by Jina Bacarr
“Yes. Japan must be strong both economically and militarily.” He added how he used his position at the mikado’s court to study English. “That will not happen if the gaijin colonize us and take away our freedoms, our status as samurai.”
“Not all foreigners are against you, Shintaro.” I lowered my eyes, why I didn’t know since I was determined not to act submissive around him. “I find you…very appealing.”
He laughed and tilted my face up to meet his eyes. “You are most daring in your actions, Lady Carlton, not unlike a brave samurai woman taught to display courage and fortitude should she need to defend herself.”
“I envy her,” I said with raw emotion coloring my voice, “but that freedom will be lost if your enemies move against you. You will be hunted down and killed.”
I was surprised to see his dark eyes brighten with the most curious expression. A half smile curved over his lips, then his voice hardened as he said, “The gaijin think they can defeat us by selling us old, rusting muskets and rifles from France. But they are no match for the sword of the samurai.”
“They will come, Shintaro, with many soldiers, better arms and ammunitions. You can’t stop them.”
“You are not samurai, Lady Carlton. You do not understand our ways.” He refused to listen to me, though I swore I saw a softening around his mouth, then it was gone. He became the stoic leader again. “You shall leave here in two days when the road has cleared.”
“What about my husband, James?” I pleaded. “He swore to kill me.”
“You said Lord Carlton knows nothing about me.” His eyes hardened. “Do you lie?”
“No, I speak the truth.”
“Then why do you fear your husband?”
“I cannot explain why, Shintaro. All I ask is you don’t send me back to him.”
“I believe the British to be barbarians, but they do not allow husbands to murder their women.” He paused, as if weighing his words. I took that time to admire his striking figure in a green silk kimono tied with a white sash affixed with a white collar, wanting to rip it from him as he straightened, flexing his broad shoulders and the muscles of his back. “I have given my word that you will return.”
“Your word?” I asked, surprised. “To whom?”
He grinned. “To myself. It is too dangerous for you to remain in our village.”
“Dangerous for whom, Shintaro?” I demanded to know. “After what happened between us, how can you send me away?”
“I must. It is written that when the song of the nightingale pierces the air thick with battle, a black cloud descends upon the warrior and he knows not his enemy,” he said, the deep creases of his face bronzed by the sun tightening with a controlled tension. “It is that darkness I fear.”
“Shintaro is a fool, Nami,” I said, not hiding the irritation in my voice as I watched her fold the blue silk kimono in the proper manner, a gift, she insisted. “Why doesn’t he understand he’s in danger?”
“Shintaro is samurai and sees everything in his world changing,” she said in a calm voice, wrapping the beautiful kimono and white ankle-high stockings I came to know as tabi in thick handmade paper. “You are a part of that change. He cannot accept that.”
“But he must, Nami, or your people will suffer.”
“He is first a man, Lady Carlton.”
“Please call me Katie,” I said, bowing then laying my hand upon her arm. She nodded. We both knew tomorrow I would be sent back to a life I rebelled against and to a man I hated.
“You must be more of a woman than any woman he has known if you wish to still the song of the nightingale in his heart.”
She overheard us. Instead of being angry with her, I accepted the native trait of listening through paper doors as a show of friendship.
Watching her tying the package with a red-and-white cord, a strange, desperate abandon came over me, a recklessness I couldn’t control as it became clear to me what I had to do. I told Nami to unwrap the blue silk kimono.
I said, “Tell Shintaro I request that he dine with me tonight.”
I grinned and she looked at me through her lovely dark eyes as if I were a curious honeybee about to sting, then she left with a low bow and twist of her mouth I’ve no doubt was a smile.
He became impatient with my lingering at the rice bowl, trying as I was to finish every grain, signaling to him I wished no more. Shintaro took the bowl from me with one hand and with the other he cupped my breast through the blue silk kimono, tracing perfect circles around my nipple until it hardened, then he did the same with the other, his eyes never leaving mine. I didn’t move when his hand tugged at the soft material hiding my thighs from him and he let out his breath when the touch of bare skin met his fingers. I wasn’t wearing the native undergarment, something I could tell pleased him by his grunt of approval. His hand was quick and urgent, his meaning clear when he slipped his fingers between my legs. I resisted and pulled back, though I felt dizzy with desire. No, not yet. Remembering Nami’s words, I had to make him want me more than he’d wanted any woman.
He had come to me as a man with whom I’d shared a silken futon, an erotic coupling. Poetry. I still cannot get over the wonder of him on that night, his dark eyes brooding with mystery, a wildness about him that tantalized me, a smell of manliness that inhabited the room blending with the muskiness of the night air and clearly saying that sexual pleasure was on his mind. Not the informal meal Nami had prepared of rice and mushrooms, gingko nuts, chestnuts and plump boiled shrimp swimming in a sweet sesame sauce. He ate quickly then downed sake after sake, filling my cup then his own, breaking tradition as he was wont to do when it pleased him.
I, on the other hand, wanted more than sex, desperate as I was to brand my image upon his soul. I swayed my shoulders, pushed out my breasts, licked my lips, then drizzled the rice wine down my cleavage. I was there for his pleasure, all of me offered to him, moving in a graceful dance as though I was created to be desired by him alone. He grunted, spoke little, then pushed his hand, palm down, up my thigh, taking his time, watching my face when my buttocks contracted, then grinning at me. I heard him lamenting about the hunger of a man obsessed, his thirst satiated only when he pierced the locked door…
The sensuality between us wasn’t all that we enjoyed, considering the playful delight we engaged in when in each other’s company. No guilt, no sense of taboo. We were a man and a woman, not samurai and sinner. Tomorrow he intended to send me back to my husband, but tonight he was mine to conquer for I saw myself as a woman in control of her fate. ’Tis a deep sigh I hear from you, dear lady reader, as if you are beginning to understand the magic Shintaro held for me as you yourself fall under his spell. With every move he made toward me, I became more aroused until I leaned over and kissed his lips, wanting to taste him, knowing this was not something he expected.
I have scant experience in the art of kissing, seeing how this plain Irish lass was not favored with beaux, but I never dreamed anything could be so sensually beautiful as his mouth, his soft, warm lips parting against mine without nudging from me. I could not catch my breath when his tongue nuzzled and sucked at me greedily, searching for my soul he was, his breath heavy with the scent of sake and tasting of his fervor to explore me. His warrior hands that wielded two swords, strong and experienced, moved over the blue silk wrapping my body as we kissed and I clung to him with a fierceness I hadn’t known the first time he held me. Then I was craving the newness of being close to him, teasing, pulling back before letting go. Now I hungered for him, wishing, praying, desiring him to strip me naked. I dare say Shintaro possessed that same hunger, his mouth pulling away, his breath hot in my ear when he whispered, “Why did you summon me here? Have the gods no mercy?”
“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 y
ou.”
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.
14
The 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 he
re 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.