a split-second, he cut his eyes towards Joe and it seemed to Joe as if the corner of the boy’s mouth curled up into a little half-smile. It happened so fast, Joe wondered if it had been his imagination. The boy said something, but the girl didn’t respond, her head still slightly bowed. The door closed with a low hush. She raised her hand and made a silent little wave, but the boy had already turned, making his way off the platform.
The train slid forward.
Joe’s cock hung heavy in his pants. Blood thudded in his ears. He considered briefly whether he wanted to escalate this. Maybe this was enough. In the clubs, he often reminded himself that the wait staff were the sons and daughters of good people, working class people. Farmers and such. He thought about the young man who had blocked his fellow passengers to allow him to board the train. He thought of that man’s smile.
Joe grabbed for her skirt.
Her hand came around and he scooped it up, wiping the remaining cum from her leg. This time, though, he didn’t let the hand go. There was no longer any need for pretense. Her friend was gone; the other commuters had abandoned her long ago. Joe wrapped his arm around her waist, pressing his groin against the warmth of her body.
He moved her hand up to her face.
She made a sharp intake of breath, craning her head to the side. He caught her by the neck, mashing her hand against her mouth. She kept her lips sealed, her body rigid. She wouldn’t look at him. He gazed around the car. Commuters kept their eyes averted, heads bowed. Soon she gave up, opening her mouth and heaving a big breath. He almost came in his pants.
He rubbed her hand across her lips. Her tongue came out. Tentative at first, but then she used the flat part of her tongue on the back of her hand. He made her clean it all. She licked her wrist, the pad of her thumb. He slipped two of her fingers into her mouth. She suckled them. He cooed comforting words, though he was fairly certain she couldn’t understand anything he said.
He reached between her legs. She held onto the pole, her face averted.
He fondled her tits. She had small firm breasts. Just handfuls of flesh. He unbuttoned her blouse. Reaching into her shirt, he tugged her bra up, letting her tits fall out of their cups. She looked around the car, a pained expression on her face.
He let her chest alone and worked on her pussy.
Her face was flush. Not all girls were exhibitionists, but that didn’t matter. The thing he knew from visiting the clubs was that an orgasm is ninety-nine percent mechanical. Rub here, rub there. The right amount of friction, a little bit of moisture. Get the mechanics right, the orgasm happens, no matter what the girl’s emotional circumstance.
He slid her panties down to her knees. She turned toward him, horrified. He put his hand on her bare cunt. Her knees buckled, but she managed to remain upright. He took a nipple in his mouth. Her shoulder tensed, then the rest of her body followed. He raised his head just in time to catch the end of her orgasm. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth hanging open. The only sounds were her heavy gasps and the car’s steel wheels clanking and screeching as the train passed through the countryside. When it was over, she looked away.
He took her chin in his hand, twisted her head around. She looked at him ashamed.
“It’s not over.”
He kissed her on the mouth. He caressed her cheek with his wet hand, the smell of her pussy filling his head. Her tongue darted into his mouth.
He spun her around and bent her at the waist. She held onto the pole, the passenger before her leaping from his seat. Joe flipped her skirt up and took a knee behind her. He loved the shocked look on her face. He had some vague idea of licking her, bringing her to another orgasm with his mouth, but really, he just wanted to look at her cunt. He wanted to see how much hair she carried and whether she used a razor. He wanted to see the shape of her mons. Yes, he also wanted to touch her with his mouth and fingers, but mainly he wanted to give her a public inspection. He wanted her to bear the shame of exposure.
She didn’t want it. Dropping to the floor, she pulled her knees up to her chest. She sat on the floor looking around helplessly. The other passengers ignored her.
Joe stood, opening his fly.
She rose to her knees, trying to pull her panties up. She was working with one hand, trying to be modest. When she turned and saw his cock, she gasped. He took her head in both hands, burying his cock into her open mouth. He went deep, all the way to the balls. The other passengers discreetly watched. What could she do? She held his thighs and he began his thrusts.
He moved his hips and her head at the same time.
The train went into a long turn, forcing him to stop. He grabbed for a loop, pressing her head to his groin. He held her face to his crotch through the entire turn. As the train straightened, centrifugal force took his body the other way. He leaned over her, her head still pressed against his crotch. When the train picked up speed, he let go of her head.
She gasped for air, then grimaced. He hadn’t cum in her mouth, but he was enjoying all this so much, his cock was wet and leaky.
She remained on her knees, which seemed like a good sign. It meant she understood reciprocity. They would eventually get to the place he had in mind for her, but she would need some coaxing. He took her head in both hands and fucked her mouth. He heard wet noises, slobbering sounds. He let her go. She gasped, twisting her mouth. Three more times he fucked her face this way. As he pressed his cock against her lips for the next round, she reached for his cock.
She stroked it.
He let go her head. He held the loop with both hands, his cock jutting from his fly. This was his favorite part. She stroked him, staring at his manhood. She wouldn’t know any of the other commuters by name, but she would have seen most of them every day. She had to weigh in her mind what they would think of her, the cost in social-capital for her to suck that cock. She was marshalling her courage.
She gave the cock a chaste little kiss.
She fidgeted on her knees. With the tip of her tongue, she wetted his cock head.
It was maddening, but Joe did his best to show restraint. He wanted her to choose to submit and for that she needed time. Just when he felt he could not wait another second, her warm mouth surrounded his cock. He gasped. He gazed around the compartment, a smug expression on his face. A pretty woman wearing a surgical mask narrowed her eyes, stood, and then pushed her way through the crowd.
Joe grinned. He loved the prudish ones.
As enjoyable as his victory was, this schoolgirl wasn’t much of a cocksucker. She would need more practice.
He grabbed her by the armpit, pulled her to her feet, then turned her around and bent her at the waist. She didn’t look surprised. He mounted her. Slipping his hand under her skirt, he held her by the hips and sank himself into her wet cunt. He pumped her. On future commutes, her fellow passengers would help her with her experience gap, Joe felt certain. Especially now, after her slutty little debut this morning. Her young friend from school would certainly contribute to her awakening. Even if he didn’t plan to enjoy her, he would certainly spread the word, which was just as good as personal participation, if not even a little better. Once word got out, nature would run its course. That’s just how these things worked.
Joe slipped her panties down to her ankle, meeting her eyes. She raised her foot. He slipped her panty past her ankle, then stood. Raising her leg, he mounted her again. As he used her in this new position, he kept her leg in the crook of his arm, his hand on the back of her neck. She held onto the seat back. He sank even deeper into her warm cunt. Her velvet glove was so delightfully tight.
She liked it. She covered her mouth with her hand.
Joe loved watching her suppress her sex noises. For some reason, the innocent ones always strove for perfect quiet! He was very close to his own release. It occurred to him that she probably wasn’t using any sort of birth control. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help thinking about how satisfying it would be to just let go, empty his balls right into her hot little pussy. Once the thought popped into his mind, it quickly took hold, turning into an irresistible urge.
A old man, dressed like a farmer, stood beside Joe shouting something in Japanese. He held a strange looking tool in his hand with a long wooden handle. He shook his fist at the girl and she hid her face from him
“Comfort girl!” The old man shouted at Joe in broken English. “Comfort girl!”
The burning smell was back, stronger than ever.
Joe wasn’t sure why he did it, but at the last second he changed his mind, pulling his cock from the girl’s pussy and shooting on her thigh. He grunted, jacking his cock. The old man made a ruckus, exulting and laughing. He leaned toward Joe to pat him on the back, and Joe had to stop pulling his cock to brush the old man’s hand away.
“Fuck off,” Joe said.
The old man roared with laughter. He held his long-handled tool as if it were a scepter. He went on in Japanese and a wave a nausea washed over Joe.
Joe grabbed the girl’s skirt and wiped his cock. Arranging his pants, he staggered backwards, then caught himself. He took a fistful of her skirt, then used the material to wipe the semen from her thigh. She was sobbing. He showed her the fabric, sticky with his cum. She averted her eyes, and suddenly he felt mean and petty. His armpits were damp, and big wet stains had grown on his shirt. He fell into an empty seat on the other side of the train.
The girl buttoned her blouse.
Joe held his head with both hands.
The train slowed. People stood, milling toward the doors.
“Hey,” Joe said.
She wouldn’t look at him. She grabbed her bag from the floor, heaving it onto her shoulder.
He wanted to apologize for ruining her dress. He didn’t know the Japanese word for sorry. He knew how to order food, how to ask for the location of the restroom. He knew how to count yen. He did not know social niceties.
The train hissed into a station. The alarm rang and she trotted out of the car, never meeting his eyes. As the train took off, Joe twisted toward the door.
“Soooooorry! Goddamnit, sorry.” The burning smell filled his nostrils.
Her panties lay on the floor of the car. He picked them up.
“Joe,” a man said.
He was slim. Dressed in a pale blue leisure suit, he sat with one leg crossed over the other, a clipboard resting in his lap. Dark curly hair. Dark eyes. The heavy features of an Arab. He smiled. “You’re getting there Joe.”
Besides this strange man, the car was now completely empty.
Joe leapt to his feet. The countryside raced past in a blur. His heart thudded in his ears. Racing to the other side of the car, Joe saw more countryside. It somehow looked like his childhood home, Nebraska, but that couldn’t be right. This was . . .
“Japan,” the Arab finished Joe’s thought.
The Arab had watery brown eyes. When Joe looked into them, he saw his own thoughts reflected back. “Who are you?” he snapped.
The Arab laughed. “Forty years, Joe. Every day, always the same question.”
Joe narrowed his eyes.
The Arab sighed. “Call me the scorekeeper,” he said, raising his clipboard. “I’m here to give you another chance. As many chances as it takes.” He looked at one of the pages and smiled. “You’re doing quite well, believe me. Better than most,” he added.
The heat was incredible, the smell of sulfur overwhelming.
Joe mopped his brow. Looking into his hand, he saw the girl’s panties bunched into his fist. He tossed them across the car. Joe closed his eyes, putting his head in his hands. This was a bad dream. He’d eaten something spicy. He tried to recall his last meal. He remembered the waitress, the way her breathing had slowed and her hips had rolled as he’d traced her vulva with the pad of his index finger.
The Arab laughed. “Oh, Joe.”
Joe raised his head.
The Arab was blushing, grinning. He waved his hand in front of his face and looked coyly down the car. Joe allowed his head to thump against the back of the car window. For a single fleeting moment, he felt certain that he was in some kind of hell that would likely extend throughout all eternity.
He closed his eyes and thought about that. He decided no, no.
That couldn’t be it. He didn’t believe in hell.
The clacking sound from the train’s wheels increased, a whistle scream cut the air. Whatever the burning thing was, the smell of it multiplied. Joe squeezed his eyes tight. There was all black behind his eyelids, and then it turned to white.
And then the white faded.
* * *
Joe Driscoll sat at the edge of the stage, watching the sky. It was hot. A tropical, sticky heat. The acrid smell of some oil-based thing, burning somewhere, filled his head.
New Jersey. For reasons he could no longer remember, Joe had booked one of the most famous boy bands in the history of pop music into a bunch of small venues throughout the Tri-State Area. This mean that for each show he had to procure a few of the local girls to serve as backstage talent. He towered over the sea of mostly teenage girls packed into the stadium. To a girl, they all wanted to come backstage and meet the boys in the band. But, obviously, not every girl was a good fit for backstage mischiefs. A girl had to have that certain something. The kind of girl Joe was looking for had to be attractive. She had to be willing to go the extra mile. And she couldn’t be too possessive because Joe was going to need at least a dozen other girls just like her. Some of the more industrious fans would send letters by post. Explicit missives detailing exactly what each of the boys could expect from its author. These were fun to read on the toilet.
Joe shook his head wistfully and reached between his legs. He adjusted himself.
He spied a girl in the front row, maybe eighteen. Nineteen? Blonde, cute. She lifted her top, exposing her firm breasts. Joe smiled. He jotted down her position. He was a man. God knew he’d done plenty of things to get here, a comfortable place in life. He was no saint. Joe knew this. He was certain of it.
But. I mean, Jesus.
What kind of letters were those for a young woman to write?
© 2017 Huck Pilgrim. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.