As I sit there, my panting starts to subside and the heat of my new pussy finally begins to die down. In this afterglow, I can I see how stupid I was for letting my addiction get the better of me. But I know better than to fight it. It’s too late now. I only can wait for what I know is coming next. I can only wait for her to make herself at home in my body.
It always start with a familiar pounding at the back of my head. It’s her knocking, and I feel sudden urge to answer. A compulsion to reaffirm existential truths that I know will soon be challenged. “I am an American man!” I cry out, but the words already ring hollow on my tongue. The guttural English already feeling unnatural as I wonder how long these truths will stay true. A pressure builds behind my eyes as flashes of my youth in rural Ohio flicker through my consciousness – a scraggly young towhead racing down sun-baked roads, marshy aromas of Mom’s riverside cookouts, that first furtive sip of Dad’s Bud on the front porch under a canopy of fireflies. Yet with each memory, something fundamental seems to… shift. Unsettling flashes rip through my nostalgic Americana as fragments of different memories begin to appear. I grip the folds of my ornate kimono, breath becoming ragged as an foreign montage begins forcing its way in.
Tokyo backstreets slicked with neon rain. The heady musk of sake and teenage experiments in dingy hostess bars. The feeling of senpai’s warm palm against my cheek. The porcelain curves of my thighs, quivering on sweat-damp futons as I first discovered what it meant to receive a man. I feel my heartrate pick up as I remember senpai, her… my first love enter me. My new pussy in the moment aches as I remember being fucked raw for the first time. And loving it.
“W…Wa…Watashiwa…Ame…rikan…” My tongue struggles clumsily, writhing against those unfamiliar English consonants as a warmth trickles down my inner thighs. Her language, her sensations. They’re rapidly becoming all I’ve ever known, sealing away every sense of the man I was behind an impenetrable haze of Japanese instinct and desire. More memories of being fucked flash into my mind, causing my pussy to pulsate as I lose the ability to disguish what is me and what is her. With a sudden shuddering moan, I finally, fully, surrender to her as I cease to be anything but a bad dream for the woman who now exists in my body.
A feminine giggle spills from my lips as the last lingering vestiges of that pathetic American fades into oblivion. My dark eyes refocus, seeing the world for my own perspective and radiating cruel amusement at the futile attempts to resist the inevitable. “Watashi wa Akiko, Nihonjin desu. Oboeyasui deshou? (I am Akiko, Japanese. Easy to remember, right?)” I say as I begin to walk away, the geta clacking on the stone tiles below.
Soon six months pass. Six months of beauty, grace, and sublime sessions with many strong, virile lovers. Does some small remnant of that disgusting gaijin still lurk within me, I wonder with a disdainful sneer. I haven’t felt any sign on him. Not one trace. Truthfully, I don’t think he wants to come back. And who can blame him?
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