The J-Girl Model

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This short story is the introduction in a three part series, let me know if you would like me to finish and publish the other two chapters and find out how it things go for our protagonist, Hanako. Kudos to lkguy for editing.

WARNING / SPOILER ALERT: There is an erotic passage that features a dick girl with another girl.

Disclaimers: The characters and events are fictional. Any events or situations involving mention of real persons are purely fictional. The views expressed by the characters do not necessarily represent those of the author. Brief mention of childhood and teenage years appears in the first few paragraphs, HOWEVER, situations inappropriate to underage characters are neither depicted NOR inferred.

Living out of hotels and staying in shape is not as hard as it sounds, but it takes endurance. Luckily, I love my manager, and by that I mean I absolutely belong to her. Without her, I never would have become a bikini model.

My father was a sumo wrestler. He died when I was an infant. My mother still keeps a photo of him over the mantle and one by the door. Even though they were never married, I guess it makes sense that she was always loyal to him. After all, she had been made one of his primary beneficiaries in his will. The money easily paid for her humble home in rural Shikoku, Japan, and she never had to work again. Instead, she stayed home and raised me.

To make the money last, my mother forbid any splurging on luxuries, even junk food and candy. There wasn’t enough money for fancy clothes and such. She cooked my meals, every day she placed a homemade bento in my backpack and sent me off to school. We shopped for clothes at the thrift shop. It wasn’t so bad because I could wear a uniform to school just like the other kids. My mother taught me to be humble and never complain.

I was an awkward teenager, the tallest by far in middle school. The more I grew, the harder it was to find clothes my size, thrift store or not. Thankfully, I found a part time job and used that money to get things to wear at the big and tall store. By the time I reached high school graduation, many of the boys were finally catching up in height but I was still the second tallest in the school.

As expected, I flunked the college entrance exams, but my boss had already promoted me to full time. It wasn’t much of a job, but it kept me occupied and I learned some important lessons.

I started out selling cakes and souvenirs at a local tourist attraction, a job I held for quite a while. I was supposed to handle the cash register, but I was also required to always greet passing tourists, and cut little cakes into tiny sample sizes. I also had to sweep my area hourly, at minimum.

For whatever reason, my bust continued to develop years after I stopped growing taller. It must have been good for sales, because at the first hint that I was looking for work elsewhere, my manager offered me a raise. This was after only a year and a few months of selling cakes, before I even knew how little I knew about what I was doing. By that I mean that I could sweep and handle the cash register, but had only the faintest inkling of the charming arts I would someday employ professionally.

Like any comely young lady working my way up from the very bottom of entry-level sales, I hoped one day my prince handsome would rescue me and sweep me off my weary feet. In reality I was taller than most Japanese men and hardly any ever asked me out. Those that did were just creeps and barcode businessmen (so named because of the pattern made by their combovers). Americans and other western tourists were sometimes bold enough to proposition me, but how could I receive such advances?

I asked my co-workers how to deal with such customers. They told my mother, and we had a talk about it.

“Your father’s genes made you tall,” she said. “You are also beautiful, and your breasts are even bigger than mine. These are all things that men desire, and someday you might land a good husband, but not if you squander your love on a man who can’t speak your language.”

So I waited, and I began to worry. Perhaps a dashing and tall Japanese man was out there looking for me, but then again, what were the chances he would ever show up at my booth? I was convinced that whoever this tall man was, he had settled for some tart from Tochigi. Meanwhile I was stranded on Shikoku island, the most attention I ever got was fending off lonely creeps that loitered in the periphery of my booth seeking a vantage to snap photos of me with their smartphone cameras. It was times like those that I was glad for the security patrols and our thick, unflattering uniforms.

Those uniforms were the same style for young and old employees. Watching the older booth hands, it began to dawn on me that I needed to do something more to get ahead, but I was still clueless as to how. I had looks and appeal, but I had convinced myself that using my natural gifts was only a means to a sleazy and unfair advantage.

After three porno indir years of work, I began to doubt I would ever find my prince handsome. I just needed someone to romance me, he didn’t even need to be rich. I longed for a warm lover to sleep beside. I fantasized about men, the rough and strong type, and pardon the use of actors as an example but I envisioned my prince looking like a Toshiro Mifune or even a Ken Watanabe, only in their youth, in their twenties, with a little muscle and a fierce tan. Such men have become an endangered species in my country. Instead we have pale, frail beansprouts with Saiyajin pompadours. I wondered if I could ever be attracted to such effeminate males.

Then, oddly, but suddenly, I began to fantasize about being in bed with other women, friends and co-workers of mine who I was attracted to. I became very curious about women, obsessed with the allure of the feminine.

I did not dare act on those strange desires. In the villages where my mother, aunts and uncles live, that sort of thing was tolerated at best.

“Bad enough there are so many drag queens on TV,” I could imagine them say, “We in Shikoku are not deviants.”

Still, there was one girl who seemed more than willing to share her time with me. Michiko was her name, and she worked at the gift store. She was twenty three when we became friends. It started out under platonic pretenses, with movies and mocchi at her little apartment.

Neither of us could admit what was going on until it had already started. As we watched a movie one night, she rested her head on my shoulder, and I took her hand in mine. We stayed in that position through the rest of the film and most of the credits. The feeling of intimacy had grown so strong by that point that we knew without a doubt what we were about to do. We just didn’t know how far we would go.

We turned to each other and kissed, softly at first. Our passion swelled until we were gasping for air, and then she kissed the top of my breasts. We wriggled out of our jeans and our pastel pink underwear, sweating and panting as we sought each other’s lips, and more.

Those moments were so innocent and pure, we never held back for a moment. I felt a spiritual awakening within me, a sacred reverence for the erotic power of the female gender.

The next day, I woke up and wanted to shout from the rooftops that I had kissed another girl and it was everything I dreamed a kiss could be, with either man or woman. We were not of the lesser gender. We were one, and that was plenty, and all I needed. I lived for the next kiss, but we were careful to keep it hidden from our colleagues.

We dated for over a year, and while we grew closer at first, over time our relationship became more physical than emotional. We resorted to vibrators and strap-on dildos in pursuit of greater stimulation, and we had sex for hours at a time. It was great, although we could never find the way back to the secret garden that had been our first prolonged caress.

We shared our secret fantasies, and in the process we shed a little too much innocence. With every fantasy, there was a fixation on the macho male, and it became clear that there was a longing for that strength and sublime virility for which there is no substitute. Michiko never realized she was attracted to women until she and I had begun to hang out; she had dated men in the past and wanted to again. Of course, that would leave me alone once more, but I confessed I had the same desire to someday have a man who lived to care for me and make passionate love to me. We fantasized about picking a man up in a bar just for fun and threesomes, but we never followed through. We could have, but it wouldn’t have been enough.

I was unprepared when it happened. She found a boyfriend and he was serious about her. I was cut out of the picture. Heartbreak settled in like a bad tenant.

During the weeks that followed, my eyes burned with unwanted tears whenever I saw her at work. A lump formed in my throat whenever I tried to find words to speak. I had been her eager sex kitten for the past year and she was a pretty good friend as well. Loving her had been easy, turning it off was so hard, especially when I always thought it would be me who would one day do the dumping.

I wrote her a few letters. Sometimes I cried when I wrote, but I tried to come from a logical standpoint. Who knows, perhaps those letters were hopelessly emotional: I was. I confessed to her that I had conflated her with the thrill and bliss of loving another woman for its own sake. I told her that it was only natural for me to come down from those heady heights. That was why it couldn’t ever be the same, among other reasons. I still wanted to write to her and to love her, so I proposed that her fiancée join us in a threesome. It was not to be. Eventually I realized there was no point telling her I missed her.

I showed up to work feeling like a wounded giraffe, tall and guarded and utterly miserable. I rokettube could not let my heartbreak show, however, so I began to put on an act. I would greet customers properly and with a smile, and I would smile at babies too. I didn’t want to, but I told myself I would do it and look warm and natural and bright. I made up short phrases to use in every situation to sound warm and friendly and natural, and wrote them down in a notebook. It was to be the start of my charm studies.

Time heals all wounds, and six months later I was over Michiko. I was a little more guarded with my emotions. My charm studies were a casual hobby, nothing serious, and yet they already helped. I sold mini-cakes better than ever, greeting every tourist warmly. As for babies, I said “Konnichiwa” with a big smile, eye contact, a wave of my hand, and always with a sustained tilt of the head. These greetings, while heartfelt, were executed with precision, over and over. They were aimed at bringing young parents (particularly fathers who might otherwise be intimidated) to my booth. Moreover, I placed a new emphasis on my daily cosmetic routine, and in the evenings, I spent time in front of the mirror practicing my charm. My world was sales, and I wanted to do my very best.

I dreamed of improving my sales totals, but it seemed I had reached the limit with what I could do with prepackaged cakes. I decided that I was destined to sell fresh products. It was more pressure, but the reward was more profits.

I thought about buying my own stand, this time selling caramel or cream puffs, but I needed to buy a permit from the site owner, not to mention all of the kitchen equipment. I asked my mom for a loan, and she said no, which meant I didn’t have a prayer of getting a loan at the bank. So I decided to improve my selling techniques and save money more aggressively.

At the time, I was almost bursting out of my D-cup bras, and my uniform was getting tight around the breasts. I decided to buy some E-cups. They fit me perfectly, but I needed the uniform to match. The next size up was only available in a cut meant for matronly, plum-shaped women. It would have been easier and cheaper to just get alterations done at the cleaners. However, my mother’s frugal habits had become deeply ingrained, as I struggled with the prospect of paying for alterations now and into the future. I knew that in the long run, I could save time and money, so I asked my mom to teach me some simple alterations to accommodate my large breasts.

I still kept the cut of my uniform demure, as that was the company policy. Besides, my mom and I liked it that way. It was enough that the uniform fit well around my little waist, and flared slightly for my hips. Sales continued to improve, and I saved my money. I even started to pay my mother a little rent.

I longed for somebody to be with. Not one man in all of town, in all of Shikoku, ever got up the nerve to ask me out on a date. With my height and bust and yes, my good looks, I must have been very intimidating, but on the inside, I was foot-stompingly frustrated. I couldn’t help it if my genetics had resulted a very statuesque combination of phenotypes. I tried not to worry about it, but two years later, I was still miserably single. I had not gone out on even a single date worth mentioning because men just never asked, and I had no intention of chancing it with another woman.

One holiday when I was feeling particularly lonely, I took my measurements again. I was going to make some alterations to my street clothes, and damn what anyone thought of me.

I took my favorite white sleeveless blouse, which I had already taken in at the waist, and I took it in some more. I tightened it until the fabric clung to the undersides of my boobs. I could still button it up to the top, of course, but if I left the top three buttons undone, it showed just the right amount of neckline, flaunting it without flogging it. I admired myself with it on in the mirror, imagined going to the store wearing it, and got cold feet. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that in my own hometown. Sure, a flat chested girl could have gotten away with wearing a tight shirt with a few buttons undone, but my melons were so plump and bouncy that the shirt produced an overtly sexual display. I could just imagine the old men staring as I walked by the barber shop at the corner. There would be titillation perhaps, but it would soon be followed by condemnation and before long, my mom would hear of it.

“What is the point of upsetting them?” I asked myself. “Best to avoid strife.” I hung the shirt up for another day.

That was when I started to dream about modeling. I didn’t know when or how, because as a teenager I was so gawky and tall it always seemed a job for cuter girls of more average proportions. Now I saw myself differently, and in front of the camera my height didn’t matter as much.


One day, a young woman approached my booth. She wore a business suit, but she had the fake seks filmi tan and dyed blonde hair of a ganguro girl. She didn’t care about cakes at all, she wanted me to appear at an audition. She said I was strikingly beautiful, and for a moment I assumed she was another up-and-coming model.

She said she was going to make me a star, and scribbled a time, date, hotel name and room number on a business card. The card read “Mihara Akiko, Photography and Modeling” but it had no phone number, no keitai.

My first reaction was something between doubt and eager acceptance. Doubt because I didn’t know who this woman really was (she could have been a pornographer’s agent for all I knew), but eagerness because it might be my break.

“Is this, um, is this going to be like, porn?” I murmured.

“Don’t worry, honey, I don’t do porn, but you should understand that we are going to show a lot of skin.” It was a whopper of a caveat, I thought, and I shook my head to show I was not interested. The lady kept talking. Also, for someone I just met, she seemed quite comfortable with using familiar conjugations normally reserved for friends.

“We want our audience to be able to admire your curves, your body,” she went on, casting a glance at my chest. “You look like you could be a star bikini model. No scars, birth marks, or tattoos?”

“None, but–” The way she cared about my skin, as if I were to be a slab of meat to be sold to the world. I offered the card back to her and looked at the ground.

“Look, this is a chance for you to get rich,” she said, waving the card away. “Come to the audition. You can still decide later. There’s only going to be myself and maybe a few other candidates. Bring your favorite outfit and a two piece swimsuit. Can I count on you?”

She spoke fluidly, and I quickly sensed that she had executed a sales pitch. In that, I somehow felt a kinship with the woman. I had questions and I didn’t want to simply say no, but I was suddenly petrified.

The truth is, I was afraid that if I looked up at her again, she would have sussed me out. If she knew sales, she just might be watching me for signs of attraction. After all, allure was a part of her game, and this was no ordinary pitch.

The lady in the booth next to mine, however, was not impressed. The fellow across the way was openly staring at me holding the business card.

“Thank you, goodbye,” I said.

“Be there, don’t forget!”

When she had gone, I made a show of tearing the card in two and tossing it in my wastepaper bin. Later, while the others were busy with customers, I fished the two pieces out.


I never told anyone about the audition, even my mother. Akiko was there, and besides me there was only one other candidate in the suite. Her long black hair was meticulously brushed in straight bangs like a classic schoolgirl. She was beautiful, in fact she was such a stand-out sex bomb I had to make an effort not to stare. She wore a school uniform from the neighboring village.

Akiko was also dressed up in a schoolgirl outfit, but it wasn’t the sort you would find at any real school. The pleated navy skirt was too short, and lacy frills poked out from underneath. She had the radical look of a ganguro – from the tan to the blonde hair down to her fluffy white leg warmers. When I came in, I saw her setting up her photo equipment, but she looked ready to participate in the shoot herself. She handed both of us release waivers to read over and sign.

The other candidate took pictures first, posing for the camera with innocent eyes and puckered lips. She raised her knee and took a few provocative poses. Akiko spoke approvingly as the schoolgirl lifted her skirt, revealing the skin above her lacy stockings.

Right away, I wanted to leave. This was porn, or something close to it. My staying had nothing to do with making a rational decision. Rather, I was transfixed by the sultry movements of the girl who was posing. It was as if I had entered a fantasy world, parallel but apart from my humdrum life selling cakes.

Akiko’s camera shutter chattered greedily as the girl stripped off her blouse for the camera. The girl slowly unzipped her pleated skirt, then let it fall about her ankles. She wore a cream-colored lingerie ensemble. Akiko snapped away while the girl posed.

As suddenly as the strip show had begun, Akiko stopped snapping.

“Great,” Akiko said. “Now, change into your bikini.” Then she turned to me and said “It’s your turn now, Miss Uchiya.” I was already dressed in my white blouse and a short skirt, and I couldn’t resist the urge to step forward onto the set. I looked to Akiko, who half-grinned and lifted her camera to her face.

I was being photographed, and I immediately realized that I had no idea what to do. When I looked into the vacant stare of the lens, my head would start to spin. I felt confused and upset as I realized the other candidate had made all of that posing look easy.

“Tilt your head back a bit, if you would,” Akiko said. “Turn to your left. A little more. Stick out your butt. Hold it there.” I followed her instructions, mechanically at first. Then it came to me, the arching of my back, the subtle use of my arms to accentuate my bust. Confusion was replaced by determination to do my best.

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