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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: Buddha

crime is bliss

28 Thursday Mar 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Humor, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Bonnie and Clyde, Buddha, Buddha save me from your followers, crime is bliss, greed is god, Humor, Jekyll and Hyde, mantra, sonnet, swag, You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself

"You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself" -- The Buddha

“You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself” — The Buddha

* * *

Crime is bliss. What do you need? Whatever

it is it is gone. The night kissed me, said,

“go and look for it.” But why would horror

want to be reclaimed? You were not misled

when they said life sucks. It does. Like people

who call themselves Buddhists — already they’re

doing it all wrong. I lost my Jekyll

(or was it my Hyde?) my thrill, my nightmare,

all that I could carry in a spare bag

and say, “hands up!” I don’t hate the Buddha,

just his followers. Take what you need. Greed

is god. Don’t feel too bad. If you need swag

you need swag. “Crime is bliss,” is my mantra,

because, apparently, that’s what I need.

* * *

You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself2

the statue of a crimsoned succubus

08 Wednesday Aug 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on the statue of a crimsoned succubus

Tags

Buddha, crimson, ghost, historic, Japan, Lady Leiko, masturbation, Mistress Fuyu, Nagasaki, Onna bugeisha, sculptress, story, succubus

the statue of a crimsoned succubus

In a large room of an artist’s studio, somewhere lost within one of the many suburbs of Kyoto, a boy watched an older woman, red paint up to her elbows, in the act of crimsoning a succubus.

The studio looked out on the courtyard which the building itself was built around. The sun, at that moment overhead, blazed down upon the mossy wet vines that clung to the brick work, sending their red reflections glowing into all the sombre nooks of the work room.

The succubus, rudely cut from lecher’s wood, rested at ease upon her tail, her curled-ram horns pressed against the wall, her legs obscenely sprawled open. The sculptress sat before her creation on a low stool, hard at work. The silent boy sat nearby, gazing fondly at both.

On the table in front of the open window stood a row of Oni, rough mountain demons, modeled from river-bed clay. Beside that project were piles of washi parchment covered with drawings in the woman’s own hand, done in blues and reds. By the door a figure of Inari, the trickster fox god of rice, sake and prosperity, sat upon its haunches, a sacred minashigo key hanging from its mouth.

The woman was dressed in simple browns, she had a round, dark face and straight black hair. From the globs of scarlet-red paint spread out at her feet she carefully, with only her fingertips as tools, crimsoned the succubus into life. The effect was less of a statue being given a second skin with an ox-tail brush; rather, it was as if life was slowly seeping through the cold dark hues of the wood through the miraculous use of the succubus’ own menstrual blood. From her thighs on down she appeared to have spurted and spouted sticky rivulets that coated her goat-legs; while, from her navel upwards, the artist’s red-soaked fingerprints could be seen upon the naked wood, fondling each intrinsically carved breast, the thick neck, the bulbous lips.

Once in a while the woman would say the boy’s name, “Shijo;” but it had less to do with starting a conversation and more in a childish, sing-song voice, as if his name were precious to her and she simply enjoyed saying it for the sake of hearing the syllables roll off her tongue. Whenever she did say it, though, the boy would look up from whatever he was doing and smile to himself. He was use to her moods, had seen all of them in the last two years. She was having a mood right at that moment. He could tell. The studio was utterly silent, a perfect hush enhanced by the heat of a noonday sun beating down. Presently the woman rose, crossed to the window, her arms sticky with paint and looked out into the heat.

From where she stood she could see the sparse flowers edging the neglected pathway, the building opposite her with its broken windows, the scandalmongering vines climbing up the tiled roof that cut the violet-blue of a July sky into fragments.

In the center of the courtyard was an ancient, dry fountain; some tall red sayuri lilies grew there, the pure cherry of their hearts bright as the paint the woman had been applying to the succubus reclining wantonly behind her.

The boy stood and walked to stand behind the woman, to see what had caught her attention. The sculptress rested her elbows on the sill, it was so hot that she felt it burning through the paint that was quickly drying on her hands. She had the air of one routinely use to being by herself, the unquestioned calm that arose from a life of long silences. Her face was reserved, even sombre; her lips, well shaped but pale, were resolutely set; there was a fine curve of strength to her chin. She had wide, black brows, smooth dark skin, nebulous mahogany eyes. Her throat was full, she had the sort of muscles sculptors called beautiful.

After a time of gazing at the sun-burned garden she turned back into the room. Standing in the center of the studio, with her teeth worrying her red middle finger, she looked questioningly at the half-crimson succubus. The boy smiled, waiting patiently to see what she finally would say. Some times it would take her hours to form a single comment, but they were observations he always found endlessly interesting. Instead, with a sigh, she took a curiously wrought key from her belt, swung it about in her fingers and left the room.

The building was built without connecting corridors or passages. Each room opened onto another, the upper ones were reached by short wooden staircase built against one of the outer walls. There were many apartments on the second floor, each one boasting imperial designs from at least fifty to sixty years ago. As with all the windows on the first floor, the ones on the second were set facing the old courtyard.

Many queer and exquisite objects could be seen in those long deserted rooms; carved chests full of Korean silver; paintings from China full of erotic terror; furniture made by long-forgotten hands. In one chamber hung several gold-silk tapestries depicting the Eight Devils of Kimon, all done in shades of ruddy brown. As she walked lightly from one room to the next her footsteps caused little clouds of dust to billow up, marking her slow passage.

Passing these things without a glance the woman unlocked a door on whose rusty hinges it took all her strength simply to turn. It was a store-room, one lit only by one low window looking down upon the street. Like everything else in the building, it too was full of dust as well as a sallow, moldy odor. About the floor lay many bound-chests, untouched and before one of these the woman knelt, fiddling with the lock.

The smell of rust filled her nose as the lid swung open. The chest contained a number of cut gemstones. She selected two of more or less equal size, each a crystal pink in hue. Then, after locking the old door behind her, she silently made her way back from where she had come, returning to her studio. When she saw the hollow eye-sockets of the succubus, she placed what looked like living liquid fire into the wooden skull. Watching her statue’s eyes sparkle she finally relaxed, standing for a long while contemplating her handiwork. Finally she washed her hands and arms, putting away her orphic paints.

By then the sun had changed position as it crept across the room, casting hot brindled shadows, cast from the dappled vines hanging from the window eaves over the river-clay Oni, dazzling the colors in Inari’s psychedelic robe.

For the second time that day the woman left the room, venturing into the hall, opening the door that exited upon the street. She shaded her eyes, gazed across the July dazzle, the shadow of her slack, slim figure was cast into the square of hot sunlight issuing from across the hallway and through the open door.

It had been almost two years since the Siege of Kyoto. The section where her studio stood had been devastated. Now, newer suburbs were being built, but that left her neighborhood’s ruins neglected. It was hard for her to imagine a city as vast as Kyoto containing ghost towns, but wasn’t that what this was? She looked at the barren market-place, surrounded by abandoned buildings. Everything was falling into decay. Beyond those shells she could spy the squat roof of the local Shinto shrine jutting upwards across the scarlet sky. Brown grass grew between broken cobbles. There was not a soul in sight.

Under the rusted iron bell that hung against the door beam to her building hung a basket. Her mysterious patron had been by it seemed. She fished out of it bread, a flask of plum sake, some old vegetables wrapped in a linen cloth. The sculptress took these with her and closed the door upon the outer world.

Carrying her loot back in her arms, she crossed the hallway and came out into the opposite end of the courtyard. The tall red sayuri lilies seemed to be nodding their heads to her, as if the two of them were in on a secret no one else knew. Entering by a door next to the fountain the woman found herself in her workshop once more.

Setting her load down on a corner of her work table, the woman proceeded to prepare her meal. Above the wide tiled hearth hung a metal chain and attached to that was an iron pot. She lit a fire under the pot, filled it with water, then put the vegetables in. Then she took down a heavily bound book from off a shelf. Bending over it, huddled on a stool, she began to read.

It was a book filled with drawings — strange, horrible, erotic artwork — as well as curious stories that had been written in a black-blue scrawl. As the woman read she uncrossed her legs and her face grew hot. She flushed while resting her cheek on one hand, turning pages with the other. The heavy volume felt cumbrous on her knees. Not once did she look up but with parted lips pored over the midnight-blue drawings.

Outside the vines curled against the sun-kissed brick, the empty sky looked down upon the dry fountain, it burned the dead grass, the tall red sayuri lilies. The sun sank on the other side of the building, still the woman read on. The flames leaped on the hearth, the vegetables seethed in the pot unheeded.

All alone the woman leaned back on one elbow looking at the drawings. She reached down with her free hand and raised the hem of her kimono, revealing the cotton thong of a man’s fundoshi that she was in the habit of wearing. She ran one long fingertip along the front of her cunt and moaned. She looked up at the window and then back at the book, an anthology called “Kinoe no Komatsu / Languishing for Love”. She let her knees fall open wider and pulled the crotch of her fundoshi to one side as she turned the page. The glorious mound of her pubic hair was already wet and sticky. She plunged two-fingers inside her girl-lips and began to grind, leaving a wet cum-smear on the stool’s seat.

The woman groaned. There it was, the famous print known as “Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife” a prime example of the “aesthetic of the grotesque” in the erotic age of Hokusai. The body of a woman, head thrown back in either carnal abandonment, or drowned and swaying this way and that in the inky green water, allowing Tako no Kami, the octopus god, access to her cunt. It was a curious new form of 8-tentacle “kun’niringusu,” as the Kyoto poets once called the ancient art of clit licking. Her fingers plunged in-and-out of her soaked pussy.

“I’m going to cum–”

The woman’s eyes were screwed tight, her mind lost in the approaching orgasm. She was finger fucking herself so red-hot and hard that her tiny breasts under her kimono were shaking. She knew exactly how that fisherman’s wife felt; she’d fuck a devil-god if the opportunity presented itself. That need to be filled up with something otherworldly, that need to cum all over something impossibly hard.

“O! O! O!”

She was making soundless noises now, feeling the wave over take her. She slipped a third finger into her cunt as she brought herself to the brink. Closer — harder — closer — faster — clo–

With that, without warning, a heavy clang from her old rusted doorbell broke the spell. The woman dropped the book, sprang to her feet, gazing in horror and bewilderment, one hand still buried between her legs as the long awaited orgasm … faded away.

Again the bell sounded.

She picked up the book, put it back on the shelf, licked her fingers, feeling ambivalent.

For a third time the iron clang, insistent, impatient, breaking her quiet once and for all.

The woman frowned while readjusting her clothes, pushing back her hair from her sweaty forehead, fingered her clit through the fabric of her fundoshi, then went, with cautious steps, across the courtyard once more, back through the dark hall and up to the door. For a second she hesitated — was it really worth it? — then drew back the bolt and threw open the door to world outside.

A woman stood waiting for her.

She was younger than the sculptress, but not greatly, gorgeously attired, a lady no doubt from the emperor’s inner court. A concubine? No, a warrior, even though her carefully pleated and folded dress was stunning. Her coiffure was just as stylized, with not a hair out of place.

“You cannot want me,” the sculptress finally said, surveying the stranger for a couple of moments. “And there is no one else here. Sayonara.”

“If you are Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko,” the splendidly-dressed stranger answered, “then I certainly do want you.”

“Want me?” The sculptress opened the door a little wider. “I am Fuyu Tsukiko, but I do not know you.”

“Perhaps,” the other answered. “But I have questions that only you can answer. I am Lady Leiko of Nagasaki.”

“Leiko of Nagasaki!” repeated Fuyu softly. Then, as if she had come to a conclusion, she stood aside, motioning for the lady to enter. When she had passed into the hallway she carefully bolted the door, then turned to her with a grave expression.

“Will you follow me, my lady?” she said, walking before Leiko to her studio.

The sun had left the room by that time, but the air was still bathed in a reddish warmth. There was a sense of great heat that lay trapped in the ancient bricks and grass.

Fuyu Tsukiko offered a seat to her guest, who accepted in silence.

“You must wait until the supper is prepared,” she said. With that she placed herself on the stool by the pot, stirring its contents with an iron spoon, openly studying the woman.

The material of Leiko’s semitransparent kimono did nothing much to hide her curves, although most were hidden by layers of silk. Her beauty mesmerized Fuyu until she forgot for a moment what she was suppose to do.

Leiko, for her part, returned Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko’s steady gaze.

“You have heard of me?” she said suddenly.

“Yes,” was the instant answer.

“Then you know what I am here for?”

“Perhaps,” said Mistress Fuyu, frowning.

Leiko turned and stared at the half-crimson succubus with great interest, even, Fuyu mused, a little fear.

“My mother is the Lady Miyuki of Nagasaki,” Leiko finally answered in a manner one might have called arrogant. “The Emperor made me a warrior, an Onna bugeisha, when I was fifteen. Now I am tired of Nagasaki life, of castle life, of my mother. So I have taken to the road.”

Mistress Fuyu lifted the iron pot from the fire to the hearth.

“The road to where?” the sculptress asked.

Leiko made a large gesture with her hands.

“To wherever the road leads.”

“As an Onna bugeisha?” asked Mistress Fuyu.

Leiko tossed her fine head.

“As a former Onna bugeisha. Now I have other ambitions.”

Mistress Fuyu smiled, moving about, setting the food ready. She placed the little clay Oni on the window-sill; flung, without any ado, her drawings, paints and brushes onto the floor.

A queer silence fell on the room. The host did not seem to encourage comment. The atmosphere was not conducive to talk. Fuyu opened a cabinet in the wall, took out an elegant cloth that she laid smoothly on the rough table. Then she set on it earthenware dishes, honey in a clay jar, flushed pears cut thin, rice cakes in a plaited basket, steamed cabbage, radishes fragrantly pickled, the bottle of plum sake.

“Does anyone else live here with you?” Leiko asked at one point.

“I live by myself. I have no desire for company. I take pleasure in my work alone. Sometimes people come to buy my art, usually one of my sculptures for their shrines, but of late very few.”

“You are a good artisan, then?” asked Miyuki. “Who taught you?”

“Old Mistress Yoi, born in Higashimurayama village, taught in Edo. When she died she left me this building.”

Again the room sank into silence. Shadows crept about.

Leiko ate everything put in front of her. Fuyu, on the other hand, seated next to the window, rested her chin on her palm, stared out at the bright and fading orange sky, then at the broken windows, then at the sayuri lilies waving about the dry fountain. She ate very little. After a while the lady asked, almost shamelessly, for some of the sake. The sculptress rose and brought a sake cup to her.

“Why have you come here?” Fuyu inquired, placing the bottle before Leiko.

Leiko laughed easily.

“I am married,” she said, as an explanation, lifting her cup to her lips. At that Mistress Fuyu frowned.

“There are a lot of married people in this world.”

Leiko surveyed the mysterious swirling liqueur through half-closed eyes.

“It is about my husband, O my host; that is why I am here.”

Fuyu Tsukiko leaned back in her chair.

“Yes, I have known your husband.”

“Really? Please, tell me about him,” Leiko of Nagasaki requested. “I have come here for that story.”

Fuyu smiled slightly.

“But why would I know anything more about him than his own wife?”

Leiko flushed.

“Perhaps. Perhaps. But never mind, go on, what do you know? Tell me.”

Fuyu’s smile deepened.

“He was the only son of the Lady of Kobayashi, he hid himself at the cloister of the Red Brotherhood in Kyoto to avoid having to marry you.”

“I see you know that,” said Leiko. “What else?”

“Since you wish for me to tell you about your own life, listen to what I have to say, my lady.”

Fuyu spoke with an uninterested tone, staring the entire time out of the window.

“He desired, I think, to become one of the Order of the Red Brotherhood. But when he was fifteen his elder brother died, thus he became your mother-in-law’s only heir. Many families wished to align themselves with her, but in the end they agreed for him to marry you.”

“Without my wish or consent,” Leiko added, refilling her sake cup.

Fuyu simply shrugged.

“The feelings seem to be mutual. Your husband, who wished most passionately, I am told, to become a priest, fell ill with grief. In his despair he confided his misery to a local miko, a temple maiden, who lived in his neighborhood.”

Leiko’s eyes flickered, hardened behind their long lashes.

“Your husband was to be heir to a great fortune,” said Fuyu, “but it was through this miko that he became introduced to the Brothers. In his fear of marriage he promised them all his inheritance if they would save him from his mother’s iron will. So the priests, tempted by greed, spread the rumor that he had died. There was even a fake funeral and he was kept secret in the city’s cloister, dressed as an initiate. All this was put into writing, documented by the priests, so that there would be no doubt when the boy returned from the dead, as it were, looking for his inheritance once his mother had died.”

“Yes. I was glad to hear that he had died, at least at the time,” said Leiko. “For by that time I loved another and there is no honor in behavior like that, husband or no.”

“He lived for a year among the priests,” Fuyu Tsukiko went on. “But his life became bitter. He wanted to escape, I believe, yet he could not make himself known to his mother for then it would become known that not only had he lied about this death but that he had promised the priests everything.”

“Go on.”

“Is there more?”

“You know there is.”

“So, as life became more and more horrible for your husband he found a way to send a letter to his widow.”

“Yes. I have it here.” Leiko touched her breast. “He told me all about his dishonesty, begged forgiveness,” she laughed. “He asked me to come rescue him.”

Fuyu crossed her long hands upon the table. There was still red paint under her nails.

“But you … but you did not rescue him, though. You did not even answer his letter.”

“No, I did not rescue him. His mother had taken another husband, she now had a new son to inherit everything.” Leiko lowered her eyes moodily, “I was occupied, in love with a … dairy fairy. Plus, he had lied, my little foolish husband: to Buddha, to me, to the world. ‘It will be poetic justice,’ I thought. ‘For him to suffer as I once suffered’.”

“He waited for months for your answer,” stated Mistress Fuyu flatly. “Finally he fled from the cloister to here, to this very building. Again he wrote to his wife and again she did not answer. That was two years ago.”

“Did the priests make no attempts to search for him?” asked Leiko.

“By that time they knew that the boy was heir to nothing. They were afraid that the tale might reach the ears of the shogun and there might be … repercussions. But did it matter? Around that time the usurper, Tokugawa, lay Kyoto under siege and everyone suddenly had other things to worry about.”

“Indeed. Had it not been that I was required to help mount a defense of the city I might gotten here sooner,” explained Leiko. “But I was occupied with fighting.”

“The cloister was destroyed, the brothers murdered or fled into exile,” continued Fuyu. “The boy lived here, learning many crafts from Old Mistress Yoi. She had no apprentices but the two of us.”

Leiko leaned back in her chair.

“That much I have learned. That the old woman, dying, left her place to you. What did she leave to my husband?”

Fuyu gave her a long, unblinking stare and then turned back to the window.

“It is not strange that you are here, now? You, Leiko of Nagasaki, after all this time, inquiring about your husband.”

“A woman must know how she is loaded down with other people’s responsibilities. As it turns out only you and I know that he had an existence of any sort after he faked his death. He might be a fool but he is still my husband.”

Dusk — hot, blood-red — had fallen on the chamber. The half-crimsoned succubus gleamed dully, the wet lips of her cunt spread vulgarly before the two women. Lady Leiko of Nagasaki felt a little chill pass through her, despite the heat, a little sullen chill, but she waited to see what the older woman had to say.

The sculptress rested her smooth pale face on her palm, her mahogany eyes were hardly discernible in the twilight, but the shadow of her lips moved when she spoke.

“Shijo died two years ago,” she said. “His grave is in the garden, next to the fountain, where those red sayuri lilies grow.”

the woman warrior and the fey boy’s blues

27 Friday Apr 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on the woman warrior and the fey boy’s blues

Tags

Ankoku, Buddha, fey, fundoshi, Japan, Kenmu Restoration, Manslayer, Memeshi, Oni, Onna bugeisha, story, the blues, Tsumibukaki nuns, woman warrior

A note from the author:

“I don’t like macho, put it away;
doesn’t appeal to me, straight or gay.
But I know a boy who catches my eye;
he don’t act tough, why should he try?”

— Fem in a Black Leather Jacket,
Pansy Division (1993)

What erotica has to offer, be it a single impulse or a life-long fetish, is the desire to go “beyond” what the limits of our culture allows us. In this manner erotica is no different from many other visionary genres (think: science fiction, fantasy, horror, etc) in that all narrative is an attempt to go beyond our immediate boundaries. Be it space operas, fairy tales, ghost stories, magic or cyberpunk, we create metaphors and allegories for the things we hope for, the things we dream about. What I like about erotica is that the things we dream about almost always end in pleasure and pain, cum and kisses, a laugh and a scream. Today I am thinking about the bodies of two people I passed on my way to work. Random strangers, but in that passing, in that eye contact, in that second — whole worlds were born.

In the same way that butch bikers with tattoos who teach community college Women Studies classes have remained a long time fantasy; effeminate and androgynous boys have also been and always will be a big turn on. In Akira Kurosawa’s 1985 samurai-epic Ran, the hottest character out of the whole movie was Kyoami, played by androgynous pop star Shinnosuke Ikehata. It was Ikehata, if memory serves, whom I was thinking about when I passed someone, let’s call him the cutest boy in West Michigan, and so I came up with Memeshi.

The character of Ankoku is an Onna bugeisha, a female samurai, who used a weapon called a naginata; a long pike with a curved blade at the top. It resembles a halberd (think of what the Swiss Guard use while protecting the Pope in Rome). The naginata plays no part in this story other than a passing nod. Still, it’s always good to broaden our vocabulary. There is also mention of Nakano Takeko, who was a historical character, an actual Onna bugeisha and died in battle while leading a charge against troops of the Ogaki Rebellion. About two blocks beyond where I saw the cute fey thing I was almost was run over by a lycra-clad amazon. I am 6 feet tall and she was a good three inches taller, with shoulders that could carry the world and a waterfall of black hair that simply amazed.

Of course, both these individuals came and went in moments, they only existed on an erotic continuum in that when I got home I put them into this story. Still, isn’t this what pushing boundaries is all about? Creating worlds where it isn’t just eye contact for a moment but something else; other genres might have names for it but for me what that impulse to go beyond is called is desire.

* * *

It was dark when Ankoku drew close to the Nioi Swamp; already the white vapors were riding across the sunken wetland like October wraiths in a graveyard. Though her lover’s message had set her out in a mood of sensual delight, she had sobered considerably during the lonely ride across the hills. She was now uneasily alert; and, as her horse jerked down the grassy slope that fell away into the jaws of the fetid bog, she could see thin streams of fog rising slowly above the long rushes. As she watched they turned, gradually become more solid, blowing heavily away across the swamp.

The swamp itself was depressed, like a bowl. The appearance of the place, at this desolate hour, so remote from all proper society, struck her with a certain wonder that he should have chosen this spot for their meeting. Memeshi had been a familiar sight wandering the hills. It was there that she had invariably encountered him, the queer spirit boy with a girl’s name; but it was just like his arrogant nature to, on a whim, test her devotion by deciding upon some dreary meeting place. It’s hard to fuck when quicksand is sucking you down, she glumly reflected. The wide, horrid prospect having to sleep somewhere out there, in all that stench, depressed her beyond reason. Finally, tethering her horse upon the verge of the bog, she soon discovered a path that would allow her to cross it. For a moment she stood quiet on the brink of entering the forbidden world, thinking.

“The things I do for a good orgasm,” she sighed. Then, upon passing over the sacred boundary, she struck out boldly into the dark. The track was little used, obviously, for the reeds, which stood high above the level of her eyes upon either side, straggled everywhere overhead in curious arches, causing her to bow her head at times as she walked. She had left her armor and her naginata back at the inn, entrusting their care to the blind nun Momoku no Tojiru. A full half hour she was wandered alone in that wilderness when, at last, a sound other than her own footsteps broke the silence behind her.

Ankoku was moving very slowly at the time, with a mind half disposed to turn from the melancholy expedition altogether, damn all orgasms. It was then that she paused, for it seemed to her now that Memeshi must surely be playing a cruel joke on her. While some such reluctance held her silent, she was suddenly startled by a horrid, croaking noise, as if from some demonic bull toad, which broke out upon her right, somewhere from within the reeds in the foul mire. Walking a little further on it came again, now much closer at hand. When she had passed on a few more steps in confusion she heard it for the third time; just as horrid as before. She stopped to listen, but the swamp was silent. Taking the noise for, perhaps, a rare breed of spring peepers she resumed on her way. But in a little the croaking was repeated, coming quickly to a point only a hand’s width away. Ankoku pushed the reeds aside, peered into the darkness. She could see nothing, but now she thought she detected the sound of another body behind her, trailing through the rushes. Her distaste for the mystery grew, had it not been for her delirious infatuation with Memeshi she would have turned back, found her horse, and made her way back to the nun; a follower of some sort of distant, peculiar Western religion who only took women as her lovers. Ankoku couldn’t understand a person who clung exclusively to men or women, as if the world was black and white. The world was full of interesting choices and Ankoku wanted to taste them all.

The ghastly sound pursued her, though, at intervals along the path, until at last, irritated by such a rude, persistent, invisible companion, she broke into a run. This, it seemed, the creature could not achieve, for she heard a great splash in the mire and then no more. Finally, chuckling to herself, she continued her way slowly in peace. Her path ran out among the reeds into the smooth bowl that Memeshi had spoken of how to find him. Here her heart quickened, her gloom lifted. At the further end she fancied she could see some kind of hut looming up; but the fog, which had been gathering ever since her entrance into this forbidden world, wafted down upon her at that very moment, hiding all shapes from her eyes. As she stood, waiting for the mist to pass, a voice called to her. A voice she knew as intimately as her own heart. One that made her weak in the knees. She: the Manslayer! She saw him approach with circles of mist swirling about his body, slowly walking to her from out of the darkness.

Memeshi was unlike any male she had ever known; none among the Shogun’s concubine were as willow-like, as soft-spoken, as well-hung, as her lover. He put his long arms about her, drawing her muscular body close. They were polar opposites, physically. Ankoku’s body was scarred and tattooed; a lifetime of war had burned away everything that might once have been called feminine from her. Her short hair, towering physic, her boy-like hips, her muscled arms that, in wrestling, could crush the strongest of men in her grasp. Memeshi did not even come up to her shoulder, though she liked the way he would curl his lithe body around hers, enter her from the side, one of her massive legs thrown around his shoulder. Despite Memeshi’s fey appearance, not only could he easily carry her weight but he was possessed of a libido even the Shinto gods didn’t have a name for.

She looked down into his deep, up turned eyes. Far within them, it seemed to her, she could discern an orphic laughter, an alien god dancing in those wells of light. It was more than just an ecstatic hint — a spirit of fire — it was an otherworldly passion she noticed even at their first contact.

“At last,” he said in his musical voice. “At last, my beloved!”

He wore a furisode, a long sleeved kimono. Ankoku reached inside and caressed him, slipping her hand down into his fundoshi, a thong-like length of cotton passing as underwear, and finding that already his veins were pumping blood into what was his semi-erect nine, soon to be ten inches. He wasn’t surprised by her boldness, let a silvery moan from deep within his throat. She continued working with his monster cock, now fully erect and pulsating, thick as her arm. His breathing became more and more aroused, even for a spirit of the dark he enjoyed both tender and anal destructive fucking. She slowly raised his testicles in the palm of her hand, letting them shiver under her breath, making his cock look enraged and eager for release.

“Don’t hold it back, lover,” Ankoku whispered to him in his ear. “I know you want to cum; go ahead and enjoy this. Shoot everything you had been holding on to while I was away.”

Ankoku increased her pace, using both hands to fondle and stroke and caress; making him moan in his morning glory voice. She could see his chest and legs contracting; he was close.

“I’ve been waiting for th–”

Without warning, he mewed loudly, his hips buckling. The first spray of cum flew fast and furious, hitting her old uwagi jacket. His cock, though, was not done; it continued to explode away, spray after spray of ectoplasmic cum, making a trail that began at the tip of his cock and ended down at in the bog mud. She stroked him over and over until nothing more came out and finally, a beast in submission, his massive cock fell limp.

The world swam in front of her eyes. Even though it had been his orgasm, his cum that was dripping from her page-boy hair cut, when she looked down at him she found that he was crouching in front of her, her kimono suddenly parted at the hips. She wore nothing underneath. The mound of her pubic hair was massive, the pride of the Tsumibukaki nunnery when she last was there. He leaned forward, flicked his tongue quickly over her protruding clit, making a jolt of bliss run through her body.

“Look what you do to me, you gorgeous boy,” she moaned.

She took her fingers, wet them in her own cum and rubbed each all over his soft lips and up turned chin, turning them over and over, trailing her wetness all over his strange face. She could crush his head with her thighs if she wanted, she thought. Thighs that had ridden horses into battle; men and women to the point of orgasm; blocks of granite when she had been enslaved by the Tokugawa shogunate. They called her a freak; taller than most men, unstoppable when the blood-lust took her.

“Find yourself a demon, an Oni; only a creature possessing a supernatural libido can satisfy you,” the old shaman in her village had told her.

Memeshi inhaled, breathing in the sweet scent of her cunt. She stuck two of her cum-coated fingers in his mouth and he sucked each dry as her half hooded eyes stared into his, smoldering with lust. Her other hand was sliding fingers in and out of her ass, her tight, round O, bringing those fingers to his lips as well, letting him taste everything she had to offer.

“Why?” she finally asked, tingling at the nerves while he licked her fingers clean. “Why have you brought me out to this lachrymose location when my bedroom at the inn would have been so much more divine?”

He uttered his silver laugh, nestled against her, slipping his hand into her uwagi jacket. Her very tight jacket. The sort that clung to her small, perky breasts. He traced one of her erect nipples; her gorgeous long, brown nipples.

“Darling,” he answered as she shivered and pressed him closer. “This is my home. I swore to you that I would show you where I lived after you let me cum in you.”

“Yes, let’s do that again,” Ankoku giggled, glancing around herself. It was, perhaps, the first time she had made that noise in the presence of another person in all of her 43 lonely years. “But not here, fuck bunny. I have come and I’ve seen. I know where you live. But this swamp chokes up my lust. I want Buddha’s blessings when you fill me with your cum. Come with me.”

“You are in haste?” he asked. “There is yet much to see. Ah, my lover,” he said, waving at the bog all around, “you know what I am. This is my ancestors, I have inherited the swamp’s traits. Would you take a swamp demon with you as your mate?”

For an answer Ankoku pulled him to her, her warm lips driving out the horrid moods of the night from his cold touch; but suddenly deep within his eyes a flickering scoffing glowed, like clouds over the moon, and an odd worry struck her. She pulled away and the night grew chill again.

“I have the swamp in my veins,” he explained. “You are a fountain of the sun’s light. I am a willow’s shadow in the marsh. You make my shabbiness all silken.”

He was a lithe, lovely creature, she thought, a tangible taste of warm flesh. He lifted his magic face to Ankoku’s own. The dew of nightfall hung in his hair. His otherworldly beauty seemed to plead with her scars and missing finger on her left hand for her forlorn, solitary love.

“I love you!” she cried, “Oni or fey demon of this swamp, I do not care. You shall come with me; I have known you on the hills when you entered me from behind. I love your roving phantasma of male beauty. Nothing more do I know about you, nothing more will I ask. I do not care what your dismal haunt means. You have powers beyond what I can understand, your swamp is as queer and incomprehensible to me as your beauty. But this,” she said, grasping his already hardening cock, “is mine.”

He moved his head nearer to Ankoku with a surprisingly monstrous gesture, his gleaming eyes piercing hers with a sudden flash, the likeness of a winter owl striking prey. Startled, she fell back; as tall and broad shouldered as she was, but at that moment he turned his face toward the fog that came rolling in, a terrible thick bulk spreading itself all over the bowl. Noiselessly the great cloud crept down upon them. She was aware of him watching it progress in sudden silence. It was as if he awaited some omen she could not understand. Despite her years and training, Ankoku too trembled in fear of its coming.

Then suddenly out of the night issued the same hoarse, hideous croaking she had heard before; a noise the sort that Ankoku had only heard before on the battlefield when men made their death rattle. She reached out her arm to take her lover’s hand, but in an instant the mists broke over them like a wave, she was all at once groping about, blind, crying like a child in the emptiness. Something like a panic, a feeling she had only known once before when she had lost her maidenhead, took hold of her. She was the embodiment of the female samurai, a fighting Onna bugeisha by trade; and here she was, rushing over the bog, up to her thighs in ooze, calling upon her elfin love. A little the swirl passed by, like eddies in a river. Then, turning, she perceived him, standing silhouetted in the gray, his arms raised as in imperious command. She ran to him, but stopped, amazed, shaken by a fearful sight. Down by the dripping wet reeds crouched a diminutive, dumpy creature; a sort of monstrous toad. As she stared, the thing rose upon its back legs, disclosing to her view a horrid human ribcage and ghastly face: pasty as the bloated gaijin, Admiral Perry; cadaverous, with stringy black hair; its body gnarled, twisted as with chills and fever. Shaking, it whined in a breathless voice, pointing an emaciated finger at the fey boy by her side.

“Your lust was my guide,” it quavered. “Do you think that after all these years I have no knowledge of your lust? This is the hell that you designed for me. Now, love, would you leave me all by myself?”

The three stared at each other. For a long while no one said anything.

“Hear me out!” it finally cried, turning to Ankoku, panting, leaned upon a bush. “Listen to the tale of this foul Oni so that you may know him as he really is. He is the Bones and Marrow of Nioi Swamp. He is neither human nor devil, but simply the accursed bog brought to life, a spirit that has crept into a dead boy’s body. What you see before you lives, yes; grows more and more beautiful day by day, yes; but only thanks to this swamp. Take him away and who knows what would happen? And I, who was once a man as beautiful as he was, knows only far too well the fate of all the lovers he has cast off over the century. For six hundred years have I lived here. I ask you, whose bones lie deep in this blasted bog? Who can answer that except the one who clutches your arm? O mortal woman, O giant warrior; he has drained the living of their youth and virginity, he has sucked upon the gods and robbed them of their souls. He made me a lesser devil, a root on a decayed stump, he is the cause of this putrid husk you see before you! Lost forever in this hell! Now he would leave me to my lonely anguish. Ha, yes, go off with another victim, you boy toy, you male whore. Victim that you are, woman! I warn you now so that he might not rob you too!” — it hissed through its chattering teeth — “My hell shall be his forever!”

Ankoku’s untroubled eyes finally left the creature’s great repulsive face, turning back to Memeshi who stood by her side. He put out his arms, swaying towards her. So great was the light that glowed in his face that she took him into her embrace, their lips meeting.

“Human or Oni,” Ankoku finally said, after a long, wet pause. “I will go with you. I was once called Hitokiri, the Manslayer. I fear neither man nor demon, woman nor witch. I was Nakano Takeko’s lover; now I shall be yours.”

He laughed, leaning down toward the pathetic, wide-eyed creature flopping around in the muck.

“Dear, dear Fuzen-chan,” he said. “We both know what you just said is not true. You were a little green swamp frog once, one whom I taught the dark arts too so long ago that you have now grown sassy.”

“Really?” Ankoku asked, somewhat amazed at this revelation.

Memeshi grinned and rolled his beautiful eyes. “Believe me, the Kenmu Restoration was really, really boring. I had a lot of time on my hands.”

“But– but,” spluttered the unhappy thing.

“Well then, lover, let us be gone,” Ankoku laughed, spreading out her arms as if she could will the swamp and all its fugly denizens away.

Memeshi laughed again, his silver-ringing voice making a joyful noise inside her. He moved, clinging to her massive arm, as they slowly made their across the bog to where the trail head started.

But at the edge of the bog they were startled by a shrill, hoarse scream. Turning they beheld the pathetic creature rising up, winding its long, bony arms around Memeshi’s body, all the while shrieking out its grief.

“You stupid cock tease! Six hundred years wasted for this? You taught me language and my profit from it is that I’ve read about fellatio but would you ever go down on me? No! What’s the point of keeping naughty parchments under your tatami mat in the hut if you have no intention of getting laid?”

Stooping, Ankoku pushed the regrettable thing the author created out of their path and into a foul smelling quagmire where it quickly sank out of sight with a gurgle. With slip of his hip Memeshi guided Ankoku across the bog and onto Terra firma. Slipping her hand down inside his furisode robe she thought, “ah yes, the firmer the better.” At her touch blood rushed to fill his cock’s girth once more, its head twitching as she stroked it and ran her fingers up and down its length. Of all the ways to reclaim her lover from his swamp, perhaps sucking out the poison that kept him trapped here would work, she pondered.

She adjusted her position, sinking to her knees in the murk so she could lick the side of his cock and his curious balls; by that time she took the head of his straining cock in her mouth and sucked it in. She sucked, slurped and gagged while Memeshi did nothing save give out his odd, little cat moans, twisting her nipple gently between his finger and thumb until he pulled his cock from her mouth, letting her gum his testicles before returning to face fuck her.

“Will you love me, darling mortal?” he asked, looking down at her scars and broad shoulders.

She stopped her assault on his cock long enough to grin up at him, all ten inches still mysteriously hidden down her throat. She made a noise, it could have been yes, it could have been anything, but they both knew that Hitokiri, the Manslayer, was giving herself to her lover.

He cried out in joy, gripping her skull while the swamp faded away and he exploded within her mouth, filling her throat with desire and agony.

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