Four Boys In Japan: Chris   added 6 years ago    

  By: Cand86

Last year, I went abroad to Japan as an exchange student for six months. While I was there, I expected to develop some budding crushes on cute, lithe Japanese guys with dark eyes and fantastic hair . . . but instead, I developed major infatuations with the Americans who ended up coming with me! (Not that I didn't think the Japanese boys were cute, but, well, yeah.) Ah, well, what can you do? Anyways, four of the boys in particular sparked four very different fantasies in my head, each related to their personality. I have a feeling as I type them that they might be hot, but not really meaningful to anybody else who doesn't know them the way I do, but oh well, here goes anyways.


 
 

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The fourth and last boy was Chris. I actually debated writing this one, because time had passed since our trip and the fantasies had faded; I thought perhaps they had never been that strong to begin with. But then I discover we have a class together this summer and bam!- it all came back to me.

Chris- it actually feels wrong to call him that, since everyone was always using his last name (but I won't, out of respect for privacy)- is a cocky bastard. That pretty much sums him up. He's smug. He knows that he's good-looking, and he's had enough girlfriends to make him just a little arrogant about it. He's playful, with *just* the right amount of dumb fratboy worked into his personality. He's the guy at the party who makes you roll your eyes and laugh, but not the one who makes you want to leave.

It's hard not to be caught up in the wave that is him. He just has a natural flirtatiousness about him, and he's easy on the eyes, which makes it all the harder to not enjoy yourself. He has pretty eyes, long lashes, dark, spiked hair, and the frat boy look down to a T. And with it, he's got this attitude that irks me. It's the way he can sometimes treat women, the off-color dirty jokes he tells, the often stupid remarks he makes. He wouldn't be good boyfriend material, that's for sure. I have to be able to converse with my partners, to feel they're my intellectual equals, and he doesn't fit it at all.

Which is why I wanted to duct tape his mouth shut.

Had I been thinking that before I said it? I'm not sure. All I know is, one evening, chatting with another girl in the exchange program over some tea, she called off names of the boys to hear my reactions to each. Kevin? Quite cute, yes, in a geeky way, I replied. Tahir? No, not really. And then- Chris? My brain had no time to censor my mouth. "Only if I had duct tape to shut him up."

It would continue to be a sore point of teasing and laughter for the rest of the trip between us, but that stray comment would influence my fantasies. Suddenly it seemed very fitting and right. I didn't want to get fucked by Chris- even in my fantasies, that would only give him what he wanted, and I didn't want to encourage that smirk. I wanted to wipe it off his face.

Later, somewhat drunkenly at our favorite bar, we would one way or another somehow (I can't for the life of me remember how) stumble onto the subject of male-recipient anal sex. "No way." He said. "They say it's the most intense orgasm a man can experience.", I added. "I don't care, uh-uh." was his response. And that, of course, settled it for me. I hate boys who aren't secure enough in their own heterosexuality to at least experiment a little with butt play, even if they end up not caring for it when all is said and done.

And so, with that little bit of background setting the stage, here is my fantasy (WARNING: this does include rape, so if that squicks ya, leave now!):

He's had too much to drink, I can tell that much already, as he waves animatedly on the chair in Alex's room. This was our ill-fated attempt to make Tokyo Tea with meager supplies- no sweet-'n'-sour mix or grenadine syrup. The stuff handed out in red plastic cups is brilliantly green, incredibly disgusting, and far too strong. I mime a swallow and then get rid of mine before the first round of our drinking game; I can't help that I like alcohol that's sweet and delicious. But it's all the better, I think, as I watch him sway. I like that I'm sober and he's not. The power differential makes me hot. So does the roll of duct tape I have in my bag.

People drift off to their own rooms. I engage him in teasing banter- jokes about his masculinity, the crush we're all sure one of the Japanese boys has on him, about how white trash he looks in a wife beater. It's easy to slip by any of the remaining people's radars- I naturally follow him across the hall to his room, to keep on talking and make sure he gets there alright.

But once there, through his door, my heart pounding, I grab the duct tape and lunge. It's a struggle, but it's one I like, on his bed, in the dark, and I have the advantage of a clear head. I pin down his unweildly limbs, and there's something comforting about using my weight productively to hold him down as I sit on his back on his struggling hands, one foot pushing his mouth to the pile of pillows and blankets to muffle him- though he's not making much noise.

The duct tape doesn't want to start ripping easily, but once it does, it has such a satisfying tearing noise, sharp in the underwater-like silence that is our breathing. First his hands, the sticky stuff binding his wrists together haphazardly. I like thinking that when I pull it off, there'll be a band of red, inflamed, hairless skin across each arm. He'll have to wear long-sleeved shirts. Then I do his mouth, and I like this part best- tugging his head back and smacking it on across his lips. Censored, shut up. And the duct tape looks so much fucking hotter than any BDSM gag toy could ever look- its that makeshift, home-made, make-do sort of material. It screams "fucking on the fly."

His breath sounds louder coming fast and harder through his nose than it did through his mouth. His eyes, when I catch them in the roving beam of the flashlight, are wild and dart everywhere. I pull him up on his knees, ass in the air, and down come his pants and boxers, the clanking of his belt incredibly loud. In my fantasy, there's a mirror in his room and he faces it as does the flashlight, so his slightly-twisted, duct-taped face is right in the glinting white light, my own figure shadowy behind him. It almost begs him to look at himself, at the situation he's in. Everywhere else is dark.

I put on a latex glove, not because I'm worried about safe sex or cleanliness, really, but because it makes it all the hotter, snapping it on, feeling the cool, thin, powdery suface against my fingers. I like how it adds an extra barrier between him and me, colder, more impersonal. Then comes the lube, and I work him over even as his eyes stare out in fear of the pain. I don't hurt him, though- that's not my goal, and I know how to open a man up, ease him into it. Twirling, swirling fingers, only a few knuckles in, scissoring against the hot, forbidden walls of this place I know he usually keeps so private and closed.

He makes little muffled noises into the duct tape- whimpers, really, all high-pitched and cute. I love it and work my fingers faster- not harder, or deeper, but just more friction against the space I've already made headway in. I can feel his prostate, and that gets me hotter- I milk the little nub, work it over, stroking, pressing, all my attention focused on the one spot. I don't know if he's hard, if he likes it. I don't care. I'm enjoying getting lost in his ass, and occasionally looking at his face in the mirror. I fucking love that duct tape- that gleaming silver slash over his mouth, and his needy, scared eyes.

Sometimes in my fantasy, Alex comes in and- inexplicably- fucks Chris while I watch. Girl ass or boy ass, he doesn't care, I suppose, and he's the same personality as he is in my fantasy of him, except that this time there's occasionally a big grin and mean-spirited chuckle that he gives to Chris- the one that seems to say "Dude, I'm fucking you." the way guys call each other bitches jokingly and make other homophobic insulting slurs. The kind of joking that would get right under Chris's skin more than me working over his ass ever could.

With Alex there, or not, I take pictures with my camera, pictures in the dark, with the flash on- trashy, sleazy photos of his greasy asshole, gaping only slightly, long, crinkly hairs plastered down with lube, his face at various emotions, long shots from far away that capture the entirety of his situation- all tied up and exposed with his pants around his knees, vulnerable. I love the way they look- like a dirty, gay version of Fiona Apple's "Criminal" music video. I know I'll masturbate to them later.

I leave him like that, only cutting through the duct tape around his wrists so that he can sleep with some relative comfort. I leave it on, though, so he'll have to pull it off in the morning, just like the duct tape on his face. I like the idea of him having to do it himself. I leave the lubed-up glove on the floor like a used condom. And then I'm gone, with my pictures, off to my own room, to sleep contentedly with the musky smell of his ass lingering around my fingers, happy to have given him a little taste of his own medicine.



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Comments for Four Boys In Japan: Chris

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Elle    (2011-03-21 17:44:04)    Flag as inappropiate
I liked this a lot, although it has nothing to do with the stuff that I normally like. It's the creativity and subtle humor that I find arousing here. And I know a Chris who is similar to yours (I've even written a fantasy about him) Well done!


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  Cand86 (view profile)

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Fantasy Info:

Location: A bed | Roleplay: Any
Fulfillment: I will tell you later | Nature: Humiliating