The Blonde Samurai

by Jina Bacarr

  The game quickened, the ménage in play heated, my surrender coming in short gasps when I turned over onto my back and Shintaro curved his hands under my breasts, pushing them up slightly, grunting his approval, then anointing my nipples with plum-blossom oil in a slow, deliberate manner. Sighing at his touch, I arched my back in a long euphoric stretch, lifting my belly while Akira brushed the insides of my thighs with his fingers, the smell of scented wood from his nails a pleasant stimulant. He licked me with long, long strokes, making me shiver with pleasure before running his fingers through the bristling hairs on my pussy, pulling on them just enough to stir an ache of intense arousal in me. I knew it wouldn’t be long until I reached a point of release. Hands everywhere, tongues hot and wet, licking my nipples and my clit with a knowing touch, eager to please me. I could concentrate on nothing but the heat of their mouths pleasuring me, as if both samurai claimed me as their own. I dug my nails into the silk, the intensity of stimulation building, building, my breathing ragged in the heavy, slow-moving air until I trembled, then shuddered uncontrollably when my release came…rolling and wavelike…and seemingly never-ending.

  Wrapping me in silk, hands gentle upon my breasts, my belly, my samurai bade me rest and sip the hot tea mysteriously left for me, while their sweaty bodies seethed with the hunger for raw, sexual games. Muscles gripping, hips grinding, cocks thrusting as my samurai performed for me, their nude bodies bathed in shiny sweat, wrestling, muscles flexing, cocks erect, their deep love for each other, devotion and sincere respect reflected in their actions. How Shintaro would engage the young warrior in a contest of strength to show his love; how Akira could temper his lord’s anger by merely touching his kimono sleeve with his hand; both knowing their love was like a flower blossoming at dawn, only to be swept away by the cold wind at twilight.

  On this night I watched Akira warm a pool of oil in his hand and rub the musky scent on his lord’s hard chest, massaging its slickness into the curvature of his muscles, over his strong back down to the deep chiseled hollows on the sides of his buttocks, his massive thighs. Shintaro flexed his muscles at his expert touch, grunting when the younger samurai grabbed his cock and ran his hand up and down the length of his hard shaft, moving his body in a steady rhythm, faster, faster, Akira’s cock rising with need, his dark soulful eyes telling his lord what he desired.

  Sipping green tea, I squirmed as my pussy began twitching, so involved was I with their coupling, my other hand caressing myself as if I stroked my samurai. A stirring desire rekindled within me. I couldn’t stop watching as Akira continued kneading every inch of his lord’s body, arousing him with the heat of his hands warming his flesh, attentive to his hard abdomen, his nipples, then returning to his cock and making Shintaro buck with desire. He ordered the younger samurai to stand while he planted his cock firmly against his arse, then spread his buttocks and inserted an oiled finger inside him, stretching his hole and penetrating him, then inching inside him in slow, steady movements. He held his buttocks as he pushed forward until all of him was in the young warrior, pumping, thrusting, grinding until their ecstasy reached a rising pitch that erupted like a battle cry. I can still hear their wild shouts echoing in my head like two fierce warriors raging a tempest with such passion and savagery I couldn’t stop myself from being drawn into their flame of sensuality, their lingering touch upon my body entreating me to join them in their orgasm. I slid my hand between my thighs and inserted a finger inside me, sighing with delight at finding it slippery, the dryness gone, and began rubbing my burning clit slowly, then faster as the fire inside me intensified until a glittering trail of sensations raced through me, mirroring my lord’s wild excited thrusts.

  It was the last time, dear lady reader, any woman, Occidental or Oriental, witnessed such a sensual, erotic scene between these two samurai. I’ve attempted to re-create the vividness of that night in such a way that you will never forget it but will understand that in the pursuit of their forbidden desires, they explored their maleness and found a wholeness not known to most men.

  How fortunate we are to have shared in that desire.

  The day of farewells. The dawn is lead-gray, misty and wistful. Air is humid. This morning, as on every morning, I suckled my baby to my breast, my nipples sore, my fatigue dissipating when her now-familiar scent filled me with warmth and love and wonder. Reiko never seemed to cry, a trait among native babies, instead gurgling and cooing, happy and content. Except today. Somehow she knew this was the last time I would hold her in my arms, kiss her plump cheeks, tousle the fine hair atop her perfectly round head, rub her belly and watch her wiggle her little toes.

  My tears fall without shame, my heart breaking, remembering how Nami took Reiko from my aching arms and Shintaro helped me mount my horse. The summer rains would soon be upon us and I must return to my husband before he sent soldiers looking for me, putting them all in danger. Physically I was strong, mentally and emotionally I was determined to stay strong so my heart would not break. My samurai had made me a woman, a mother, bringing out my virtues, my faults, my strengths. Laughing, crying, touching, healing, pleasuring me everywhere with his tongue, his cock. I shall never forget him.

  We kept silent, Shintaro, Akira and I, making our way over the hill on horseback, past the ravine, the scent of pine overwhelming my senses. I took deep breaths but I couldn’t smell the orange blossoms, as if they closed their petals to show their sadness, knowing I would not return. Nothing more needed to be said…nothing could be said…it was the way of the warrior.

  I need not have fretted about James wondering what happened to me. Being the sly rogue he is, James had told the physician attending me that my child was stillborn and he had me committed to an asylum in Ōzaka for puerperal insanity (the only hospital there is an abandoned temple filled with a few patients). No doubt this is where the rumor started that I had been committed to an asylum.

  Greedy, sullen, ambitious, licentious. Nothing new about my husband, but what I did find surprising was his jubilance at seeing me. As if I were a restless ghost returned to him with a purse filled with gold.

  “We leave for London within the month,” he was quick to tell me. The physician told him I wouldn’t be ready until then to make the journey. He also told James that “sexual excesses” could have a damaging effect upon me, alleviating my fear of him forcing himself upon me, at least temporarily. No one questioned his story about me being in an asylum (the foreign residents are not as sophisticated as you, dear lady reader), and I was plied with condolence cards and visits from the dutiful wives in the settlement, drinking tea and listening to their own woeful stories of losing a child. I must admit, I found their presence comforting since I was without my samurai, a fierce rushing of blood to my lower region making me moan with desire every time I caught the scent of fragrant blossoms on a breeze or crushed the silk of my futon over my breasts at night. I craved their penetrating touch: Shintaro’s hot, heated breath on the back of my neck, Akira’s hands parting my thighs. Their warmth, their hunger for pleasure, their expression of absolute truth in each other’s embrace and in my arms. Though Shintaro had never spoken to me of love (I sensed his deep pride as a samurai prevented him from doing so), I believe I had opened his eyes to a new feeling that encompassed more than sex. And Nami, her quiet beauty so pleasant to capture in my mind, her enduring faithfulness, refinement of feeling and passionate belief in love. She understood how much I missed my baby…my throat tightening, my chest hurting every time I thought about my child…and how she wiggled her little toes when I rubbed her belly.

  One thing I cannot fail to document is James’s outrageous behavior in regards to my correspondence with Mr. Fawkes. I was tempted to write over this since I have drawn my husband’s character in such a debauched manner, but I must show him as he is. I found several letters from my dear friend ripped open, passages underlined, words crossed out by an angry hand, dark jagged stains crinkling the tissue paper, as if the reader spilled brandy while languishing over
them. I received the letter printed below two days before our scheduled departure for Yokohama. It set into motion the final act in my story. Had I not intercepted it, dear lady reader, the ending to my memoir would have been vastly different.

  My dear Lady Carlton,

  Life here in the mikado’s court has taken on new interest since the empress’s poems have been set to music. They are quite charming…on a personal note, milady, Her Majesty desires me to tell you how saddened she was to hear about the loss of your child. She wishes you well…

  Guilt washed over me for having to continue with this farce and mislead both my dear friend, Mr. Fawkes, and the empress. Knowing how much the elegant ruler wished for a child of her own, I was certain she would have been so pleased to know that a child was born from the union of her loyal subject, Lord Shintaro (in spite of his enemies at court labeling him a rebel, he had never revoked his allegiance to the mikado), and this Irish lass, who so admired the empress’s kindness and tenacity in encouraging the education of native women. I had no idea then whatever measure of happiness I would know originated from this fragile thread. Mr. Fawkes wrote further:

  I must also mention that interesting gentleman we met outside the palace gate. Word at court has it that he moved his business operations away from Kobé—

  Shintaro. I began to breathe hard, the intensity of his memory sending a very real physical reaction through me, the deep feelings I had for him and our child making me weak-kneed, unsteady. I closed my eyes, willing my mind to focus, think clearly. The Englishman was telling me my samurai’s enemies knew he had moved camp. I opened my eyes, continued reading.

  I must also advise you that political unrest in the west in what was known as——Province has made travel difficult and you should avoid taking trips to that area at all costs.

  I panicked. If Shintaro moved his camp farther west, he would be in grave danger.

  I pray this letter finds you well, Lady Carlton, and should you need my assistance upon your return to Tokio, please call on me at——.

  Your faithful servant,

  Seymour Fawkes

  I closed the letter and slipped the thin paper between my breasts, my pulse racing, my face perspiring. I had to warn my samurai, but how? The old swordsmith. He would help me, he had to, for I wouldn’t leave for Yokohama without warning Shintaro. And seeing my child. The thought of my innocent babe in danger racked my mind with insane thoughts, tore at the fiber of my soul, unmasking my layers of defenses in a cold, harsh light. How could I have left my child, my samurai? What I must do and what I desired struggled with each other, thrusting me into such turmoil I couldn’t bear to live if anything happened to them. I was so distraught, I gave no thought to the whims of the face of evil in this play when I grabbed my hat and gloves and headed for the front door, determined to walk to the shop if I must.

  “Going somewhere, my dear wife?”

  James. I hadn’t realized his lordship was home. As long as I appeared at the table for meals, he hadn’t given much thought to my comings and goings.

  “Yes…” I began, wiping my forehead with my glove and to hell with my sweat staining the fine leather. “I—I want to buy some curios and embroideries to take back with me.”

  “You can do that in Tokio,” he said in a firm voice, then added, “I don’t want you out of my sight until we leave.”

  I didn’t try to hide the anger in my words. “Then why don’t you tie me to the bed?”

  “Tempting.” He looked me up and down with a conscious pleasure. I swore I saw a glint in his eye that sent a shiver through me. “There will be time for that once we’re back in London and you’re ready to resume our little game.”

  “I agreed to be your wife, not your whore,” I retorted.

  “Is there any difference?” he said, laughing, then slapped me on the backside.

  “You are a bastard, James, aren’t you?” I yanked off my hat and gloves and raced upstairs to my room and slammed the door. I don’t know how long I stood with my back against the wooden frame, my heart racing, my mind planning, knowing I must fulfill the intangible promise I’d made to my samurai when I took up the way of the sword. I closed my eyes and drew upon that strength to clear my mind and find order and harmony to cleanse my soul. It was a delicate balance, to become so focused when facing danger so as to see with total clarity a single leaf upon a tree, but Shintaro had taught me well. To prepare myself for what was to come, I removed the items I had brought back with me from my black cloth traveling bag and held them in my hand, touching them, deriving strength from them: a poem Shintaro had written for me on crisp parchment in his strong black calligraphy; the sharp-pointed willow-leaf arrowhead Akira gave me, telling me I had pierced his heart; the blue silk kimono from Nami, the scent of my lord’s pleasure mixing with mine; the wooden charm I clutched in my hand when my baby daughter was born. And the dirk Shintaro insisted I carry with me to protect myself.

  The hours passed, waiting as I was until after James retired to his rooms, since we had taken to our original arrangement regarding separate quarters. I lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the house. The tall standing clock ticking, the wind beating on glass windowpanes, loud voices passing by outside disturbing the peace of the night. They all seemed strange to me, why? Was it because I yearned for the soft chatter of the cicada, the hoot of a tired owl, the hushed whispers carried on an ancient breeze? I dared admit, though I knew danger lurked, I found a nudge to my heart most pleasant at the thought of seeing Shintaro and my baby, holding the child in my arms, leaning my head against the strong shoulder of my samurai. I had struck a tentative peace with my husband, but I had no guarantee his lordship wouldn’t find a way to take what I loved most from me.

  When the clock struck twelve, I undressed, tossing my corset and petticoats onto the floor, then donned a riding jacket and divided skirt and sneaked downstairs, careful not to wake the maid or cook, and slipped through the side door and exited through the back of the garden. I worked my way from house to house, heading in a zigzag direction toward the Motomachi, darting behind an old camphor tree with a fat trunk near the main street, my senses alert. I kept out of sight, a vested prayer upon my lips that the gods would grant me safe passage to the shop of the old swordsmith. A moonless night afforded me no help in finding my way nor did I expect any, for no being, celestial or human, could deter me. I was filled with a supernatural fever like a she wolf on the prowl, my spirit possessed, hungry, driven, for only in the blackness of the night would I dare to find freedom.

  18

  In the summer of 1875 I ran away from my husband for a second time. I was twenty-two. I had birthed a child. I had shared my futon simultaneously with two samurai, wielded a sword with enough dexterity to split stone and embraced the way of the warrior with such fervor no saint could have carried her knightly banner into battle better than I. Why this diatribe so close to the ending of my tale, you ask? When I began writing my memoir, I admit I was filled with the need to seek revenge against what I perceived was the pettiness and jealousy a pampered aristocrat like you, dear lady reader, thrived on to feed your boredom. I wanted to shock you, titillate you, make you hungry for sex, knowing you find little satisfaction in your marriage or your dalliances. Yes, I was also petty, wishing to make you wide-eyed and jealous with stories of my samurai, playing games with you, teasing you, attaching more importance to my adventure than need be. Flaunting my rebelliousness and expecting you to understand. For that, I am truly sorry. You are a woman of your circumstance as I am of mine. ’Tis not fair of me to judge you, as I do not wish to be judged. To some, I remain an amusing piece of drawing room gossip that will soon be forgotten. But to you, the woman who has followed me on this journey of self-discovery and who believes in a deep love and in a life made richer by a child you both created, I beseech you to ride with me to the end of my story and accept whatever happens. Cry if you must, but don’t set the book aside. For all that I have written is as it happened with its Oriental mys
tery, strange beauty and raw desire. If you wish to tout it as a fairy story, so be it. If you have the courage to come with me and understand it was a far more important thing I did than merely record my story, that I made the right decision to warn Shintaro and hold my child again in my arms, then you shall have your reward. For like a faded silk embroidery that retains the scent of the Orient even when hidden between the finest French lace, my story will linger in your heart and warm your soul when you find yourself alone and without a man to hold you. I know too well the ache that eats at you, burns your skin though the nights are cold, makes you reach for something, anything that will bring forth the flow of your juices and the sweetest of scents to turn your gray and bitter world into a ripe, golden fruit to quench your thirst. Know that I have also suffered, but I pray I have cast the glow of my adventure with my samurai upon you and have given you a more enlightened view of my love for them.

  And now to my dilemma: I need your help to finish my story. Before I go forward, dear lady reader, I must be certain you have aligned yourself with me, because I face a great difficulty to relive this part of my tale. Yes, the loss I have spoken of occurs here…but I cannot continue writing until I know I have your support. I will not disappoint you, but if at any time you feel you must stop and linger a moment, please do, as will I. So with your permission, I shall deliver to you the most exciting chapter of my memoir. Though it be tragic in part, it shall also fill you with the most astounding ending you will never forget.