by Livia Ellis
I will return to my room immediately.
I continue walking. He’s on my heels. I reach the door to the Samurai’s sanctuary. The door is locked. This is a real lock.
I pound on the door.
The Servant insists I return to my room. Security has been called.
Fine. Tell him to call for a car for me too. Olga and I are leaving.
But…
The door to the Samurai’s rooms opens. She stands there in a pale blue silk kimono. Why am I being so disruptive?
I need a telephone.
Why? Who do I want to call? I have internet. That’s enough.
I need a telephone. Not questions. Certainly not to be locked in my room a moment longer.
Very well. She steps aside and lets me enter. I’m ushered to the divan and handed a telephone. I call Mrs. Gresham. It’s the only number I know by heart.
Everything is fine. At least it seems to be fine. It was just a scare. Martina is still in the hospital, but she should be home in a couple of days. Where am I that they can’t reach me when they need me? She doesn’t want to come down on me, but I really need to be available. What if this hadn’t been a scare? What if something had happened and they couldn’t get ahold of me? I need to call Uncle Harvey and Aunt Lucy. Do I have their numbers?
Not on me. I’m given the numbers which I write on a paper the Samurai hands me.
I end the call and go to make another.
The Samurai reaches for the phone. Why do I need to make more than one call? Haven’t I already determined that all is well?
Yes. That doesn’t mean I don’t need to call the rest of my family. They’re concerned about the fact they can’t reach me. I need to tell them that I’m fine.
Why?
Because they’re worried about me.
Why? Am I not a grown man capable of managing my own life? Do I need four different people to chase me down to give me a message?
I don’t need four people to chase me down.
Honestly. She’s not trying to be difficult or intrusive, but why doesn’t this seem a bit excessive to me? It certainly seems excessive to her. Can’t this woman I just spoke with tell them that I am well and they shouldn’t worry so much? Honestly, it sounds more like they’re trying to manipulate me than genuine concern for my wellbeing? Truthfully – why do four different people need to send me the same email message? Do they not speak to one another?
They do.
Wouldn’t one have been enough?
Yes. One would have been enough. How does she know four people sent me pretty much the same email message?
I mentioned something to woman I spoke with.
Did I?
Obviously. How else would she know I received four emails? As for busting down the door… that what wholly unnecessary. The alarmist nature of the emails clearly affected me negatively. I probably should have more distinct boundaries up when it comes to these things. In fact, why am I not in direct contact with my mother’s doctors? Wouldn’t it make more sense to have them contact me directly when there is a problem rather than four family members that have little information of real value? What exactly did the woman I spoke with tell me other than it was just a scare?
Nothing I suppose.
What message will calling everyone on the list send other than I am willing to participate in that sort of nonsense? If I want her advice, I should send one email to all of them telling them that in the future only one person needs to contact me and that person preferably should be a doctor. Otherwise, let’s be honest, I am being paid to do a job that doesn’t involve busting down doors and wreaking havoc on her otherwise tranquil island of peace.
I suppose she has a point.
Good. She takes the phone from me and sets it to the side. Besides, it’s the middle of the night in England. Unless I only want to contribute to the drama, she suggests I leave it until I’ve had time to think about it.
I didn’t realize what time it was back home. Now I do.
Since I’m there with her, she wants to know what my decision is. Will I give her what she wants?
Yes. I will. I’ll give her what she wants. I knew I was going to all along.
Stay with her for a while? Just a couple of nights. Surely Olga can live without me for just a bit. I know how envious she is of Olga. If we’re going to have sex, she wants me to herself. It’s quiet, peaceful, no incessant chatter, she has books worth reading, and we can go out in the garden together.
I’ll stay with her. But she needs to let Olga out of the room.
Fine. She’ll arrange to have the Servant take Olga on excursions around Kyoto.
Perfect.
She takes my hand. Where do we start?
A bath is always good.
We bathe then I bring her to bed. I probably use far more lube than I need to. I just don’t want to hurt her. She tells me that her gynecologist has already broken her hymen. That needed to be done. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to have sex.
Nails dig into me as I push into her. I’m in the weeds. Do I go fast like ripping off a bandage, or do I go slow?
It’s not as bad as I imagine. There is pain and blood, but nothing that isn’t manageable. I try my hardest to be the sort of decent sensitive man women dream of having their first sexual experience with. I’m old enough to know better than a fumbling teenage boy what to do.
I hold her when we are done. We sleep. We have meals. I don’t ask about Olga. But she does tell me that Olga is being taken out to see the sites. She is being entertained.
I can live with this.
The sex improves. She’s adventurous and wants to know the limits of what our bodies can do.
The guests have all gone. Do I want to go to the pagoda? It’s a beautiful day.
It’s the middle of the night.
What am I thinking? It’s the afternoon.
We go to the pagoda. It is a beautiful afternoon. As evening falls she asks me if I want to do something fun. A portable karaoke machine is brought along with an unending supply of sake. Finally, this job is starting to match my expectations.
CHAPTER THIRTY
It's Just Lunch
Elon presses hard kisses to my mouth as he fumbles with my belt and zipper. My fiancée, much in the way my grandmother decided years earlier to do, has made a concerted effort to ignore the subtle clues which indicate Elon and I might be more than just friends on occasion. Granted there are many things we haven’t done, I still have never brought myself to suck him off, but we’ve fucked. Multiple times. I do like the feel of being penetrated and Elon is generally happy to oblige when I need a bit of the rough. He also takes every opportunity I offer to blow me.
At this moment, after my delightfully fulfilling confrontation with my father, I want to push my endorphin level up just a notch more.
Elon drops to his knees and takes me in his mouth. I lean back against the sink and just let him do what he does so well. He’s improved markedly from that first suck on my bed so many years earlier. That said, I can control myself a bit better and have learned to savor the experience. I’ve also come to appreciate the power of a man’s jaw muscles.
I ejaculate into his mouth as my hands grasp the edge of the sink. I needed that. I really needed that.
Elon rises to his feet and nudges me to the side. He rinses his mouth then spits.
What the fuck was I talking about with my father? He nearly came over, but he figured that it was just best to stay out of it.
He thinks we’re lovers.
We are.
He thinks I’m living a lie and that I should be honest.
I am living a fucking lie. We do belong together. This is my problem. Not his. Certainly not my father’s. When I figure it out, he’ll be waiting for me. Until then, he’s always around when I need him.
He kisses me. He loves me. I am to never forget that. No matter what he’s there for me.
I leave the bathroom first. My heart is dancing.
My f
iancée joins me. Her hand in mine. I can feel the stone of Lady Charlotte’s diamond press between my fingers. The engagement ring is one of the things I know sets my mother’s teeth on edge. She’s always wanted it. But my grandparents refused to let her have it. I suspect she has been waiting patiently for their deaths to get her hands on it. Now that will never happen.
What’s going on? Why were my father and I looking like we might stick knives in each other? This is supposed to be a party.
My father wants to have lunch with me. Regularly.
She knows.
He spoke to her?
She had a conversation with both of them earlier in the evening. Before the party started.
She did?
Yes.
What did they talk about?
She just made some things clear to them. Guaranteed we were all on the same page.
One of those conversations. How did they react?
My father was charming and facilitating. My mother was chewing the carpet.
I’m not surprised. I know my fiancée. She is nothing if not direct when to comes to everyone in the world. Except for me and my grandparents. She could be more enchanting with my grandparents. There is no love lost between her and my mother. Oddly enough (or perhaps predictably) my mother and my fiancée’s father get on like a house on fire. They both have working class backgrounds and feel at sea when running in my family’s crowd.
My mother is none too fond of her at the moment. Not that Martina changed her dress despite her very polite yet firm request.
My fiancée manages every situation and rarely leaves anything to chance. This is what she does. She takes control and leaves no room for anyone to question her decisions. I can only imagine what she said to my parents.
This is neither the time nor the place for this sort of conversation. We will discuss it later in private. She does not know what has been said, but whatever it was she is absolutely certain it was neither appropriate nor called for. She is very aware of the dynamic between the three of us and it ends right there. She had hoped our upcoming wedding would offer an opportunity if nothing else for the four of us to find common ground. But sometimes there is no common ground and we must simply accept the fact ties must be severed and relationships come to an end. But this is not the place to have these conversations or make those decision.
She’s absolutely right.
Of course she is. Now that’s settled, the guests have monopolized her handsome groom for far too long. We haven’t even danced one dance yet.
She takes me to the floor. I hold her tight, the smell of rose perfume and coconut shampoo in my nostrils. I love her. I don’t often say it, and sometimes it may not seem like it, but I do love her. Does she know this?
She does. She wants me to do something for her.
Anything.
Go to lunch with my father. She truly believes he sincerely wants a relationship with me. And after all, it’s just lunch.
Will this make her happy?
Yes. More than that. With any luck she’ll be on her way to becoming a mother within a year. She won’t have any animosity between me and my parents if her child is going to spend any time with them. It would be sad for her child to only know her father as a grandfather, but unless the dynamic changes, that is what will happen. It’s up to the three of us to sort this out.
Will she give me coupons for chicken burgers and chips?
Stop it. (This makes her laugh – she knows better than anyone how that food is made – she knows it’s a death sentence to eat at one of her own chicken burger franchises) I’m very bad.
Which begs the question to be asked what someone as good as her is doing with me? For she is very good.
I am just very lucky.
I am indeed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lotus Eater
I am woken with butterfly kisses on my stomach. The Samurai touches my body as if she owns it. Which she does to a degree. She did pay for the use of it after all. I have to force myself to remember this.
She rubs me until I’m hard. If I want a condom, then I have to put it on. Which I do. Virgin or no – I take no chances. She climbs on top of me and slips my cock inside of her. I lean up enough to get a good look at her tiny cock as she fucks me. I move my hand and grasp it with three fingers. I pinch it just enough and stroke. I know how to make her cum. Now that we are having vaginal sex, if I do it right, stimulating both her penis and her internal g-spot simultaneously, the effect nearly renders her unconscious.
My magic fingers do the work well. She collapses on the bed next to me. I finish myself off with my hand.
What shall we do? It is raining outside. So we must stay inside.
These are our two choices. Outside or inside. Going to Kyoto is out of the question. The world comes to her. She does not go to it. This is our island.
We could go and sit in the pagoda.
This is possible. We could go and sit in the pagoda. We are alone. We have privacy and can go out to the pagoda.
So we go to the pagoda.
The fall sunlight hurts my eyes. It’s been days since I’ve seen sunlight.
The samurai and I sit in the pagoda. There is nothing else to do. We could return inside. But then what would we do other than sit. So I lay against the cushions and watch the clouds float across the sky.
There is a commotion in the garden. I sit up just as Olga charges down a path. She has a stack of folded clothing in her arms and security hot on her heels.
She stomps into the pagoda. Her heels punishing the wooden steps.
Enough is enough. We are leaving. The clothes are tossed on me. Security tries to pull her back to her room.
I wave them off. They take instructions from me. I am an inhabitant of the island. Olga is just a guest. I’m not ready to go. Perhaps in another few days. Perhaps not. I’m not ready to go home. I like it here.
We’re leaving now. She can’t take it anymore. We’re fucking prisoners.
The Samurai speaks to her calmly. She is not a prisoner. She can leave whenever she wants.
People know she’s there. She’s told them where she is. If she doesn’t contact them in the next hour to let them know we have been allowed to leave the compound in our own transportation they will call the police and the Russian and British embassies. She wants our mobiles and our cash.
This is outrageous. The Samurai snaps her fingers. The guards move in.
Olga is tough. I’ll give her that. The first one that touches her gets a handbag in the face before I tell them to back off.
Bullshit. She’s had enough. Get dressed. She’s booked a flight to Paris for us.
I don’t want to go to Paris. We’re not due in Paris until the end of the month anyhow.
It is the end of the month. Do I not even know what fucking day it is?
I think about it. Actually I don’t.
It’s the fucking thirtieth. We’ve been in Japan for more than two fucking weeks. Get my fucking trousers on. She’s called for a fucking taxi. It should be outside the fucking gates. Unfuckingbelievable. Unfuckingbelievable. Unfuckingbelievable. Three times for effect.
That can’t be right.
She picks up the tumbler of water from the table and tosses it in my face. Have I been fucking smoking something? When was the last time I read my email? People are trying to reach me. They’re contacting her. Elon is ready to fly to Kyoto to find out for himself what the fuck is going on. The Matchmaker is pissed off.
The Samurai growls at Olga. She can’t take me away. She can’t. I’m going to stay on the island.
Why is Elon threatening to fly to Kyoto?
Because he is my friend and he is concerned. They’ve been video chatting every day.
She’s video chatting with Elon?
Yes. And mum. What the fuck am I thinking? My poor mum is so sick and I can’t even fucking bother to respond to her emails. What the fuck kind of son am I? Fortunately I have her. She’s sorted it out with a
home health aide to come around and mind her while Aunt Lucy is at work. Mum is in no state to be left alone.
My poor mum is a total bitch that has psychologically tortured me my entire life. She is not my problem. She is not my responsibility. She had no right to get sick without having someone else to bear that burden. I’m not going to do it. I’m not. I am not that kind nor am I that forgiving. I don’t love her. I don’t even like her. She had no right to interfere in my private family business.
Olga cracks me across the face with an open palm. Grow the fuck up. Get my trousers on.
What the fuck?
Get dressed. We’re leaving. If I’m not in the car with her, then Elon will notify the British Embassy that there is something very weird going on here and he hasn’t heard from me directly in far too long. Olga turns on her boot heel and leaves us alone in the pagoda.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Final Shots
I’ve just buried my father. What’s left of him at least. He had to be cremated. His headless corpse turned to ash. The skull and brains just a smear under a bus tire. Some poor drudge that works for the City of London probably had the vile task of hosing the blood and bits down a drain.
I am possibly the loneliest person in the world at this moment. No one can say or do anything that will help. I am quite certain this feeling will never go away.
Mrs. Gresham forces me to sit at the kitchen table and drink tea. I am James Albert Oliver Alexander Stanley Adair, 18th Earl of Harkslon, 14th Earl of Connalara. Lord Harkslon if you prefer. Wold Hall, with her leaking roof and haunted halls is all mine.
Elon sits with me. He offers to take me to Cyprus, to Athens, to Turkey, to Italy. He’ll do whatever I need him to do to make it all better.
There is nothing that can make me feel better.
I’m supposed to be getting married in two days. I want to call my former fiancée and beg her in the name of all things decent and holy to please for the love of god take me back. But I don’t think she will. I had hope up until the moment she didn’t show for dad’s funeral. I figured if she showed for dad’s funeral that she would take me back. I am a pitiful wreck. The way she likes me best. I am the most worthy of her nurturing and love at this moment.