The Holy Order Of The Asian Pussy Pounders
Tales of Japan #2
by Q-pounder, created Thursday, October 19, 2006, with permalink

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K

By the time my Hong Kong cream puff gets back from her day trip, I've emptied four loads on tokyotopless.com. Tokyo Topless is an interesting website in that many of the girls are photographed from the chin down and all boast huge natural breasts. Me being a breast man, I love it. Especially the Japanese-style anonymity of everything.

They'd either be jealous of my girth or disgusted at the saginess of my balls. Neither outcome would add much sunshine to the world.

My dick is over-jacked and swollen from unlubed palming. It pokes out like a beggar's index finger aiming a stranger down a village road. I've just showered and dressed. My Asian pussy needs to fill the gas tank for tomorrow's business trip. I need to buy some beer.

In the car she starts talking about blow jobs. This is one of my favorite topics. By the time the gas station attendant tops off the tank, I'm boasting a full-blown stiffy. We pull up to convenience store. I stand and smile at the group of twenty-something girls and guys sitting at a picnic table near the door. Suddenly all four of them burst into laughter. \\

Now I'm a big white guy. I get a lot of looks in China. People smile. Maybe attempt some English. But I'm not used to this level of attention. I feel their eyes on me. Their laughter saws at my ears.

Just when I'm trying to figure out what's happening, my wife shouts, "What the fuck is wrong with you! Your cock's swinging everywhere!"

I scramble into the store. Now that she mentions it, I do feel a little unbound. My mammoth member sway with my steps. It points straight out, tenting my pants. After showering, I'd neglected to don underwear. I'd just thrown on zipped off Structure (yeah, back before they rebranded as "Express for Men" to show you how often I clothes-shop) cargo pants. The top button came off during a holiday pie spree. The zipper sags, providing the masses with an unwelcome shot of my creeping pubic hair. I wear shitty Wal-Mart slippers and neglected toe-nails.

Inside, I ditch the idea of beer and go straight for the slurpy machine. I pile the mango flavored ice high. I spoon it with the straw. My wife unzipped her purse to pay. Her office lady clothing gives her an austere elegance.

On my way out the door, my audience chides me further. "Whip that motherfucker out!" a guy hollers in wispy Mandarin. I bow my head and enjoy my slurpy, trying not to make eye contact with their giggly girl friends. Some things are best left alone. They'd either be jealous of my girth or disgusted at the saginess of my balls. Neither outcome would add much sunshine to the world.

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