There was a warm breeze in the night air, as spring was taking hold of London and bringing with it a feeling of possibility. It had been a long day and our laughter bordered on hysteria as we walked through Soho towards Madam Jojo’s.
As we cut down a side street the garish neon seemed to intensify around a flashing pink sign in Japanese. A new bar had opened by the look of things. Venues came and went all the time, taking the in-crowd with them, but this one seemed to be causing a stir, with stag groups revelling around outside and the old school kerb-crawler types in macs who still haunted the area creeping past like throwbacks from the pre-fashion bona fide red-light district days. Two stunning young Asian girls in race queen outfits were flyering outside the door and beckoning the grinning stags and their entourages into the venue, which, as we walked past, I saw was called No Pan Kissa.
‘What do you reckon ‘no pan’ means?’ Charlotte said. ‘Is it some crazy new cooking thing without pans. Maybe it’s all raw. Maybe they have special …’
‘It means no panties.’ Jason cut her coke-addled musings short.
‘No fucking panties? Is that the customers or the staff?’
We all laughed.
‘The staff. It’s a Japanese thing. In Kyoto in the 80s and 90s they had these bottomless waitress cafes and all the pervy old businessmen would pay extra for their coffee for an occasional glimpse of pussy. They all got shut down or went out of fashion or something. I’m pretty sure that’s what it is though.’
‘Seems a bit mental, even for Soho!’
While the other girls tutted and let rip with their inner feminists my pussy got wet at the thought of a hot waitress in a short uniform bending over and flashing her pussy, and even more so imagining that waitress was me. We walked down the street and I craned my neck back towards the little den of iniquity. One of the promo girls did a high kick and I swear she had nothing on under her little yellow skirt. The stag party pushed each other around to get a better look. I was smitten. It was no use trying to get my work mates to go and have a better look, I generally find it’s better to hide the fact that I’m a dirty bitch from the people I work with, so I texted my filthiest fuck buddy, JD, and said I had a surprise for him and to meet me tomorrow.
When I got back from the gig I Googled ‘No Pan Kissa’ and sure enough what Jason said was true. I don’t think I’ve ever rubbed one out to a Wikipedia entry before but I came hard and soaking wet to the unemotive descriptions of the Tokyo trend for cafes where a glimpse of hot young pussy was served up alongside the shabu shabu.
I met JD for a drink first and he filled me in on his latest conquests; a threesome with two performance artists and bedding a fetish model from Poland, I knew I’d picked the right companion to accompany me into the no panties café. As we strolled through Soho JD slipped his hand around my waist and his hand found his way under my skirt and over my thigh, finding it free of even the skimpiest thong.
‘Getting into the spirit of things are we?’ JD said with an appreciative smile.
‘I couldn’t help myself’, I said, already soaking at the prospect of what we were going to see.
The flyer girls were outside again, wearing classic porno Japanese schoolgirl uniforms – black pleated skirts, white shirts and socks and striped ties. As we approached they called out ‘Irashaimasu!’ in their irresistible tones.
Inside was as much a neon nightmare as the exterior. Urgent Japanese pop blasted out of a 1950s jukebox while animé played on huge screens above a brightly lit high-tech coffee bar. Vending machines offered Hello Kitty phone charms and Pokemon toys alongside crotchless panties and flavoured condoms. A sushi conveyor carried elaborate creations around the room, bizarrely high up the wall out of most people’s reach.
A stunning waitress with bright blue hair showed us to a table and handed us laminated menus decorated with coquettish girls teasing the hems of their skirts, and brash yellow bubbles offering tea for £10 a pot and sushi for £20 a dish. We ordered tea and lapped up the unbelievable sights. JD slipped his hand under the table and stroked my thigh, just stopping short of my pussy, knowing it would drive me wild as I indulged my inner Sapphic voyeur.
‘What do you think that conveyor belt’s all about then?’ JD asked, sliding his finger between my lips and grazing my clit.
I moaned softly.
‘Like I can concentrate on anything while you’re doing that!’
Our waitress returned with a tray of green tea in little black bowls. She placed it on our table and tilted the tray, letting a pair of chopsticks fall to the ground.
‘Very sorry,’ she said. ‘Allow me.’
She turned her back to us and bent from the waist to pick them up. Her tiny pleated skirt flipped up exposing her perfect behind and we both gasped as her pussy pouted up at us. She stayed there for a few seconds and I almost came as JD stroked my clit so gently, then she stood up and walked away, leaving us both breathless. We’d been to God knows how many strip clubs but there was something so much naughtier about a waitress ‘accidentally’ flashing her cunt.
We’d hardly got our breath back when the mystery of the sushi belt was solved when two American businessmen ordered from it. Their tiny waitress beckoned over the huge doorman. He walked over and ran his hands up her legs, under her skirt and lifted her up to the conveyor belt, pulling her skirt up to the waist, right at the eye level of the men. The belt moved slowly and she lifted dishes down one by one, offering small plates of sashimi, shrimp and makizushi while the men’s eyes darted from her bare body to the food on offer. When they selected their dishes, the doorman lowered her down and she coquettishly smoothed down her skirt with a practised art of fetish, knowing that a hint of shame makes exposure ten times more exciting.
It was more than I could stand. JD nodded towards the unisex toilets and I followed him in, barely attempting to not look suspicious.
We fell into a cubicle and I grabbed at his flies.
‘Not tonight, honey, this is all about you’.
He pressed me back into the wall and ran his hands up my legs.
‘Close your eyes.’
His hands ran higher and my skirt lifted.
‘The whole café’s going to see your pussy. Can you feel how bare you are? How exposed you look?’
He pushed higher and pulled my legs apart slightly.
‘All the men are looking at you.’
He buried his face into my pussy and started to lick. I pulled his head into me and melted into the sensation. He knew just how to get me off, circling my clit with his tongue then backing off and pressing light kisses all over my pussy, teasing me into a delicious climax. I pulled my skirt back down shyly, mirroring what I’d seen the waitress do.
‘You’ll have to walk about with a wet little pussy all night now won’t you? Anyway, are you going to make this little fantasy a reality and get a job here or what?’
I was shocked, and aroused, at the thought.
‘Oh my God, JD, I couldn’t! What if someone from work came in?’
‘You only live once honey. Dream it or live it.’
The thought played on my mind as we walked back through the café, watching the girls going about their dirty business. It played on my mind as JD fucked me on the sofa when we got home, when I went to the gym that weekend, and when I sat at my desk on Monday morning beavering away at a PR campaign proposal for a new line of beauty boosting vitamin supplements, in fact I though about little else until I found myself walking in to meet the manager to talk about a job.
The manager was a smart American-Japanese woman in her forties. She openly told me about her days as a waitress at Johnny, the original no pan kissa in Tokyo, and how she thought it was time, in the current climate of extremely graphic porn, to bring back a bit of tease, and a hint of the forbidden. It was doing so well, she said, that she needed new girls all the time, and that I could start that same night. If I’d had time to go away and think about it I’d have more than likely chickened out, but I was delirious with excitement at being one of those fantasy girls.
A French girl in her late twenties, Dionne, was assigned to show me the ropes and she led me into a back room lined with mirrors and stacked with costumes. Clip in hair extensions of all colours and lengths hung on the mirrors, and boxes of MAC makeup and bottles of Issay Miyake perfume sat on the counters, all free to use. Books of Harajuku fashion lay around, as inspiration, she told me, and a TV played cheesy Para Para disco dance videos on a loop. I selected an outfit from a huge rack of clothes, a tiny blue kilt and matching top, with white over the knee socks and platform shoes, and Dionne fashioned my hair into ostentatious pigtails while she talked me through how it all worked.
‘You’re on commission on top of your basic wage, for any sushi or sake you sell. There’s a private room where you can entertain the high rollers, it’s just like being a geisha, but without panties! You put on special clothes then and make a lot of money, I’ll show you later.’
She winked at me in the mirror, and I barely recognised myself. The PR girl had given way to a porno princess, a waitress pretending to be unaware of her sexual power over the men she serves, except this time that’s the name of the game, and everyone’s in on it. A perfect post-modernisation of the centuries-old dynamic.
I walked out onto the floor and approached my first table, a group of students, my legs shaking with nerves. Dionne had told me that tea was just a little flash, so when I returned with their bowls from the bar, I curtsied briefly, pulling the folds of my kilt apart at the front. Their eyes glued to my pussy, their faces falling when I let go and covered myself with the tiny skirt. I was hooked, and so horny I had to nip into the toilets and play with myself.
I flaunted myself shamelessly, enjoying every second of it, lapping up the adoration without any fear of reprisal from the men about being teased, or from other women about acting slutty. I had full permission and, crazily, was getting paid handsomely for the privilege.
Around midnight Dionne came over to me and said some regular customers, big spenders, had come in and wanted a back room party with two hostesses.
‘I’ll tell you all about it while we change. Come on, it’s great fun and you can earn a packet in tips. You’re sexy, I want to do a party with you’.
We went into the back room and she handed me a hanger with a tiny red skirt made of flippy, flimsy fabric, and a matching bikini top.
‘We wear these for the first drink and food, then we change for the dessert and drinks. The guys sit around and we serve them three courses, plus sake and tea, and chat with them. They pay a fortune for it and we get £500 each. If they tip you, give them a little flash. Sometimes they like to pull your skirt up themselves, they should give you £100 for it, and always act a bit embarrassed, like you didn’t realise he was going to do it. Also there are fans in the floor and they have buttons they can press which make your skirt blow up. It’s best to pretend like it’s a shock and you’re shy about having no panties on though. I know you’re not though. You love it.’
I stammered something but she just smiled at me. Looks like I wasn’t the only one not doing it for the money.
She led me to the bar where we collected trays of sake-bombs, tall pint glasses of beer with chopsticks balanced on the top holding a shot glass of sake. Dionne led the way into the private room, which was a more understated and traditional Japanese dining room with a low table and bamboo screen.
Eight suited men were sat around on cushions and I quickly realised that, as well as a nod to tradition, this was also a device for the best view of our cunts as we walked around serving, and I wasn’t complaining one little bit. The men, obviously very rich and powerful, were transfixed by trying to glimpse my pussy as I moved carefully around, struggling a little with the bondage of the tall drinks and the high heels.
One of the men pressed a button on the table and a huge gust of wind blew up from the floor, effortlessly throwing the tiny skirt way above my waist. I squirmed with pleasure as the men made approving noises and made a theatrical attempt to cover myself, and acted flustered when the gust died down and my skirt returned to offering a hint of modesty. Dionne smiled at me.
We served hand-prepared sushi while the men peeped up our skirts and pressed the fans, and after the main course one of them handed me two fifty pound notes. I smiled shyly, wondering if he would ever imagine that I was enjoying this as much as he was, and he grasped the front of my skirt and yanked it up, exposing my cunt clearly to the room. The men gasped and I writhed, pretending to try to get away, feeling like throwing myself into their collective arms to be ravished.
Dionne and I cleared the dishes and she led me back into the changing rooms.
‘We change now for the final courses’, she said, handing me a see through plastic apron trimmed with white PVC and a tiny pink bra. As she changed into hers my heart leapt as I realised there were no bottoms, just the transparent aprons which had little coverage at the front and none at all from the back! My pussy looked so rude through a window of clear PVC and my nipples were peaking out of the top of the tiny bra. We walked to the now crowded bar to collect trays of sweets, fruit and sorbet and all eyes were on us and our pussies. Dionne walked ahead of me and I felt a surge of lust for a woman so confident that she can walk through a crowded room wearing just a few scraps of transparent PVC and flimsy lace.
The men cheered as we entered the room with the desserts, and money began flying in our direction. Dionne pulled me up onto the table with her and I followed her lead as she picked up sweets and hand fed them to the men, always bending over slowly and deeply, showing off her gorgeous cunt to the men behind her. Piles of money were amassing at our feet. I bent over the let one of the men lick a glob of lemon sorbet off my finger and felt an icy slither down my back. I turned sharply and Dionne was grinning at me, her hand full of ice cream. I wasted no time and picked up a handful of strawberries, mashed them in my hand and smeared them on her tits, pulling them out of her bra as I did. The men went wild, throwing more money and banging on the table.
Dionne picked up a huge bowl of sorbet and I wrestled her for it, falling to our knees. She grabbed a handful of it and pushed it in my face, then leaned in to lick it off and we were kissing lasciviously. Her hands were all over me and she pushed me back onto the table and licked the sorbet and fruit off my tummy and pulled my little apron to one side. Dionne lapped at my pussy and slid a finger gently inside me and I cried out with pleasure. I opened my eyes and all the men were staring in awe as her gorgeous dark hair settled on my thighs, stuck with sticky fruit and sorbet, our bodies moving together, my hands curled in her hair. Her tongue wriggled relentlessly and I came hard, thrashing around in the wrecked desserts, the men clapping and cheering.
One night working at No Pan Kissa was enough for me, I fulfilled the fantasy, there was no need to push my luck and get caught by my increasingly curious work colleagues who were laughing and joking about the place while I kept my head down, prim in my office clothes pretending to be engrossed in the latest book release or exhibition opening.
I kept in touch with Dionne though. Very close touch in fact. One day we might even treat JD to a dinner party. I never did thank him properly for encouraging me to live out my fantasy.