The Blonde Samurai

by Jina Bacarr

  I’ll never forget scurrying up the stone walkway toward the Imperial Palace with the loyal Mr. Fawkes behind me, my small red hat held in place by a luxuriously soft black satin ribbon tied in a big bow under my chin, my waist cinched, my long train picking up small pebbles in its red velvet folds, my heart racing. I shan’t make you wait any longer to meet the man who pleasured my body with such delights I quiver now at this writing, reliving that pagan flaunting of his desire for me that blew like a wild wind from the cold gray sea and into the warmth of my waiting arms.

  Shintaro.

  A man with the force of an angry god raced through the great gate leading to the pavilion on the grounds of the Imperial Palace, the lacquered scabbard of his long sword poking my bustle when his massive frame brushed by me with all the force of a tempest whirling in a riot of color. Vibrant blue, uncanny red, burnished gold. I’d never seen a man wearing such striking colors before, their intensity magnified by his tall stature and the aroused, demanding look in his dark, forbidding eyes alerting anyone who got in his way to beware, that he plied his trade as samurai somewhere between good and evil.

  “Who do you think you are?” I yelled at the man, gathering up my skirts and facing him, chin up, shoulders back with all the fire of a martyred saint in me. “Not looking where you’re going, like a chicken hawk in search of his prey.”

  He grunted loudly, his forehead beaded with sweat, his hand on his sword, but it remained sheathed, the startled look in his eyes so gripping I had no time to pull back, react. I’ve no doubt in a different time, different place, he would have drawn his sword and I’d have lost my head, since a bared blade claimed the right to draw blood. He yelled words in the native language not found in my guidebook nor did I care. I stared at him openly, my anger turning into something I dared not put into words then but I shall now. Desire, heat. A conscious burn in my pussy as I focused all my energy on him and all my senses—ears, eyes, smell, touch—became inflamed like the bold red of a setting sun as I yearned to show him an independence far beyond what the females he took to his futon exhibited. I wanted him to touch me, rip my Paris silk trappings from my body with the tip of his blade until I stood naked before him, quivering with need for him…

  Instead, this giant of a man breathed heavily, his eyes never leaving mine, holding back something I didn’t understand then, a pain he didn’t share with me.

  Mr. Fawkes did his best to temper the situation, wiping his forehead with a tissue and panting as he struggled to catch up to me, the long walk up to the gate difficult for him, bowing and calling out in the native tongue when he was but a few feet from this bellowing samurai.

  The samurai grunted again then barely nodded, his lack of a low bow no doubt indicating his superior status to me, a woman. I mimicked his gesture, making his eyes spew fire at me then turned my back on him. Not a wise move. I started through the gate, shaken by this encounter with the barbarian warrior yet also thrilled by the majesty of his manly presence. The sheer sexuality of his stance, the intensity of his stare stripped me naked. Tremors of a delicious nature I’d never experienced ran through me, imagining as I did what he would see, taste, if I bared myself to him and he dared to brush his mouth against my pussy lips, the moist pink folds pouting at the intrusion but wanting more—

  I stopped, a sharp pull making me lunge backward and nearly lose my balance. I dropped my parasol and it clattered down on the hard ground behind me. I turned to see this man I would know as Shintaro laughing, his hand firmly grabbing the end of my train. He held on to it so tight I couldn’t move. Now I was his prey firmly caught in his snare. I pulled and pulled but my train wouldn’t budge, though I could hear the silk ripping.

  “Release me at once,” I yelled, hands on my hips, then I yelled an Irish expletive that made Mr. Fawkes sputter something in Japanese before I could continue my tirade, fanning himself with his hat and praying under his breath. The samurai laughed, grinning as if he enjoyed watching me helpless, in his power. I couldn’t allow him to get away with his game, though I couldn’t deny a humming in me that made me feel connected to him in a strange way in spite of him making a fool out of me.

  Using all my strength, I pulled harder to show him I wouldn’t give in to him, but it was he who let go, as if giving me permission to proceed on my mission. Picking up my parasol, I raced through the black wooden gate with Mr. Fawkes close behind, the sound of the samurai’s raucous laughter following me, taunting me. How dare he.

  It was in that moment war was declared between us.

  “Who was that man?” I begged Mr. Fawkes to tell me as we hurried through the royal gardens to the tiny summerhouse, past towering bamboo groves, my eye catching glimpses of pine, rhododendrons and azaleas alongside rippling brooks and grassy mounds.

  “Most likely an unhappy samurai from the old provinces, your ladyship,” he said, perspiring and wiping his brow, “since many of them who defeated the shogun’s forces came to Tokio to take part in the new government.”

  “He doesn’t act like a government official.” I’d kept my curiosity at bay as we waited for over an hour in the audience chamber to see the empress, sipping tea, then we were instructed she awaited us in the gardens.

  Mr. Fawkes smiled, then said, “These fellows are warriors, Lady Carlton, and used to getting their own way.”

  “Someone should teach him how to act in front of a lady,” was all I said, making an attempt to reel in my temper in front of Mr. Fawkes.

  “A noble samurai leader is not to be trifled with,” he answered brusquely. “I fear trouble is brewing within the mikado’s government and the warrior clans will suffer.”

  Again I detected a note of sadness as well as respect in his voice, intriguing me. I asked, “Aren’t they the aristocratic class?”

  “Not anymore. Their yearly stipends have been cut and they’ve lost their privileged status. Many are leaving Tokio and returning home, what with the Frenchies setting up an army of conscripts comprising peasants and reducing the samurai to foot soldiers.”

  I frowned. A sudden moodiness entered my heart, knowing I may never see the samurai again. He’d struck a nerve in me as well as a physical response, what some may crudely refer to as a poke in the cunt hole (admit it, dear lady reader, you’d like to acknowledge you felt the same, wouldn’t you?), but I attempted to put him out of my mind for the rest of the afternoon. After all, I was about to be presented to the empress of Japan and ’tis quite a story I have to tell you, flattered I was to be among the first of the wives from the British Legation to meet Her Majesty. I imagine that no matter how much your clit throbs with excitement now that you’ve met Shintaro, you are breathless, waiting to hear about my encounter with this fascinating female ruler, not more than two years older than I. A woman seen by a scant few of her people and so cloistered was her life, she traveled behind gauze-screened windows in a lacquered palanquin.

  I, on the other hand, seemed to have walked onto the stage of a new era when all that was about to change. Behind the tall, towering bamboo groves I entered another world as if the players in the scene about to unfold awakened from a slumber of hundreds of years. I shall not disappoint you, dear lady reader, so I suggest you brew a cup of tea spiced with orange peel and ginger to put you in an Oriental mood and join me as I introduce you to Haruko, the empress of Japan.

  The entire conversation between us was conducted in both English and Japanese with the formidable Mr. Fawkes translating our comments (the empress had requested this informality as opposed to having a court minister officiate) as quickly as we could utter the words in our native tongues. Instead of receiving me in the audience hall as her husband preferred, the empress and I walked through the gardens, the smell of pine giving off a fresh scent and the buzzing of insects a delightful background to our ears. We discussed the coming spring and the prescient opening of the cherry blossoms, descriptions of which you have no doubt heard in London drawing rooms and are well-known to you, so I shall not ply you with more.r />
  We spoke about the recent earthquake, the building of the railway, how much she enjoyed the taste of beef for the first time (the mikado himself had deemed it introduced at court), then she remarked on my costume. I explained to the empress how quickly fashion changed in London, indicating my bustle with a gesture of my hand since Mr. Fawkes had warned me not to turn my back and to bow lower if she bowed. A slight breeze nuzzled my behind as I swayed back and forth and showed the empress how I learned to walk at Miss Brown’s School for Young Ladies, making her laugh and clap her hands. I deigned to keep the conversation light and not lapse into the Irish trait of turning every comment into a story, especially since Mr. Fawkes bade me not to ask about family life since the empress had no children of her own, a subject I was happy not to pursue, considering my own longing to have a child. Fortunately, Her Majesty’s fascination with western fashion encompassed much of our discussion. She was openly intrigued by my numerous petticoats and long train. Swishing my train around, I must confess, dear lady reader, I fought to keep a burning in my pussy from sparking at the thought of the handsome samurai who had dared to grab my dress. I sensed a bond between us, as if we both embraced the power of the moment and wondered where it would have led had destiny placed us in different surroundings.

  Then the talk took a different turn. A most interesting one. To facilitate your enjoyment, I shall recall the scene entirely in English.

  With a few keen Irish observations to liven the discussion.

  “Does Your Majesty enjoy reading books?” I dared to ask, wondering what kind of literature was available to this charming young woman wearing ceremonial dress, diminutive and as delicate as an antique piece of lace spun with silk, her charm and intelligence woven together in a pleasing pattern.

  “I have read the translation of several Dutch books from long ago,” she answered easily, “as well as books by Englishmen on self-reliance and the rights of citizens.” She explained that since the change of government everyone was free to read what they pleased, including the entertaining exploits of Ihara Saikaku.

  “What stories has he written?” I asked, interested. I was in for a surprise, one with a briny taste that primed my sensual needs.

  “Saikaku writes about merchants and their exploits with women,” said the empress. I noted her proud, royal head never moved as she spoke. Such discipline impressed me. “Whether they be concubines in cages, courtesans or geisha.”

  “I have read about the geisha and find their lifestyle most alluring,” I stated with surety, thinking about Lord Penmore’s letters. Mr. Fawkes never lost his place as he translated my comment, but he looked at me as if I were a ball of yarn unwinding. I smiled at him and continued, “I await the time native scholars translate Saikaku’s works into my language so I can learn more about geisha.”

  And the sexual mores of this land, I finished silently, my need to know influenced by the dark sin of my indiscretion with the handsome, brooding samurai, speaking to him as I did as an equal and not acting as a woman of my station would, swooning and having a case of the vapors.

  “I shall have the famed novelist’s works translated for you, Lady Carlton, as well as the stories about double-petaled blossoms,” she said without fluttering an eyelash in her lucent white face, never giving away her emotions.

  “I would enjoy that, Your Majesty,” I answered, then without a hint of embarrassment I asked Mr. Fawkes to explain “double-petaled.” My dear friend paused, then entreated me to use my imagination and regard the phrase not as an English mannerism, but strictly Oriental, since it involved the domestic situation of one’s wife and one’s mistress living under the same roof.

  I looked at the young women standing patiently around the gardens, their pale faces placid and serene. Something in their purported elegance suggested these were not ordinary ladies-in-waiting. A gesture, a tilt of the head, a sneer. Instinct told me these were not virgins blessed with the purity of holy water, their presence subtle yet intriguing me. In this beautiful floating world, the mikado kept numerous concubines within the palace walls with the dubious title of ladies-in-waiting for his pleasure, not unlike my dear husband in his London domicile with his saucy maids with the red-streaked bottoms.

  The empress bowed slightly, I bowed lower. When I glanced up, a knowing look passed between us. I understood the meaning of her words so evident in her upturned eyes, a letting down of her royal veil that surprised me. We share a common bond, my smile said, one I discovered that would prove itself valuable in the days to come…

  All in all, I had quite an amazing day. A lovely afternoon with the empress of Japan discussing bustles and risqué literature, and a thrilling encounter with the most exciting man I’d ever seen.

  And where was my husband, James, while all this was happening to me? As my dear da would say, dear lady reader, I didn’t give a damn.

  10

  Nearly halfway through my story and I’ve been thinking about how I can achieve the mastery of writing a memoir. What to include, what to leave out as I attempt to create in your mind a vivid impression of what I experienced living in Tokio. Not merely as a globe-trotter, but as a western woman adapting to the native lifestyle, thinking as they do, acting as they do. I want to move events along in a fashion neither too fast nor too slow so you can understand and accept the passage of time without lulling you into boredom. (Similar to playing a game of whist at Lady——’s on Tuesday afternoons or, dare I say, in your own bedroom.) Or pulling you along from one erotic scene to another at such an alarming speed you feel like you’re unraveling, your tight lacing coming undone. Fear not, dear lady reader, ’tis I who am exposing myself in this memoir, creating an inner crisis within me, wondering how my work is going to be accepted. Will it be ridiculed, rejected, loved, or worst of all, ignored? ’Tis the risk I take for wishing to share my adventure with you, or if I may be honest, it is my underlying hope you will put aside your Occidental prejudices and see my life with Shintaro not as an inherently amoral, decadent affair, but for the beauteous thing it was. My intent in this tome is to allow you to travel across the seas with me to Japan and take you away from the foul smells of London, the saffron-colored fog that masks discretions and mayhem, the hurtful whispers behind fluttering fans. I believe ’tis my function as a memoirist to draw you into my grand world of samurai and rebellion and allow you to feel the riveting pulse of hard-core emotions as I have lived them.

  If only you could bathe nude as I did in cold streams, scatter flowers in rich green fields, then lie on a silk futon covered with autumnal crimson leaves at the peak of their glory with my samurai, his hard cock inside you, thrusting, thrusting until you could stand no more. All the while pursuing these pleasures without the clouds of doubt following you, naught but a heady incense to guide you, and you would see him and his world as I do.

  But I believe you’re not ready yet for such pleasures. You, who look upon sex with your aristocratic nose up in the air, have become an instrument of prudery (I’ve no doubt you take to your bed during your “poorly time,” using the queen’s favorite term for menses to give it the sound of a royal decree), further adding to the illusion that we women are invalids and not sexual creatures. No, we shall continue our journey as I have, taking steps to slowly dissolve your resistance against accepting me and my samurai.

  I imagine you have asked yourself what I expect to gain from writing this memoir. Be assured, I am not writing my story to fill my coffers (I do hope it will provide a sizable sum for my solicitor, Mr. Brown, who has well earned his fee), for I have made my decision to return to Japan and finish my life in the samurai village. Money is not important there. Family, pride, loyalty, discipline are. Living such a life demands much of me, but there I feel inspired, moved to see the beauty of nature, bend with the strength of the north wind, renew my soul with the rain.

  Fear not, I have promised you an erotic tome and I shall not fail to deliver. Before we enter the scandalous floating world with its impermanence and promise
of “spring for sale” whatever the season, I shall continue my recollections of daily life in Tokio, blending events together to keep you interested and omitting certain things you may find mundane. I assure you, I shall not omit anything sexual in nature. On the contrary, I find the more I write about my samurai and our amorous adventure, the easier ’tis for me to express my sensual self, let go of my shyness, prejudices, inhibitions and fears. I pray I engage your senses with my storytelling, dear lady reader, but I don’t look to you for compliments, for I have learned from my samurai that the greatest compliment is given by the eyes. They tell so much more than words. Subtle, poetic, suggestive. If only Shintaro were here as I write to lay his hand upon my bare breast, twist my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then gently suck on it.

  If only…

  I disliked Tokio. After spending pleasant days on the Bluff in Yokohama taking long walks among the pretty English gardens, the peace and solitude creating a special place in my soul and, when the wind was stilled, I missed the smell of roasting tea in the air. The urban smells and sights of Tokio were so varied, the old with the new, and fused together so tightly they hung over the city like a bland landscape without shape or color. It would take me many months to unravel it and allow the nuances of what I was seeing to take on the shape and form of that which was so uniquely Japanese. The arranging of flowers, house and garden design, the taking of tea (later in my story, I shall invite you to a most sensual and erotic tea ceremony in the samurai village with my samurai—don’t peek or you’ll spoil the surprise).

  I would like to show you why my perception of Tokio changed, what delights I found, so I invite you to take a walk with me. We’ll start at Asakusa Temple to see the gardens filled with goldfish and silverfish. And the old woman selling beans and toys and paper flowers. Hungry? Try a corncob cooked in steam from a sweet-corn merchant, then we’ll finish with a glass of shaved ice sprinkled with sugar as we make our way through the narrow streets to the neighborhood where I live. Through the tall wooden gate, we enter my house with a heavily tiled roof and built around a small courtyard and filled with odd passages and doors that might and do lead anywhere. (Did you notice the man following us? A westerner, short, ill-fitting dark clothes, face covered by a low-brim hat. I’m certain my husband has me followed everywhere since the incident with Mr. Mallory at the silk shop, though James is rarely at home, spending his time with Lord Penmore, where I never ask.)