Sam adjusted the lapels of her fake kimono in front of the mirror in the staff room. It wasn’t really a kimono. For a start, it barely covered her ass, but Mr. Fujimori, the owner of the Ichibankan sushi bar, insisted on the uniform. He said it made the Japanese businessmen who frequented the restaurant feel at home. Sam suspected they felt a little too at home. At least once every shift, some rosy-cheeked bozo groped her as she walked past.
Exiting the staff room, Sam walked out into the circular bar area where florid bits of fish floated around in an endless journey on a small conveyor belt. Mr. Fujimori beckoned her over to the reception desk.
“Yes, Mr. Fujimori.”
“Please show me your best bow.”
Sam sighed and placed her hands on her thighs, bending low from the waist. “Mase, mase!” she said in a high-pitched sing-song voice.
“Very good. Excellent.”
Sam gave him a wan smile. “Anything else?”
“Tonight we have very important guests visiting from Tokyo.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to give them a nice bow then, okay?”
“I have ordered a very special dish for them, and I’d like you to serve them. Miss Katia and Miss Susan can bring the food, but you stay in the tatami room and pour sake and… just make them feel welcome. Okay?”
“Sure… when are they coming?”
“They will be here at eight.”
“Fine. Will there be anything else?”
“Please… the wig.”
Sam crossed her arms in front of her and huffed. “Mr. Fujimori, we’ve been over this many times. The wig is too hot to work in.”
The wig in question – blunt-cut, china doll wigs made of artificial hair – was originally part of the uniform until the waitresses got together and resolutely refused to wear them anymore. Fujimori gave in.
“Miss Samantha, please. It makes you look more…Japanese.”
“How can I possibly look Japanese? I have blue eyes!”
“Well… please. I’ll pay you double for the shift if you wear it.”
“Double?” Sam did some calculations in her head. “And the tips – can I keep them?”
Mr. Fujimori smiled. He was well aware that the tips for a tatami room party could reach into the hundreds. “Well… Okay. But only if they are truly satisfied.”
Sam shrugged. “It’s a deal.”
“Excellent. Please go prepare.”
* * *
The party arrived punctually. Sam was at the entrance, wig and all, to greet them. Five middle-aged Japanese men in identical suits got out of a limousine and climbed the stairs to the front door.
Sam smiled and bowed low. “Mase, Mase,” she incanted, and then held the door wide for them to enter.
She led them through to the large tatami room. As the men divested themselves of their shoes, she took each shiny, impeccable pair of identical lace-ups and placed them neatly under the wooden step. She watched them enter and get settled, then nodded to Kat and Susan, waiting in the wings, to bring the hot towels and sake.
At first, Sam felt uncomfortable. The men talking animatedly in Japanese, shouting “Kampai” every couple of minutes as they downed their sake bowls quicker than she could fill them, but eventually, as the food began to come in, she got into the rhythm of it: padding around the room, getting down on her knees beside each guest and pouring. Soon, they were pouring for her and insisting she drink along with them.
Sam tried to pace her intake, but each time she drained one of the little cups, they all started clapping wildly and yelling “Kampai, kampai” again. She began to feel decidedly giggly and, since no one had groped her bum yet, she figured that they weren’t such a bad lot after all.
Suddenly, someone outside dimmed the lights in the room and the sushi chef himself, Mr. Konobu, came in the room, bowing madly, with his two apprentices in tow. They carried a large wooden box filled with ice, and something greyish and fishy. Sam felt vaguely nauseated and looked away as they set it down on the low wide table. A little raw tuna was one thing, but some of the stuff these people actually put in their mouths was disgusting.
There was a lot of ooing and ahhing, and a distinct sea breeze scent in the room. Sam busied herself pouring sake again, and they were back to playing the old ‘two for you and one for me’ game. She regretted not having had much for dinner before her shift; the sake was making her head swim, and the briny smell didn’t help.
Her guests were also getting a rowdier, their exhortations for her to drink becoming more forceful. Finally, the shy one with the glasses aborted his attempt to help her tip the sake cup to her lips and most of it trickled down the front of her chest.
At any other time, Sam would have been livid, but it struck her somehow as terribly funny. She looked down at herself; the wine trickled between the folds of her kimono and into her cleavage.
“Oh…dear,” she giggled.
“Oh, dearu,” repeated the man earnestly, incapable of a final consonant.
He began to dab at her neck with his napkin, politely at first. Sam couldn’t stop giggling. She kneeled forward and pushed her chest out at him.
Within a heartbeat, he’d dispensed with the napkin and began to use his tongue, greedily lapping up the last few trickles of sake.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sam wondered whether this hadn’t gone too far, but the others in the room began whooping and clapping and they converged on her, dousing her chest, her face, her neck in sake and taking turns slurping it up.
“Oh, my God,” gasped Sam, closing her eyes and melting into the sensation of so many warm mouths on her skin. She made one last pathetic attempt at propriety as someone tugged her kimono off her shoulders, but her heart wasn’t in it. She melted into their attentions, feeling warm rivers of sake poured over her and lapped up.
Sam heard the sound of crockery being moved and she mewed as unidentified hands lifted her onto the table. Hot, hungry mouths descended onto her nipples and she squealed in delight. More sake rained down, and more tongues, more mouths, more hands prising apart her kimono, tugging away her obi, pulling her panties off. She squirmed and giggled on the lacquer table, awash now with wine.
She felt the first chilled piece of tuna sashimi placed strategically on her left nipple, only to be devoured away, a moment later. Then another, and another, all over her body, until someone, very delicately, parted her nether lips with an expert pair of chopsticks and seated something deliciously cool and slimy, probably a shrimp, she thought, in the cleft of her pussy.
She gasped at the chill of it. But the gasp was replaced with a low moan of pleasure as someone’s tongue snaked around the morsel, lifting it out and gobbling it up. Sam writhed: it was too much sensation, too much to bear. Each time someone placed another piece of food on her pussy, she’d only get the tantalizingly short sensation of someone removing it. She decided she liked the sake better; it took longer to deal with.
Then, quite suddenly, she felt an icy, wet contact as her thighs were pulled apart. The thought that this whole scenario was wildly obscene only made it hotter. But slowly, it dawned on her that the cold, slimy sensation was engulfing her upper thighs. It was far too big for a piece of sushi. She heard the shushing of ice moving.
Sam’s eyes snapped open and she raised her head. In the dimness of the room, she saw a huge mound of grey rising out of the large box of ice on the table. Numerous tapered tentacles had already emerged and had wrapped themselves around her upper thighs.
“Jesus Christ!” Sam whimpered. Even as she spoke, the tentacled thing in the box was pulling itself out and slithering over the side of the box. More arms snaked towards her, sliding probingly up the inside of her thighs.
“Get it off me,” she squealed.
The man in the glasses held her shoulder to the table, and made unintelligible soothing noises. Then she felt them all join in, pinning her down as the cold tendrils climbed up her body.
The first, tentative probings were terrifying. Something slick and wet nudged at the lips of her pussy and wriggled in between. Even as she felt its sucker-studded tentacle snaking into her slit, another slithered up her body and circled her left breast. Sam went rigid with fear.
“No-o.” The whimper didn’t have any effect on the men surrounding her, holding her down. Instead, one of the men on her right unzipped his suit trousers and fumbled inside, stroking as he watched.
Between her legs, other cold tendrils probed. Even as she panicked, she could feel the rhythmic kisses of hundreds of tiny suckers attaching themselves to her most sensitive areas. One had a firm hold on the nub of her clit and was sending waves of electric pleasure up her body. Another tentacle slithered between her buttocks, already wet from the sake. A prehensile tip nudged at her hole, pushing gently but determinedly into her tightly clenched ass. But her resistance was waning; the attention to her clit was becoming overwhelming and, as hard as she tried, she couldn’t hold her muscles closed.
“Noooo…” she cried again, but this time, there was no truth in it. And with that she relaxed her muscles and gave herself over to the sensations.
No sooner had she relaxed, then a bigger, thicker tentacle pushed its way into her cunt and began thrusting into her. Sam moaned, feeling herself deliciously invaded as the creature began to fuck her ass and cunt in tandem.
The tentacles slithering over her body began to warm, squeezing and releasing rhythmically. In the midst of her ecstasy, Sam looked around the room at the men who surrounded her. Each had relinquished their hold on her and was now kneeling alongside the table, their cocks in their hands, jerking off as they watched the creature fuck her.
Finally, she felt a fat tendril wriggle up her neck and push between her lips, burrowing into her mouth. Sam groaned and sucked, writhing on the slick table, her mind nothing but sensation and pleasure. She whimpered as the first orgasm raced up from between her legs and shook her whole body.
Someone in the room moaned and she felt the hot spray of cum spatter over her torso. It only made her hotter, greedier for more pleasure. The creature sensed it and pushed further into her mouth as she sucked. Again she came, this time yelping as the spasms make her twitch. Two more men lent forward and sprayed her with their sperm.
The tentacles inside her seemed impossibly thick, the suckers at her nipples sending twinges of pain down to her cunt. The fat thing in her mouth moved in and out with determined lust. Finally, she felt the entire creature begin to grow rigid. Each sucker latched on, and the whole musculature of the creature shuddered and went still.
A flood of warm salt water flooded into her throat. Deep in her cunt, she felt a similar gush of liquid erupt and spill out around the thick shaft inside her. This final sensation sent Sam over, tumbling into another, mind shattering climax, and the quiet man with the glasses gasped, fell forward and shot a stream of cum over her breasts.
* * *
Sam must have passed out because, the next thing she knew, a number of hands were helping her to sit up. Someone pulled her kimono around her shoulders and the guy with the specs dabbed solicitously at the mess he’d left on her tits.
She sat on the table stunned, smelling of seawater and watching the businessmen pour each other sake, and mutter toasts. Handed a cup, she knocked it back like an automaton, trying to rid herself of the salty taste in her mouth.
On shaky legs, Sam got off the table. She straightened her sodden robe and made a haphazard attempt to tie the obi back up. Half-heartedly, she scanned the room for her panties, but she didn’t want to look into the box on the table. It was with total revulsion that she spied a corner of pink silk hanging over the side of the wooden container. Sam took a deep breath, bowed as formally as she could and quietly left the room.
As she slid the shoji panel closed behind her, Susan ran up to her.
“Oh, for God’s sake! This is too damn much,” she cried, staring at Sam’s sopping uniform. “Why didn’t you tell them to shove it and walk out, sweetie?”
Sam opened her mouth to speak, but then shut it again and shook her head. There was no place to even begin to explain what had happened. “I need a shower,” she muttered, heading for the staff room.