Tokyo, February chill bites as I step into Madame Ishahi’s silk shop. Early morning light filters soft. I’m here for a wife’s birthday robe. Heart steady then. Madame greets in perfect English, leads me to racks of shimmering silk. I pick pastels. She laughs at my size ignorance. Calls in girls. Itome catches my eye—petite, black hair framing smooth face, yellow graffiti tee, short black leather skirt, white stockings hugging legs. Heart quickens. She’ll model.
Salon slides open. Low table, futons. Tea steams. Itome emerges in first robe, naked underneath. Silk clings to curves. She sways, hips rolling. My cock twitches. Madame asks opinion. I stammer. Wrong color for wife’s brown hair. Itome swaps to green silk. Madame guides my hand. ‘Feel the quality.’ Skin burns under thin fabric. Shoulder. Back. Ass curve. Heat rises. Pulse hammers. ‘Women love men’s hands through silk.’ Palm grazes her left tit. Nipple hardens, jumps. Breath catches hers. Mine ragged. Right hand joins. Cock strains pants, painful. Neck kiss. Light scent. Press erection to her ass. Silk slips. Shoulders bare. Belt unties. Robe pools.
The Fever
Nude Itome, back turned. Small tits perky. Bald pussy. Heart pounds wild. Urgency builds. Must possess.
She turns. Eyes lock. Lies on crumpled silk. Legs spread. Tongue wets lips. Invitation clear. Kneel. Tongue dives into slick folds. She mewls like kitten. Hands grip my neck. Clit swells. Suck harder. Her hips buck. Juices flood my mouth. Cock throbs, leaks.
Madame’s hand lifts me. Jacket off. Shirt gone. Itome yanks belt. Kneels. Tongue laps balls slow. Shaft full length. Gland sucks brief. Kisses tender. Edge me. Pull back. Again. Nearly cum. She rises. Robes up. Four paws on table. Ass high under silk. Cunt drips.
The Blaze
Cock iron-hard. Massive feel. Behind her. Thrust in pussy. Wet heaven grips. Pound deep. Hands knead tits through silk. She nods, mewls, claws table. Eyes meet. ‘Fuck my ass.’ Heart explodes. Wife hates it. Fear flickers. Lust wins. Pull out. Gland presses rosebud. Slow push. Tight ring yields. Inch by inch. Balls deep. She wiggles. Take all. Thrust savage. Groans low, controlled. Silk rustles. Madame quips, ‘Women love ass-fucked in silk.’ Cum roars. Flood her depths. Beast unleashed.
Itome vanishes. Madame packages robe. ‘This one fits.’ Dress shaky. Pay twelve hundred bucks, service included. Cold air hits outside. Skin still fever-hot.
Never returned. Fucked wife in that robe. Fingers trace silk. Eyes shut. Itome’s ass milks me again. Her scent haunts. Madame’s words echo. Silk and young Japanese asses—perfect match. Pulse races even now.