The Blonde Samurai (19 page)

“You wanted me that first time you saw me,” I said in a husky voice, yet with a power I prayed I possessed to seduce him to my futon. “Then at Yoshiwara—”

“Dressed as either a temptress or a young man,” he said without hesitation, “I cannot resist you.”

I gave the duplicity of his words no more thought as he parted my thighs and inserted two fingers inside me, then slipped his other hand around to my buttocks and began probing the crack. His finger gently made its way inside the dark puckered hole, making me moan as he pleasured me with both hands, front and back. I cried out for more, still more, like the wild heathen I had perceived him to be, but it was my skin that wore the stigmata of the barbarian. Yelling, screaming with heated words, raging into a dark night like a banshee and showing no shame. It was white-hot my cunt, yes,
cunt,
for we mated like primal creatures in heat as the charcoals in the fire pit crackled and sizzled. His hands pulled the blue silk kimono from my body, striving to see my nudeness in the darkened room. I was another man’s wife, but I was
his
lover. His hands were on me, rougher than the first time, all formality gone between us, his touch greedy as he fondled me, grunting but not speaking, as if words in either language could not express his feelings. I moaned, breathing
in the impermanence of a subtle incense wafting toward us, an unseen pleasure tended to by a woman with a gentle smile performing her duty. I didn’t see her, but I heard the subtle sliding of the paper door, then all thoughts turned to my samurai as he picked me up with a warrior’s strength and carried me to the futon and positioned me for his pleasure. A soft silk pillow under my arse, my legs spread, my heels pointing toward the ceiling. I moaned when his tongue dived into me, finding my clitoris and licking it with such expertise I couldn’t stand it, his mouth hot and wet, his flicking tongue bringing me to an intense orgasm. I bucked and writhed, but I denied myself the joy of succumbing to that pleasure, for I was bargaining for my life. It was
he
who must be pleasured, for I was desperate not to be driven from here when it was only here with him that I existed as a woman.

I begged him come to me, the head of his cock nudging at the slick lips of my pussy. Before I could take a breath, he thrust into me, hard, fast, his hands holding on to my buttock cheeks, finding his rhythm though he pumped into me like a man intent on splitting me in two. When he could hold back no more, I lost all sense of who I was, who he was, and met him in a forbidden place when he released his hot juices into me, consuming me with a rawness, a power that gifted me with such powerful contractions I couldn’t stop crying out, screaming, as I had never experienced an orgasm so intense, fed and driven by an obsession we both possessed and could not tame.

His sweat mixed with mine as he nuzzled his face against my neck. I lay back, panting, yet sleep was unknown to me. A nagging fear still haunted me. Yes, he had fucked me, but I knew Shintaro didn’t love me as I loved him, needed him, craved him. I
must
make him desire me with such passion he wouldn’t let me go.

I put my hand on his cock, using the sticky semen covering the head as a means to facilitate sliding my hand up and down his shaft. Soon he was hard again, grunting with a surprised pleasure when I eased my body over his and placed his erect cock into me. I shall not profess experience in sexual positions, dear lady reader, except to say it was not instinct that taught me how to please a man in this manner, but the dubious and prolific escapades of Molly Pearlbottom. I rode my samurai hard then begged him to take me from behind, thrusting into my pussy while I posed before him on my hands and knees, my nude buttocks teasing him with a salacious wiggle. Then I took his cock into my mouth and licked it up and down with long strokes and around the head, his hands gripping my hair until I tasted him, salty yet pleasant to my tongue. Exhausted, I kept going, drifting between fear and hope, passion and contentment…

I would not know until morning if I had succeeded in my quest, my daring attempt at intrigue to win the man of my heart.

I
was
certain of one thing.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

It was the last time I made confession.

T
he overwhelming scent of fresh blossoms thick with orange cleansed the air, as if the peel of the fruit tickled my nose and the smoothness of its leaves soothed my burning skin, but neither could erase the deed. I placed my fingers between my legs sticky with semen and brought them up to my nose, the smell of sex still thick and creamy, his scent mixed with mine, clinging to me before whatever little breeze found its way into my futon and dissipated it into but a memory. One that lingered then blossomed.

I had but one thought on my mind that morning when I woke up and found Shintaro gone.
Would he return and lie with me? Or would he insist I return to my husband?

I waited, hoping to hear the wooden floor creak at the sound of his bare feet. I heard nothing. I didn’t dress, preferring to remain nude, pacing up and down on the straw mat, thinking of our times together as a folding screen, each panel revealing a different scene of our erotic, tender moments
when opened one at a time.
Were we at the last panel?
I refused to believe it and continued to pace, my uncertainty feeding on my bad temperament, waiting for something to happen,
anything,
but nothing did. I shan’t fixate on the morning hours passing so slowly but move the story forward instead of dwelling on the illogical path of the Irish mind. I came to understand Shintaro’s decision by interpreting his actions through what the natives call “belly language.” ’Tis a form of communication where the meaning is most notably gained from their ability to understand each other
without
words; they use facial expressions along with the unspoken meaning derived by the length and timing between silences.

Silence.

I ran to the closed shutters and peeked through the wooden slats.
The guard was nowhere to be seen.
No children playing nearby or the sound of swordplay or women giggling as they passed. I
did
see two large brass basins filled with clean, clear water for my ablutions in the small iris garden behind my quarters. (It was considered a barbarity to have water for washing brought into the house.)

Silence.
What a fool I was not to see something so clear as if Shintaro had his hand down my drawers. By not arriving early in the morn to oust my Irish arse, he was telling me I could stay in the samurai village. I cannot describe the pure joy racing through me, my nipples hardening in the cool morning air, my pussy contracting around his imaginary cock at the thought of what he meant. For to be part of a samurai clan one must be born into it, unlike British society, where an ivory-white breast or a rosy rounded bottom can elicit the eye of a dandy. Or where a fortune like mine can turn an aristocratic birthright into a commodity to be bought and sold simply by a gentleman threading the needle with a fair maiden.

And I, Katie O’Roarke, had been given leave to stay here, for how long, even the gods could not know the divining thoughts of Shintaro. You must understand, dear lady reader, allowing me to stay was but a small change on the part of the samurai, but a change it was indeed. On the other hand, an Englishman abhors change and would rather relinquish membership in his club rather than give up his routine visits to the girls at the “top of the tree” in the brothels on Queen Street. So I ask you, which society is more barbaric? England or Japan?

“Did you sleep well?”

Nami entered, bowing, clean kimono over her arm and holding a small tray, my breakfast rice steaming under the lacquer bowl cover, pickled cucumbers and a pot of hot tea. Yes,
pickled cucumbers
. ’Tis true I have not spoken of the native food since you may find it off-putting to find a pigeon’s egg at the bottom of your soup bowl, but I shall remind you that British food has its own drawbacks. Were I in Mayfair I would be dining on lovely scones covered with melting butter and thick marmalade. Pleasing to the tongue and, I’ll confess, often a substitute for sensual caresses (admit it, dear lady reader, haven’t you indulged in gorging yourself with creamy puddings when you’d rather it was a man’s cream you sucked off your fingers?) and never good for the figure. I found ingesting the native food kept my body so slim I maintained my small waist without the tugging of corset lacings. Regarding daily samurai life, I could speak about the etiquette
à la table
and bowing and the rituals, but I have decided to forgo such meanderings. Though no formal writings of samurai life exist in English, I shall not attempt to do so here since I perceive you are more interested in sexual escapades. I promise
you, this chapter will have you reaching for the closest poker, be it his lordship’s or otherwise.

“Where is Shintaro, Nami?” I begged to ask her, knowing her answer determined my fate.

“He has gone with Akira into Hiogo for supplies,” she said, meaning the old holy city adjacent to Kobé.

I didn’t give it much thought then why Nami was so well informed on the movements of the clan leader, why this young woman was always nearby when Shintaro made an appearance, the indiscreet nature of the native house allowing a whisper to be heard from one room to the next. Many households employed young women who became closely identified with the family, their loyalty unquestioned. Was Nami such a woman?

“Shintaro made love to me last night—” I began, a sudden shyness coming over me. I translate loosely my actual words, for I used the more polite term “I granted him the pillow,” a phrase strange to your ears as it was to mine, but I wish to give you an example of the indirectness that makes the native language so beautiful.

Nami nodded, though I sensed something different in the young woman’s manner toward me. She began folding the futon in the prescribed manner, her actions giving no indication if the smell of our desire aroused her.

“—and this morning he is gone without a word.” I sipped the hot tea she poured for me, grateful for its warming effect, like the strong hands of my samurai holding me in his arms. “I pray this means he will not send me away.”

“A man such as Shintaro does not shake the cherry blossom from the branch when she is fresh with his dew.” She handed me a lightweight kimono hand painted with scarlet and white chrysanthemums. “Who knows if it will bear fruit?”

A deep flush burned my cheeks, her meaning bringing clarity to my innermost desire.
A child.
What consequences such a gift would bring lingered on my mind for the briefest of seconds, then they were gone. I dared not believe I would know such happiness.

I took the kimono from her but didn’t put it on, preferring to linger in the nude, my passion for the simplicity of things here overwhelming anything else, a recklessness in me I couldn’t let go. “I shall wash first, Nami, then eat. Will you come and sit with me? I have so much to tell you about last night, his laugh, his burning touch, his deep sense of self I find so irresistible.”

“I, too, wish to share your happiness on this bright morning.” She turned to me, and with a smile I will always remember, she said innocently, “I am most grateful to the gods that my husband has found pleasure with you.”

Yes, dear lady reader, she said
husband.
Shintaro, the man of my heart, this strong, fearless samurai was married to this shy creature, a woman I had come to admire and whose friendship I depended upon to help me. I shall not linger too long on this revelation as the idea of coupling with another woman’s husband is not an uncommon state to many of you, since the upper classes ignore adultery unless exposed. That will never happen to you. You are too careful with your indiscretions and are unlikely to suffer the consequences because you do not belong to the culpable class. But I digress, simply to point out guilt where guilt lies.

That my samurai was wedded to Nami was a surprise to me and it took me some time to adjust to it. She was human, fragile, tolerant and had shared with me how she’d lost her own child, but then I had no idea Shintaro was the father.

Nami assured me it was the way of samurai for her husband to go to the futon of another woman if she was unable to bear him more children. In a similar manner, she said, he also found physical pleasure in the company of Akira.

Akira.

A curious chill rippled over me then as it does now, my pen wobbling as the stirring of this memory excites me. How can I flesh out on paper the deep colors of that union against a black-and-white page? Kimonos red and deep purple swirling, golden muscular bodies wrestling on the ground, rolling, pushing and pulling, fighting for position. Panting and sweating, then smooth, bare chests touching, breathing fast…the air heavy with their desire. ’Tis twilight as I write this, but then the morning was bold and bright and filled with a promise that shook the sensibilities of my mind in a provocative way I have never known since.

I pulled the kimono closer around me, running my fingers over the white chrysanthemums.
The symbol of the anus.
Nami’s subtle way to remind me I had competition for Shintaro and it was not the slender willow.
Woman.

I must explain, dear lady reader, that the honored practice of male love was encouraged within the samurai class to teach young men virtue, honesty and above all, the appreciation of beauty. It was an elite discourse slowly fading away since western influence frowned upon anal intercourse within the fixed framework of the older warrior who loved, and the younger apprentice who was loved. When the event I am about to relate took place, such an act was more than a sin in the sainted green of my fathers. It was against the law in the land of the shogun. But as he was wont to do when he deemed a law unjust, Shintaro ignored it. Here in the samurai village, the erotic bond flourished in “the beautiful way,” as
it was called. I can bear witness to the truth of it, for love between two samurai was looked upon as simply turning to a different page in the book of love. Unlike olden days, when such love was purest when undeclared, I saw revealed to me how these two men were very much in sync with their mutual desire.

I must stop…allow you to think, remember all that has transpired in my story…Shintaro admiring me as a young man in Yoshiwara…his tenderness toward Akira in a natural way…why didn’t I see it before?

Like you, dear lady reader, the notion shocked my staid sensibilities, but I was also intrigued by the idea of the two men locked together in a physical embrace. ’Tis not a flagrant sin in every culture, as I’d read in a very old tome about the training of warriors in ancient Greece. From what I understood, the relationship between the warrior and his squire involved fornicating between men where the younger submitted, though not as an equal. Such animal energy titillated me and stimulated a different sensual desire within me, wondering as I did about how I would react when aroused by the odor of
two
different men.

I anxiously awaited the return of my samurai and, at Nami’s behest, I burned incense as native women do to ease the burden of waiting the return of a lover, all the while thinking: how different was Shintaro’s smell over that of the younger man? Heavier, muskier? A vivid curiosity consumed me for days, contemplating which scent would draw up my desire first, imagining offering them my pussy, like the pistil of a flower tempting them with my smell. I thought of this scenario often when Shintaro returned to the village, though I said nothing about what Nami had confided to me.

As the days passed, I found him watching me but saying little. You are most likely wondering if we had a sexual encounter upon his return. We did not. The news Shintaro brought back with him angered many samurai and fueled their desire to take up arms. Reports of corruption in the mikado’s government and warrior unrest in the southwest created an anxious edge and uncertainty that would later bring tragedy to the clan. But in that late summer of 1874, I found joy and sensuality in my enchanted land and you shall, too, dear lady reader. There will be plenty of time to grieve, its sorrow sacred to the heart, the farewell gesture necessary to the soul.

Curious about how Shintaro could find his own sex as intriguing as the female body, I watched him for signs when he was with Akira. The touch of an arm upon his shoulder, the private laughter they shared. I was jealous and did not hide my emotions around him. Sensing my feelings, Shintaro invited me to participate in the tea ceremony with them as a way of putting me at ease within their society, since rank and status did not exist within its framework. I found the idea fascinating, having watched them practice their battle moves with precision and dexterity. Archery and riding, wrestling and fencing.

I found the same pattern in their consumption of tea. ’Tis not the feminine ritual enjoyed by you, dear lady reader, lifting a teacup filled with sweetness from a fat sugar bowl to your lips with your gloved hand. The tea ceremony evolved in the most distinctive masculine world of samurai and imperial abbots. I was enchanted not only by the beauty of the way of tea, but also by the physical beauty of these two men engaged in an erotic sexual act that piqued my curiosity and made me yearn for their embrace. Do not be angry with me
for keeping the secret of my
two
samurai from you, for I am not guilty of duplicity in my memoir. The answer has been there all the time for you to see. I have used the term “my samurai” since in the native language the same word is used for plural as well as singular. You shall forgive me, won’t you?

And now for tea. Shintaro welcomed me to enjoy the pleasures of
two
men, both as a voyeur as they aroused each other, then the two of them satisfying my every desire. I found Shintaro dominant yet tender, Akira impetuous yet eager to please. This was but the first of many times I engaged in this provocative ménage…I shall recount here that event for
your
pleasure.

You are familiar with the taste of a man’s cock, are you not, dear lady reader? If not, I request you do so before you continue and partake of that salty smoothness that makes your tongue tingle as you take his member into your mouth. This is the first step to understanding “tea taste,” which has nothing to do with dissolving the foaming green elixir on your tongue. It involves the simplicity, muted colors and contrasts of rough and smooth. As in a man’s cock. Such was how Shintaro introduced me to the art of tea, we three wearing simple silk kimonos in mauve, peach and olive, open and revealing, my nude body smooth, my skin so luminescent it was the only accessory I needed, Akira’s hands spreading my legs, his fingers probing inside me, Shintaro’s battle-roughened hands pinching my nipples as I lay upon the futon in my quarters. We indulged in this sensual tea ceremony in the concentrated privacy afforded us by closing sliding doors, our nude bodies bathed in a pearl light filtering through the paper panes. Here one accepts nature’s flaws and in doing so finding pleasure and harmony within oneself. When you are able to accept
his lordship’s flaws as well as your own, I suggest you continue. Until then, I shall brew a cup of ginger tea, for I shall need to keep my focus clearly on the impassioned scene about to unfold.