“You look stressed,” she said in her near-perfect English. “You were working tonight, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“The karaoke club? It’s on the news.”
Manning hesitated. “Yes.”
Ryoko nodded after a moment and looked out the windshield. Her profile was visible in the soft green light coming from the Friendee’s dash.
“I’ll make you whole again,” she said.
###
Their relationship was both simple and complex. Simple in that Ryoko was a girl Manning had met in Shibuya almost two years ago while shopping for a new laptop. She had been working in the store in which he was shopping, and her excellent English trumped his then-faltering Japanese, and a sale was made. While no stranger to Japan even then, Manning had very few personal contacts; he had managed to capture her interest, even though she was a kogaryu, or kogal, that particular subculture in Japan consisting of young women who are predisposed to incessant consumerism. Manning nevertheless found her to be fetching enough to ask her to join him for a cup of coffee. So they met the next day at the famed Hachiko statue in Shibuya, and had a coffee at the Starbucks near the Shibuya train station. They discussed the various facets of American and Japanese lifestyles while watching the sukuranburu kMsaten, or “pedestrian scramble” play out across the intersection below, long regarded as the world’s busiest. Counter to kogal stereotype, Manning found that Ryoko was well-educated and quite intelligent, and had no problems working for her money. But she sensed the loneliness in Manning; while she wasn’t averse to working, nor was she averse to accepting handouts. Manning obliged, and he found he had inadvertently stepped into a grown-up version of enjo kMsai, the only exception being that Ryoko was already 22 years old. He made it plain to her that he would consider the arrangement on a trial basis, and provided her with a little over $1,000 in spending money.
It was, after all, one way to get laid in Japan. And in a nation where a small cup of coffee cost ten dollars, no method for generating revenue was unthinkable.
But as there was more to his story, there was more to hers as well, which made it all very complex. Not long before meeting Manning, she had been “scouted” by a “movie producer” who was interested in Ryoko’s natural good looks...and trim, breasty body, of which she was rightfully proud. The “movie producer” was of course a pornographer who promised her fame and riches. At the time, Ryoko was intensely interested in both, especially since most of her friends were content to spend their time shopping while sponging off their parents. Ryoko’s family had raised her with an understanding of personal accountability, and while they would most certainly have disagreed with her potential career choice, they would have no problems with her making her own money.
Ryoko took the job, and was reborn in Japan’s adult video industry as Sugimoto Ai. She had finished her first production the day before meeting Manning, and while aspects of it disgusted her, there was a part of the process which interested her deeply—namely, the production and distribution of filmed entertainment. And the ¥550,000 she made for seven hours work was something she deemed worthwhile, as well.
She kept this secret from Manning for two weeks, though as a healthy gaijin with a stronger-than-average sex drive and a genuine curiosity about all things Japanese, it would be only a matter of time until he found out. Thinking he was truly the consultant he claimed to be, Ryoko agonized over how to break the news to him. When she finally did tell him, he laughed after a moment.
“Believe me, you could be doing a lot worse,” he had told her. Ryoko was happy to discover how open-minded he was. And was even more thrilled when he continued the financial end of their arrangement; apparently, he was happy with her as well.
But she had known there was more to him than he was admitting to her. Patience was one of her better virtues, so she merely waited. And continued to work. And continued to see him.
He finally confessed his other life to her when he returned from a week at his home in San Francisco. But it actually hadn’t been San Francisco at all; it had been first Taiwan, and then Xiamen, across the strait in China. He had been given a contract by his employers, and that meant four men died. They were criminals one and all, foul, dirty men who robbed and cheated and lied and had done killing of their own. It was then that he told her he was a repairman, someone who “fixed” problems for which there was no legal recourse. And his method of fixing required that blood be spilled.
This revelation had, of course, terrified her. She fled, and did not speak to him again for six months.
Over the course of this time, however, two things became very apparent to her. As a girl with no real job skills and currently employed in an industry where she was the merchandise, there was very little chance of her altering the current status quo. As long as she kept her looks and her body and showed up for work, she would be paid well—the DVDs she starred in and the picture books she posed for were becoming famous in Japan and even abroad, and she had something of a growing fan base. She toured various nightclubs in Japan and other parts of Asia, and had even been to the UK and Los Angeles and Rome once for a photo shoot. But her attempts to get into more legitimate productions and artistic endeavors continued to fail; she was known as an AV actress, and was considered dirty in Japanese society. The fact of the matter was, she was a lousy performer when it came to acting with her clothes on. That coupled with the expected stigmas rampant in Japanese society meant that more doors would forever remain closed to her than those that would be open, and those open doors merely led to more opportunities to “merchandise” herself.
The worst part was, of course, when her family found out. She was shamed when her father, of all people, brought a contingent of overseas foreign executives working for Matsushita to one of the clubs where she was performing. While he said nothing to her about that night, she could only imagine the blackness that settled around his heart when he watched his daughter perform and expose herself for men. It had hurt her terribly, as she knew it had hurt him. When she was a child, her father had doted on her, but at the same time had done everything he could to raise her up to be a respectable woman, a woman of means. His expectations for her were dated and unexciting, but they were the things most fathers wished for their daughters, and on that night, he knew that they would never be hers.
The despondence he felt only exacerbated the problems between him and Ryoko’s mother, problems they had taken great pains to hide from her. They were beginning the formal process of divorce, and in the end, it proved to be too much for Ryoko’s father. Apparently unable to bear the weight of these things, he committed suicide by walking out in front of a bus. He was killed instantly, his body dragged for dozens of yards before the horrified bus driver could stop.
For Ryoko, those were the blackest of days. She discovered she had endless tolerance for abuse, and could absorb the ravages of alcohol, of drugs, of rough-handed men who only wanted to use her, from low-level Yakuza henchmen to the captains of Japanese industry for whom she prostituted herself at the rate of ¥1,000,000 per night. She descended into a spiritual darkness she had never before known, never taking pleasure from the couplings, never able to maintain any kind of relationship, not able to buy enough things with all her money to fulfill her. But her fate was firmly established; no matter how bleak things got, no matter how utterly decimated she was on the inside, she was unable to summon the courage her father had. Where he had the steel in him to know what to do when life’s punishments far exceeded its rewards, she lacked that strength. So while she was sexing and drinking and drugging, she was also slowly going insane. Trapped in a life where there was no way out.
Until the day she called Manning. She was intending to hire him—after all, he was a killer, right?—her only sole desire at that point was to beg him to make the pain stop. To end her miserable existence, and take from her the shame that always threatened to drown her, but never quite did.
“I need to talk with you,” she had said wh
en she called him. Hot tears burned down her lovely face, leaving trails of fire, her misery a black hole that threatened to consume every last bit of sanity, leaving behind only a mindless animal cowering in a beautiful package.
“Please let me come see you,” she had begged.
And of course, he did.
At first, she found him to be cruel, refusing to honor her pleas, even though she had promised him every penny of her $250,000 net worth. He instead gave her $1,000, then took her north, to the island of Hokkaido, where he rented a house in the colorful, rustic wilderness outside of Sapporo. He denied her drugs, denied her alcohol, but provided her with companionship, understanding, and kinship. He never touched her sexually, never abused her, but forced her to confront her shame, as he had done so many years ago. She found strength in discovering his own pain, the pain borne from lost love and betrayals and fallen comrades on distant battlefields when he still considered himself a man of honor.
She was not alone, and that gave her the boost she needed. While she didn’t hold any allusions that she and Manning were kindred spirits, as she groped her way back to reality she could understand they were more alike than not. He could never heal her, nor did he promise to do so; but he did make life bearable for her again, made her strong enough that she could awaken and face each new day without feeling the need to start it off with a scream...or a shot of whiskey or the pinch of the hypodermic.
There were only two spots of trouble. One was when her employers found out where she was and sent a legal representative to order Ryoko to return to work, as she was still under contract. Manning rebuffed him, and the next day two yakuza showed up. Manning almost killed one but left the other functioning well enough to take his wounded compatriot to a doctor who would treat their kind without asking too many questions...or notifying the police. After that, other men with faces as hard as the yakuza’s would come, but they spoke mostly Chinese and referred to him in only the most respectful of ways. Ryoko came to know that the Chinese addressed him with a special name: Bái Hu, the White Tiger.
The second spot of trouble were the phone calls, those terse conversations he tried to keep hidden from her, when he spoke mostly Chinese. It was during these calls that his black times would return, and while he did all he could to shield her from them, she perceived them as easily if they were bright sunlight shining against her closed eyelids. They were there, they would never go away, and they would both have to face them. For without him, she could likely not go on.
And that was how the hit man and the porn star developed their relationship.
After three months, Ryoko was well enough to return to her work. And Manning’s employers were anxious that he return as well. But no matter how far away from each other they were, they had forged a bond between them; they were forever connected by a silver thread of pain.
###
Manning’s apartment was the same as he had left it. He had forgotten to run the dishwasher after dinner, but that was the only thing he could hold against himself insofar as his home went. He shrugged out of his jacket, not having to worry about the pistol as he had already disposed of it. She walked into the living room and slid onto the couch, waiting for him. Manning hung up his jacket in the hall closet and removed his shoes, then padded after her.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Thirsty?”
She smiled up at him, and behind the beauty of the action, he saw the sadness she still carried with her. He touched her face, his fingertips tracing the outline of one alabaster cheek. She reached up and took his hand in her own. Brushed her lips across his fingers, something she always did that both thrilled him and made him uncomfortable. Manning knew he was the truly filthy one—compared to him she was practically an angel. And her work gave joy to her audience; Manning’s audience knew only fear and regret.
“Will you stay here tonight?” he asked.
“Please,” she replied quickly, then added: “If you wish it.”
“I wish it.”
She smiled and drew him toward her, her mouth opening beneath his like a butterfly spreading its wings. His hands stroked her face, hands that dealt the harshest of punishments to all but her, hands whose very touch thrilled and warmed her in a way she had never felt with any other. He was foot taller than she was, and weighed more than twice as much; she had no hope of defending herself if he wished her harm, but the connection between them was too strong for that. A connection that could never be rightfully defined as love, but one that served the same purpose.
She serviced him artfully, willingly, taking her time and using every ounce of skill she had. He deserved no less, for he treated her with respect and kindness, and she was duty-bound to return it in full. She removed his clothes and stroked the expanse of his body, her fingers roaming over corded muscle and the occasional rippling of scar tissue. He was in excellent physical condition, with a lean, taut body that possessed a natural physique honed by years of martial arts and a proper exercise regimen; she marveled inwardly at his condition, for it should have belonged to a man more than ten years his junior. She felt the tension slowly ebb from his muscles as he reacted to her soothing touch, and she was gratified by that.
He was much better endowed than most of the men she worked with, and she viewed the size of his penis with both awe and anticipation. It surged beneath her hand when she touched it, and she gently stroked its hard length as her own body reacted to the sight and feel of it. Slowly, she ran her hand up and down its span, feeling the shape of its contours, the throbbing veins beneath the soft flesh covering what felt like polished glass. It was perfectly shaped, circumcised, something she rarely saw in the course of her work but something she appreciated from an aesthetic point of view. She knew many, many of the finely-coiffed and manicured beauties which populated Roppongi and Shibuya and Ginza would find equal joy in touching such a member, but she knew that she alone was able to feel the thrill of it. His testes had drawn tight against his body.
Ryoko lowered her head and kissed the head gently, and the sensation her lips evoked made him gasp and shudder. She was finely attuned to his rhythms, and she fully understood that he needed release as quickly as she could grant it. His needs weren’t created from selfishness, but from actual necessity, as his life and work were replete with stresses that could not only physically cripple a man, but leave him psychologically devastated as well. To this end, she served as a therapist of sorts; she tended to the needs and desires of his body, placating them so that his mind and heart could work together to overcome the deeper strains she could not reach. Over the course of the past year, Ryoko had come to understand this duty, and had eagerly accepted it, for he also fed her body and spirit and mind with what she required. It was true two-way street.
As she kissed his member again, and allowed her tongue to slowly stroke the head, he moaned and reached for her, but she gently pushed his hands away. As she did so, she began to work on him more earnestly, taking him in her mouth more fully. Her line of work had allowed her to refine her skills, and she fellated him not just expertly, but artfully. As always, she granted him access to her skills not because she was required to, but because she hungered for it as much, if not more, than he did.
“Ryoko,” he moaned, his hips thrusting upward of their own accord. She accepted him as deeply as she could, his size filling her completely as her lips and tongue and teeth and hand worked on him, pistoning up and down his length with as much speed and finesse as she could muster. Already, she tasted the precursor emanating from him. He was on the verge of release, his breath quickening, his moans growing louder, his head thrown back against the softness of the leather couch. Ryoko redoubled her efforts, hungry for him now, moaning in her throat. The core of her own sex was flaming like a small star.
“Ryoko!” Manning gasped, and he shuddered as his orgasm crested like a wave rising over a rocky beach. He grunted as he shot and shot and shot, and she moaned as his essence filled her mouth, greedily drinking it down, something she d
id for no other man. Manning continued to tremble even after the tide of pleasure began to recede; Ryoko slowed her actions, become less direct, more gentle, realizing that his nerve endings were now hyper-aware, overly responsive to even the simplest stimulation. She kissed the head of his penis lovingly; the fury of his erection was merely blunted, not defeated.
For a few minutes, he was content to lie on the couch. Then he reacted then with quick urgency. He swept Ryoko up in his arms and lowered her to the couch as he hovered above her. His fingers roamed over her clothing, unbuckling, unfastening, unbuttoning; within moments, she was completely naked, and he luxuriated in the sight of her: dark brown hair, skin the color of alabaster, firm and completely natural breasts, a narrow waist which served as the gateway to the gentle fluting of her hips and her slender legs. At their apex was the patch of crisp pubic hair, as dark as night, neatly-trimmed in contravention of her industry, in which most men preferred it to be wild and untamed. She did this for him, because it inflamed his desire even more. Ryoko parted her willowy thighs, and he could glimpse the sheen of moisture on her lips reflecting the wan light. Manning looked into her lovely eyes, and found them heavy-lidded in lust, her sensuous lips slightly parted, her white teeth gleaming. Manning lowered himself toward her, kissing her face, her lips, and her neck gently, lovingly now that the tide of his passion had been momentarily deflected. He kneaded her breasts for a time before favoring each peach-colored nipple with attention, making them rise and stand erect like small cherries. Ryoko quivered beneath him, writhing slightly, her small hands wrapped around the back of his head, allowing the pleasure to wash over her like a warm spring’s rain, surrendering to it. He displayed artistry of his own, fueling the raging fires that burned so insistently between her legs. As he trailed kisses down her flat, taut belly, she arched her hips toward him; he responded as she wished, the silky heat of her sex beckoning to him like a siren’s call to a sailor in the midst of a dark, foggy night at sea.
White Tiger Page 7