Culture & Lifestyle

"I came to Tokyo in the autumn of 2006, to study at an occupational training school," writes 21-year-old Eri Murakami in Uramono Japan (April). "I'd been a 'yankii' (delinquent girl) back home, and liked sex. So to make some money on the side I took a part-time job with a 'deri-heru' (outcall sex service)."

The job, however, proved a bit too mundane for Ms. Murakami's irrepressible spirit, and she switched to an SM Club. It was kind of fun, she says, to assume the role of dominatrix and get paid to abuse her customers, although she admits that those who demanded "hard play" made the job, well, harder. And she never did manage to get used to the sight of blood.

If there's one thing you can say about the patrons at SM clubs, they are weird. How weird? Well, in the case of a certain Mr. A, you wouldn't be wrong to say as weird as they cum.

As Murakami relates, "It was about four months after I started the job. Mr. A was in his late forties, and wore an expensively tailored business suit. He was tall too --- about 180 centimeters. When he saw me, he smiled and said, 'Wow, you're even cuter than your photo.'

"That guy was flaky!" she exclaims.

Now don't forget, she's talking about the patrons of an SM club, where what most of us call 'normal' is a relative rarity and depraved deviance is the rule of the day. "I want you to blow a flute," came his request.

"Er, what's that?" Murakami wonders. Was he suggesting I blow on a flute while engaging in SM play? Well that's pretty kinky but I guess I can oblige. . .

"No, I don't need any SM play," he says, handing her what appeared to be a girl's volleyball uniform and red whistle, of the type used at sports events. "Would you mind putting on the outfit?"

"After I put it on, he stripped completely to the buff, lay down on the floor, facing upwards, and said, 'Okay, would you please blow the whistle?'"

She obliged with a little toot.

"Ohh!" he grunted.

She tooted again.

"Ohhhhh!" he moaned.

At this time she noticed his male member was becoming increasingly engorged.

"Blow it in quick, short tweets!" he urged her.

"Pi-pi-pipipi-piiiii!" went the whistle, and upwards went his willy.

Without so much as laying a finger on her customer, Murakami had produced a full-fledged erection. And a fine specimen it was indeed.

"When I say 'Go,' please blow it really hard," he implored. She nodded.

"Now!" he ordered.

"PIIIIIIIIIIIII," she blew, until her face began to redden.

At that moment her patron's engorged member ejected a torrent of jism, astonishing her both with the sheer volume ("about one-third of a bottle of yogurt drink") and the height it reached before gravity took over.

"I stand 155 centimeters and I swear it shot slightly past my head," she relates. "That was incredible!"

"Are you ready for a second round?" the customer asked.

"What? You want seconds? Wouldn't you like me to give you a hand job?"

"No, no, I don't need that. Just blow the whistle."

She did.

"Ohhhh!" he moaned in lecherous delight.

Afterwards he presented her with the whistle, telling her that he'll be able to pleasure himself by just imagining her blowing it.

Mr. A became Murakami's regular at the SM club, popping in for two sessions a month. Each titillating tooting tryst, she tells Uramono Japan, took two hours, during which he would climax at least twice, and, when in a particularly hearty mood, even three times.

"He'd bring whistles with different colors and shapes," Murakami relates. "Sometimes a red one, sometimes blue. Or he'd bring longer types. We'd go over in the corner of the room and start the same routine. He never made much small talk."

But then one day. . .

"Will you become my lover?" he beseeched her.

"Eh?!" she exclaimed.

"I'm serious. I want to get to know your whistling better. If you're willing, I'll pay you 200,000 yen a month."

But after giving it some thought, Murakami decided that meeting this guy off the premises wasn't really her idea of a wholesome relationship. She quit the SM club shortly thereafter, left Tokyo and returned to a salaried office job in her home town.

Poor Mr. A. He never heard another peep from her again. (By Masuo Kamiyama, contributing writer.)