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memories of my ghost sista

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memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: historical

death, the maiden and war

25 Friday May 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on death, the maiden and war

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Ankoku, butch-femme, cunnilingus, death, female samurai, historical, Japan, lesbians, maiden, Onna bugeisha, story, war

In Leslie Feinberg’s novel, “Stone Butch Blues” (Firebrand Books, 1993) she talks about growing up in pre-Stonewall days, as a transgendered other, and the titillation and transgression of wearing men’s BVDs at a time when hetero-gender roles were brutally enforced, especially by the NYC police. Writing amorous stories about female samurai, the Onna bugeisha, one starts to think about all the ways these Japanese women were breaking their own social codes. And, this being an erotic story, one has to wonder, “just what did they wear under their armor while riding into battle?” This is where me not being a historian becomes problematic. I am very much a Westerner (the unwashed, hairy barbarian sort) and while I know that my own culture has lots of hang-ups about men and women mix-and-matching each other’s clothing, I don’t know if that translates into Japanese taboos all that well. We’re still laboring under that cockamamie Deuteronomy 22:5, “a woman must not wear men’s clothing, nor a man wear women’s clothing, for God detests anyone who does this,” (New International Version, 1984) which is why I love the cojones of drag queens so much, you go, sistas, fight the power! But what about feudal Japan, say, around 1860? Sometimes I like to think the Onna bugeisha went commando, but I like transgression, so perhaps we can try something a bit more risque. If you’ve seen any historical samurai movies you might have seen male villagers running around in what appears to be 19th century thongs, the fundoshi, which, while I have tried, I found them a bit chaffing. For this story, though, set during the Mito Rebellion (May 1864 through January 1865), I’m assuming that these goddesses of war not only wore male fundoshi into battle but also wore them to bed as well. It was, after all, a revolutionary time; the Tokugawa Shogunate, which ruled for 268 years, was about to fall (you won’t see that in this story, the rebels who supported the Emperor are crushed at Mito), but what this will do is usher in both the Meiji Restoration as well as the birth of Prime Minister Hideki Tojo (born December 30th, 1884) who, 57 years later, thought that bombing Pearl Harbor was a bloody good idea. Cheers!

* * *

It’s still the same old story, a fight for love and glory,
a case of do or die. The world will always welcome lovers
as time goes by.
— Dooley Wilson in “Casablanca” (1942)

June 17th, 1864

I.

“Do you like my breasts?”

She asked the younger woman this, quietly, not exactly cupping them as an offering, rather out of shyness. It was a move that made her lover’s heart melt. After all that the older woman had been through, to be this open, this vulnerable, it made the most proud of hearts humble.

“You are more beautiful than anyone I have ever known,” came the honest reply, to which she responded with a hungry kiss, the sort that did not stop at the lips but exploded into a series of tongue-lapping snogs, bites, nips, a multitude of succulent candy kisses all the way down the older woman’s throat, across her muscled chest, between the round, scarred, tattooed glories of her breasts, climaxing in a hard, stiff suckling upon her erect bloody-brown nipple.

The younger woman ran her face down the curved, muscled legs offered to her, to where her damp, cotton thong, a fundoshi, made a wicked pale Y in the dark. She drew away from the older woman just a little then, kneeling, breathing her hot breath all over the fabric; causing the other to shudder, open her legs just a little at first, then much wider. Her eyes shone as she watched her lover nuzzle the now sodden cotton that guarded her cunt, her dark earth yoni.

“You have such beautiful legs,” she said, running her warm hands up from her knees, along her thighs to trace her fingers along the lover’s pubic bone, starting to kiss her there, lightly, to the delighted groans of deep anticipation.

“Please,” and she mumbled the girl’s name, not out of forgetfulness but lust, “please, suck my nipples again.”

Her lover obliged, tonguing, nibbling. They kissed again, licking, sucking now, while her young fingers sought the inside her cunt, in eagerness the older woman stretched her thighs wider to allow her better access.

Boldly — because how else could one love such a spirit? — the younger woman returned her affection then to proffered cunt, nuzzling it gently with her nose, teased by her smell, that overpowering odor all equestrians bring to the bed, of horse-meat and muscles and blood; then, probing further, she entered her with her long, long tongue.

Her cleft was warm, salty from a life time of riding, she slid her hands around her muscled thighs to grasp her huge buttocks, hold firmly her cunt against her open mouth. The younger woman grasped her lover’s lips, slid her tongue across the rude clitoris, circling first one way, then with a godlike slurp, the other. She pulled back again to see that the purple lips, rouged with red, were parted, gaping, her lover’s eyes closed in something far better than blood lust, the globe of her right scarred, tattooed breast, heaving, tipped by a hard, erect nipple. The other, equally scarred and tattooed, was a barren hill, the nipple having been lost in battle many years ago.

The younger woman kneaded those massive cheeks again as she buried herself between her thighs, working her tongue deeper within, sucking her marrow, burrowing, circling her pulsating clit in between many, many wet-wet salt licks. The nub swelled in response and she, like with all candy, sucked a bit stronger. In our dreams all cunts taste like slick velvet in a night sky. Her lover was no exception; she tasted blood of a lifetime of war on her clitoris, girl-cum and desire. She pushed her mouth firmer against her pubic bone, as if she could suck, not only her entire hips into her mouth, but her soul.

There was a smell in the air, the sulfur of a slow burning gun, the hot wet slickness of purpose. The tramp of ten thousand feet through mud. The rage of an ocean storm against salt-incrusted rocks.

Now her lover was licking her in wide swathes and the two women fell into a hip-rubbing, cunt grinding, belly-gut rhythm. The warrior who was to lead her soldiers into battle held her girl-lips open so that her lover, a mere unwed woman of twenty-two years from the city of Edo, could nibble at her cum-bloated clit, as if everything in her body would simply melt like a red, hot wax, until her lover could suck it all down, gagging on the river of cum that flowed out of her. Her juices, a waterfall, ran into her mouth, over her face, drowning the world. The young woman lapped them up as she probed her ass deeply with three fingers. She found the spot, both deep in her anus and deep in her cunt, rubbed them together, sex magic, hero-worship at its most rude form, they were locked together in divine unison, both rocking, both gasping in rapture when the first shot of the rebellion were fired.

The worst of cunnilingus interruptus.

The older woman sprang to the window, her hair undone, her cum-splattered legs, staring out into the darkness.

Out from the great ancient forests clouds of gun smoke swept up; dense, sinister, the uproar of hundreds of rifles and cannons, a din that grew louder still. She could hear the voices, screams, the rough male sound of commands being given. She could see figures in the smoke, distorted, surreal, reappearing against a fiery background.

“Those cock suckers!” she cried. “They’re here!”

II.

Sayomi, whose name means the one who is night born, saw the sun rise in a shower of cherry and orange against a sky of sapphire. It even touched the gloomy shades of forest; shy little flowers of periwinkle, nestled in the grass, holding up their heads at the touch. From the window in the room in which she had nursed her grievously wounded sister, Ankoku, Sayomi looked out at the sunrise, saw only the leaves of summer moving gently in the warm breeze.

The young woman’s mind was not at rest, though. She had heard the rumbling of cart wheels, the tread of feet, the movement of a great celestial host with many queer and muffled sounds mixed underneath, all passing by in the dead of the night. Now that the morning was here, the old house seemed desolate, abandoned. Sayomi was lonely. She looked outside, saw nothing living among the bushes. Only signs that something vast and terrible had paused there long enough ago to feed an entire army. Here and there smouldered the dregs of camp fires, she could make out the spot where the tent of the Commander had stood; yet that too was now gone. Not a sound came to her ears save those that the forest made. The oppressive silence of a summer day felt like an omen.

Her older sister lay under her bedclothes, asleep; her armor piled in the corner of the room, her slashed coat covering her many crudely drawn bandages. Lady Anei was in the next room, having refused to return to Edo. She would remain near her lover, she said. Nevertheless, Sayomi felt absolutely alone, deserted by the rest of the world.

Then, coming out of the forest, Sayomi saw a single rider come near; the most fantastic figure that she had ever beheld; a woman in full battle dress, erect in the saddle, her head crowned with magnificent bushy iron-gray hair like a night demon’s, though her eyes gleamed silver as the moon behind a pair of spectacles. The rider came straight toward the window of the house, the feet of her horse making no sound at all as it tromped upon the sward.

“Bliss, bliss and heaven,” the younger woman thought. “Here is gorgeousness and gorgeousity made flesh.”

Sayomi tried not to cry, for Chiyo, her soul mate, whose name translated roughly as “She the Eternal,” had come to bid her desire goodbye, perhaps forever.

The woman on horseback put her hand through the open window. Commander Chiyo no Yukana, easily twenty years older than Sayomi herself, bent low over her horse’s neck, kissed the young woman’s offered hand with all the chivalry of a samurai of some far distant, ancient time; not like these Tokugawa dogs who now ruled the country.

Chiyo had never considered herself typically beautiful; she was a bow-legged woman in the saddle. Her body was covered with a secret map of scars and tattoos, hieroglyphics few knew how to read. While geisha and courtesans blacked-out their front teeth for fashion hers had been knocked out at an early age, back when the bokken — that wooden sword that had later brought her so much fame — was a mere clumsy and unwieldy stick in her fourteen-year old hands. Her eyes were hidden by spectacles for she was nearsighted with a squint. All these things Sayomi was aware of, distantly, but just being this close to her made her heart beat so much faster; Chiyo gave off an animal magnetism that Sayomi had never experienced before, as if to prove that this killing machine was anything but typical.

“I pray that you will come back,” Sayomi said softly, so as not to wake her sister, so as to not let the tears run down her face.

“If you are here,” her lover replied, “I will return to you. One way or another.”

Around her head Chiyo wore the silk scarf Sayomi had made for her, written with the words, “Sonno joi,” (“Revere the Emperor, Expel the Barbarians”) in red ink. Sweat from the previous day had already stained the fabric in places.

Chiyo kissed her hand once more.

“How is your sister?” she asked.

“She is still asleep.”

“I thought she was not going to survive the night. We will miss her today.”

“How can you be so sure it is going to happen today? I’ve looked at these peaceful skies, it seems impossible,” Sayomi said, though she had long ago prepared herself for the worst.

“Yoshinobu-dono has crossed the mountains. His army is in the forest.”

Both women knew what that meant. Sayomi fell silent.

Chiyo’s next words were those of caution.

“There is a cellar under this house,” she said. “If the battle turns against us and comes near, you will take Ankoku-san and the Lady and seek shelter in it, won’t you? Will you promise me that?”

“Hai, I promise.”

“Ah, good. Now … goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Sayomi echoed miserably.

Chiyo kissed her hand once more, then, without another word, turned, riding through the forest and away. Sayomi watched her until she was hidden from view, then her streaming eyes wandered off toward the east, where the new sun was still casting glowing bands of pink and gold across the low clouds.

Her sister stirred on the mat, awoke, fretful.

“Why is the world so silent?” she asked.

“I do not know.”

There was a knock at the door, Lady Anei entered, smiling, dressed as if to welcome company.

“You two are up early, Sayomi-chan,” she said. “What do you see there at the window?”

“Nothing,” replied Sayomi. She did not tell anyone of Chiyo’s last words to her. That belonged to her alone.

“How quiet the camp is!” marveled Lady Anei after awhile. “Do all armies sleep this late?”

“No,” said Ankoku from her place on the floor.

“I don’t hear any voices or anything moving about,” exclaimed Lady Anei.

“Eh?” cried Ankoku. “Sayomi-chan, go to the window, will you?”

“No. I’ll go,” said Lady Anei, she strode to the window, where she uttered a cry of surprise.

“O! There is nothing there!” she proclaimed. “Where are the tents? the guns? the soldiers? Everything is gone! What does it mean?”

From far off in the forest, low down under the horizon’s rim, there came a sullen note breaking the silence.

The three women looked at each other.

“What was that?” Sayomi asked.

Then the note was repeated; a dull, sinister echo that seemed to roll out across the forest floor and hang over the house.

“The cannons!” Ankoku cried, “those Tokugawa bastards have found us!”

Sayomi ran to the window herself, yet she could see nothing, only the waving yellowish grass, the somber greenish forest, the bluish skies. The sound of the second cannon shot died away. Once more there was an unearthly silence where even the cicadas were still, yet only for a minute. The sinister sound swelled up once more under the horizon’s rim far off there to the north. It was followed by another note, then more; many, many more; until they merged into one vast, detestable roar.

Unconsciously Anei, the cynical courtesan, seized Sayomi’s hand in hers.

“The battle!” she cried. “It is the battle!”

“Hai,” said Ankoku. “I knew that it was coming.”

“O, our poor soldiers!” Sayomi said.

Ankoku sprang to her feet, her coat falling to the floor, revealing the bandages tied across her breasts, her arms, her head, then staggered.

“I must get to the window,” she gasped.

Sayomi came to her side.

“Your wounds,” she said. “Please lay back down.”

“I tell you I need to see what is happening!” her older sister exclaimed angrily. “If I cannot fight, I must see!”

They helped her to the window, where they propped her up in a chair facing the northern forest. The glow of blood lust came upon her face.

“Listen!” she cried. “Don’t you hear that? It’s the Tokugawa cannons, not less than twenty miles away. O, if only I were there!”

The three women looked continually toward the north, where a somber black line of smoke was beginning to form over the tree tops against the red-gold glow of the dawn. Louder and louder came the French-made cannons, a gift from Napoleon III. More guns were coming into action; the basso profundo, violent melody that seemed to roll up against the house like waves until every stone trembled with the blows.

Far over the forest a caul of smoke began to grow thicker, began to blot out the sky.

Ankoku bent her head. She was listening under the thunder of the great guns for the other sounds that she knew were along with them; the crackling of the rifles, the hiss of the bullets flying in clouds, the gallop of cavalry charging, the screaming. In the north the dull, heavy cloud of smoke was growing, spreading along the horizon, blotting out everything. The heavy roar, the charge, the defense, the disintegrating regiments, the scream of horses, cannons shattered by cannons, the long stream of wounded being carried to the rear, the dead, forgotten among the trees. Ankoku searched the forest for movement, a sign to tell her who would carry the day. She he saw nothing, save the waving grass, the melancholy woods, the empty sky.

Ankoku longed to be there in the field, riding at the head of her cavalry unit. She thought of Chiyo no Yukana, a commander greater than herself in almost every way. As she watched and waited her heart was filled with dread for the rebellion. She glanced at her sister and Lady Anei, two women whom she adored beyond all others. Their place should not be here, neither was her place here with them. She should be out there. Who was losing? She struck her thigh angrily with her fist and winced as fresh blood from a bullet wound seeped out.

“I hate this blindness,” she exclaimed, “being stuck indoors on a sunny day while the battle is raging and we cannot see anything!”

The two women standing on either side of her said nothing, simply gripped the other’s hand a little more tighter.

The thunderous noise grew. The battle rolled a step closer to them; low down under the pall of smoke, flashes of fire could be seen now. Then rolled the cannon fire nearer and when Sayomi put her free hand on the windowsill she felt beneath her finger tips the faint, steady throb in the wood as the vast, insistent volume of the onslaught beat down through it. The cloud of smoke now spread in a huge, somber curves across all the north, horns of the devil, the swift flashes of fire came faster and faster.

“It is coming our way,” murmured Ankoku, breathing in the air.

Sayomi felt a quiver run through the hand of Lady Anei, she looked at her face. The older woman was pale, yet she was still not afraid. She, too, would not leave the window. The promise of the cellar now a distant memory.

The face of the morning that had begun so bright was gone. A great pall of smoke in the north gave the early afternoon a sinister blur. The air was growing sultry and dusty. The wind ceased to blow. The grass hung motionless. All around them the forest was still and aghast while cannons after cannons rent the air with explosions.

“Do not let me die by stray shrapnel,” Ankoku murmured.

There was rapture in her voice. That which concerned her most was passing behind the veil of the forest, just out of sight, its roar filling their ears. She had no thought of anything else at that moment and desperately wanted to see who was winning.

An odor — the mingled reek of gunpowder, trampled dust, sweating bodies — reached them. Sayomi coughed, then wiped her face with her hands. She was surprised to find her cheeks both damp and cold. Somewhere out there in that chaos was her darling Chiyo, gathering her warriors for another charge, unless– no. She would not think of that possibility. Her lips felt harsh as she pressed them together.

The trembling of the house increased, the dishes from the breakfast which they had left on the table kept up an incessant rattle. The battle was still spreading; at first in a half circle, then the horns of the crescent moon were now extending as if they meant to meet about the house. But the watchers saw not a single soldier, not one horse, not a gun; only from off in the distance the swelling screen of smoke shot up, ejaculations by some devil god, cum upon cum, the flashes of light split through it all, nearer by the minute, spilling upon the grass, the leaves, hanging in the lifeless naked forest.

Ankoku groaned once more.

“Why? why am I here?” she cried, still bleeding. “When the battle to destroy the Tokugawa shogunate is being fought less than a ten miles away!”

The clouds of smoke were dark, veiled. A sudden tongue of flame shot up into the north, above the tree-line; yet unlike phallic cannon shots it did not flare and instantly die. Instead it hung in the sky; a spire of flame, blood-red against the sky, growing vast.

“The forest is burning,” murmured Ankoku. “What sort of engines of war do those bastards have to be able to set the very trees on fire?”

Now a multitude of varied, piercing gun-shots could be heard under the steady roaring of the cannons, all growing into an ever more nastier hiss, an impossibly wicked war cry.

“The rifles! Ten thousand of them at least!”

New tongues of fire leaped above the trees, hanging in the sky, sparks at first momentary, then dancing, then in showers of millions. Smoke drifted toward the house, assailing those at the window until their eyes prickled. The strange, nauseous odor — a mingled reek of blood, dust, powder, sweat and terror — grew heavier, ever more sickening as it approached.

“Listen!” cried Ankoku. “Don’t you hear that? It is the thunder of horses! The cavalry is charging!”

Nearer rolled the battle. Sayomi began to hear, under all the dissonance, those of human voices: screaming, crying, shouting out commands. Dark figures began to appear against the background of pale smoke and blood-red flame; distorted, shapeless, without any logic to their movement. For a moment there were no humans left who struggled between the flames, only demons made of smoke with voices that sounded like the wild screams of the dying horses.

The heat of the afternoon wore on, gathered in their room, penetrating into everything. The floor, the walls, their bodies, everything grew sticky and damp; yet the three did not notice, even as the sword cuts on both Ankoku’s arms reopened and stained the ends of her kimono. Already the world outside the window was strewn with the hideous dead. Unrecognizable, broken into a thousand pieces, bodies lost in the weeds that had once been warriors.

“The battle is dubious,” muttered Ankoku at last.

“What do you mean, sister?”

“See how it goes this way and that? If one side was winning, well then, there would be no give and take.”

Over in the north the scarlet steeples and pillars of fire united into one great sheet of flame that moved, with terrible speed, leaping from tree to tree, exploding into a wall of a million sparks. The lethal, loathsome stench increased all about them. A wind rose up, a fine dust of metal ashes and human bones sweeping into every possible crevice of the old house. It powdered the three women at the window, hung in the air as a thin mist, like a calculating, self-aware presence.

“They are all around us,” Lady Anei declared.

Sayomi looked up. The battle had now made a complete circle about the house, from every point came the flashes of cannonades, rifles, the incessant spurt of heat lightning. The black trunks of the maples disappeared; silver guns sending off heat waves in the dark; the charging of battle lines; the fallen horses scattered in the undergrowth; sparks flying up in vast volumes. Bits of charred bodies from the burning forest, caught up by hot ash cyclones, began to fall on the roof of the old house, kept up a steady, droning pitter-patter like rain that crackled in the heat.

Hours had passed, suddenly Ankoku uttered a low cry. She could detect now the color of the uniforms. There on the right were samurai wearing the red chrysanthemums of the Emperor and Ankoku’s hopes crumbled. The red chrysanthemums, reeling drunkenly about at every rifle crack, at every dying scream, were slowly being driven back. The blue-clad Tokugawa soldiers poured down upon them, forcing them to yield. Ankoku glanced at the others in the room. They, too, saw what she saw. She read it in the luridness of their faces, their cracked parted lips, the hopeless look in their eyes.

Hours passed. The battle shifted once more, hovering in the distance, fading against the black background as the day darkened. Twilight approached. The Tokugawa troops were thrust back, now the rebels gained the upper hand; for only a few feet, yet it was still a gain. nevertheless. Rebel commanders pushed forward. At the window the dense fine ash crept down the three watcher’s throats, all coughed repeatedly. They were powdered with it, it lay upon their faces, hair and shoulders, a veil from the great fires. Not one of the three moved to brush it away.

“A shell passed near us,” said Ankoku, then another screaming shell passed by, then others, all with malevolent rage. “And another. The battle is closing back upon us.”

With the coming of the twilight the light in the forest from so many shrapnel shells assumed a surreal, unearthly color, all tinged at the edges with a burning white, ripped through here and there with violet, bluish streaks. It seemed now to contract its coils then spring upon the watchers from all sides.

Suddenly riders shot out from the heart of the battle fog, standing for a moment in a huddled group, as if not knowing which way they should turn. They were outlined vividly against the glow, their uniforms were of the red chrysanthemum. Riderless horses galloped out of the smoke behind them, their empty saddles a testament to the great numbers the cavalry had just lost.

A groan burst from Ankoku and she pointed with her good hand, “they are going to retreat!”

Then Ankoku saw something that struck her with dread and she fell silent for a moment. She knew those soldiers. Even at the distance many of the figures were familiar.

“My soldiers!” she cried. “Those are my soldiers!”

The riders in the twilight were still in doubt, although they seemed to be drifting away from the battlefield. A fierce passion lay hold of Ankoku, she saw her own troops retreating when the fate of the rebellion hang before them. She thought neither of her wounds nor of the two women beside her. Springing to her feet Ankoku cried, “they need their leader!”

Ankoku ran to the door, her armor forgotten, her hair undone, blood from her own wounds streaking her clothes. Lady Anei and Sayomi saw her rush across the open ground toward the edge of the forest where the cavalry lingered, seizing one of the riderless horses. Painfully climbing into the saddle, turning her face toward the battle, they could hear her shout to her troops: “Follow me! Long live the Emperor! Banzai!”

The night was thick, hot, rank with mists, mists, odors that oppressed throat, nostrils. The wind seemed to have died, yet the fine dust of ashes still fell, the banks of loathsome smoke aimlessly floated about. The horse that Ankoku had seized was that of a slain banner carrier, the banner of the rebel House of Satsuma still tied by a string to the horn of the saddle. Ankoku lifted it above her head with her one good hand and then, at the head of her riders, rode into the heart of the battle.

once upon the grave of a sinful nun

17 Thursday May 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on once upon the grave of a sinful nun

Tags

grave, historical, lesbians, masturbation, nun, sin, story

I wonder why a little, why the gods
above me who must be in the know,
think so little of me, they allow you to go.

— Cole Porter

I.
The year before the Shogun banished the foreign missionaries from his lands, sending them back to Portugal, or whatever hell they had once arisen from, something queer happened. Far away in the unfashionable north, in a lonely village called Kawanishi, there lay an old, solitary churchyard. Because the missionaries who built it were hairy barbarians, no one interred in those grounds were ever cremated; there were no family graves, none of the ancestors left behind were remembered, fondly or otherwise. The churchyard’s low, curly grass now fed a few vagabond goats that daily struggled over its ruined walls, it was the sort of grass that hid little gray mice that roamed through the sad wilderness, all bordered over with glum willow trees. The rusty gate, because of course there was one, seldom opened to human touch, but shrieked in pain when the wind sang against its hinges. Only the lost souls, generations of the converted, condemned to wander in that desolate place until some vaguely explained day of reckoning occurred, which was always in the far, far distance, sang with the wind, shaking the tree boughs, wailing at their terrible imprisonment.

In this churchyard there was one grave unlike all the rest. The stone which stood at its head bore no name, even the ones spelled out in the odd Romaji lettering the strangers somehow understood, but instead carried a curious symbol: a plump, crudely carved calla lily, opening up above blood red waves.

The grave was, simply, different, covered with a thick growth of mourning band blossoms. No ordinary woman lay within, it was the grave of a sinful nun.

II.
Not far from the old churchyard a young woman lived with her old husband in a drab, wattled hut. She had been a dreamy, dark-eyed girl growing up, the sort who never played with other children, but instead loved to wander in the sun-kissed fields, lie by the banks of the boggy, soggy rivers, watch the thick water swirl this way and that, laugh with the lilies as they swung their heads on the naked breast of the east wind. As one might expect, she had grown up to become a dreamy, dark-eyed woman, the sort who continued to live a solitary life; for her elderly husband was a wild, wicked man who sat at home and drank all day, cursing the gods into the calm summer nights so that even the poor ghosts, those who were damned to wander in the churchyard under the brow of the hill, shook their shaggy heads sadly at the young woman’s plight.

Often, very often, she would disappear out into the firefly-filled night, or wander the sun-dappled meadows during the day where all her husband’s hideous blasphemies could not reach her, where she could talk with the lilies in a low, affable voice, for they were her friends.

In this wandering way she came to haunt the old churchyard as well, much like the souls of those whom the missionaries had condemned to dwell there. Some of the dead were, understandably, far from pleasant to her, for death does not stop a person from being a tomfool or a hooligan. But most tolerated her as she roamed by their crumbling headstones, tracing her fingers over the foreign words, names that had been long forgotten.

There was one gravestone, though, that she did not like, for the ghost had been a terrible pervert in life and was no better later on. Nasty, old men were nothing new to her, and truth be told there seemed to be a little pervert in her soul as well. What happened was this: one evening, right as the sun was sinking behind the trees, bursting into a thousand flaming tentacles, she turned a corner and there he was. Standing still she tried to look at him out the corner of her eye, for someone had once told her that was the only way to see ghosts. But this gave her a headache and it didn’t really matter how she stood, the ghost was lost in his own little world.

Most ghosts didn’t bother her, except for the ones who had died in amazingly violent accidents. It wasn’t just their tattered bodies, they tended to put on pompous, la-di-da airs, as if no one else had ever gotten sucked under a millstone while grinding wheat. The martyrs were almost all insufferable assholes. Sometimes, she thought, it was as if they had been told that death was nothing more than a private club and had seriously believed it. The young woman had seen the dead pervert before, though she never had the courage to ask him what he had died from; while the words “Fellatio” and “Porcupine” had never once crossed her mind whatever had killed him had left him with a curious “whittled down” look, as if a samurai once had practiced on him day and night.

The young woman watched him, wanting to see what he would do.

The ghost was sitting against his headstone, wearily running his hand through his gore-encrusted hair. His fingertips left wet marks on his neck and traces of blood on his robe as he reached for belt tie that held most of his dismembered body together.

The dead pervert closed his eyes as he tugged the belt open. The young woman stared slack-jaw as he pulled his robes to his hips, exposing something bluer, thicker and more bulbous headed than a sperm whale’s tongue. The young woman bit her lip. This dead man’s cock hypnotized her; long, mottled, pulsing in his hand as if it were alive once again. She wondered what it would feel like insider her. What it would taste like? Sex with her husband had been torture at best, an endless world of disappointments almost all other times. But this: here was a man who could fuck like a bull-god — she blushed in spite of herself.

The ghost stroked himself, moaning with dreadful long gurgling noises. The young woman found that she was getting just as excited, simply by watching him, fascinated at how his hand tightened after each stroke. She could feel the dampness of lust deep in the core of her cunt awakening, the way an underground stream slowly burbles its way to the surface. She knew she was acting crazy just by watching him; fucking around with the dead never ended well, but right then she couldn’t help it. Her fingers slipped inside her kimono. Her fingers made a slush-slush noise as she ran her fingertips up and down her mossy lips. Her wetness intensified, a cum puddle already soaking the inside of her thighs. A flood that was about to break her wide open.

“I want to cum.”

His eyes opened briefly, staring straight ahead, his blood soaking into the ground, flooding the mound he was buried in, lapping at her feet: “make me cum.”

It was a sad sound, that particular pathetic request. The dead only ask for things they cannot do for themselves. The young woman rubbed herself furiously as she thought of him — one of an army of demonic cocks brimming over with sex magic, succubus spawn and lustful poltergeists, all the phantom lovers kept by anal-fuck witches — his ghostly lips sucking away her orgasm from deep inside her, as if life itself depended on it. “I want to cum,” he said again. The young woman knew exactly how he felt, so did she.

She closed her eyes, knowing she was on the cusp herself. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to help him but her body wouldn’t let her. Instead her legs trembled and she bent in half. A long, sad wail rose up all around her.

“I want to cum …”

His words brought her back as she climaxed with sticky, sticky fingers, glowing softly in the dusk. She opened her eyes and found that she was alone; even the blood-soaked grass he had been sitting on had been wiped clean. She felt bad for the poor ghost and said a prayer for such a thwarted soul. Sexual frustration for the dead really was a unique type of hell.

III.
The nun’s grave, however, nameless, uncared for as the rest, attracted her more than all the others. The strange device of the plump, crudely carved calla lily on a field of blood was to her a perpetual source of mystery. It came to pass that, whether by day or night, when the fury of her husband drove her from their home, she would wander to the dead woman’s grave, lie among the thick grass, talk to the one who was buried beneath it.

In time her love for the grave and the nun grew so great that she adorned it after her sensual nature she was only recently discovering.

She cleared away the mourning band blooms that grew so somberly above it, clipped the grass until it grew soft like desire. Then she brought primroses she collected from the green edges of dewy lanes; red poppies from the rice fields; bamboo from the shadowy heart of the forest. She planted them around the grave so that the sleepy nun, when she finally paid attention, would be happy. For when she died, the young woman knew, she hoped someone might make her little grave look as if it had been the resting place of a grand fairy queen.

As long as she could be near the nun then she was content. All summer long she would lie with her arms deep in its swelling mound of grass, rubbing her cheek this way and that, feeling the earth and sunlight warm her, letting her fingers caress the creamy tufts while the soft wind would come to play with her, boldly lifting up her skirt, encouraging her to part her thighs a little more, to let the sun see what no living man or woman had ever beheld except late at night while she was in tears. From the hillside she heard the shouts of the village men at work in the field. Once in a great while one of them would come, to spy on her, perhaps to catch her while she squatted to take a piss, as the other village women would do. But they always left, shame-faced, awed, hushed, stealing back to their companions, speaking in whispers about the young woman that loved a grave.

In truth, she loved how the nun, the sinful nun, could bring such stillness to the churchyard; how she could make the odors of wild flowers so exquisite; cause dappled sunlight to fall through the leaves just so. The young woman would lie on her back for hours, leaving her blue-green kimono open to the world, gazing up at the summer sky, watching the white clouds sailing across it, tracing with her fingers in the air every fold and crease. But when the thunderstorms came up from the sea, which seemed to her nothing more than ancient gods bulging with uncontrolled rage, she would think of her bad husband, once again drunk on cheap rice wine, and turn over on top of the grave, laying her naked cheek against the grass as if it were a sister or a lover.

What do dead nuns dream of? All the pleasures of life that were denied to them? Drugs and waking nightmares and alcohol and cock and endless balls? Are they condemned to always wear those wooly, itchy robes and odd habits, a miserable costume party, whenever they rise from the ground? The dead only ask for things they cannot do for themselves and this nun had died unsatisfied as well, as all people who forbid themselves grace in life. The greatest spiritual gift humans possess is the orgasm, a door to the divine. The words “ecstasy” and “to breathe” come from the same root; when your ego steps aside and something from the outside fills you with a sublime rapture that gives freedom to the soul, who cares where that grace came from? The dark night of the soul is the grace of cumming. But those who have never experienced rapture know nothing about the divine. So the nun had lived and died and had a lot of fucking to make up for.

The summer wore on, passed into autumn. The trees grew sad, shivering as the time approached when the fierce sea winds would rise up to strip them naked once more. The little village was known for its cool summers and icy winters. A Kawanishi winter was not a time for lovers who could only meet under the blue sky, in the warm grass, pressing their bodies together on the rounded mound the nun was buried under. Often the young woman wet the little grave with more than just her cum, often her tears as the sadness of the season came over her and winter approached. She often kissed the dead nun as they lay next to the gray headstone, as if her lover was about to depart for years and years.

IV.
One evening towards the end of autumn, when the woods looked grim, the young woman heard on the east wind a fierce, wicked growl, as a dog gives right before the house is entered by danger. From her spot on top of the sinful nun’s grave she could hear the screech of the old iron gate swinging open. Hurriedly rearranging her kimono the young woman crouched in alarm behind the headstone with its calla lily on a sea of blood while the nun herself sighed and sank back under the brown grass, the taste of the young woman’s cum still alive on her tongue.

Coming across the churchyard were five foreign men. Two carried between them what appeared to be a long box, two more carried shovels, while the fifth, a tall stern-faced man clad in black, walked at their head. They smelled unwashed, their clothes debased, a fog reeking of rum and consecrated dust clung to their skin. As the young woman watched the men appeared to aimlessly wander back and forth, often stumbling over half-buried headstones, cursing in a curious, nasal language she did not understand; or, stooping down, they clawed back the moss and vines to examine half-obliterated inscriptions written in the stones. As she watched the young woman’s heart beat crazy-blood under her breast, saying a silent prayer that whatever god had sent these men to desecrate the graves of these poor ghosts it would also take them far away.

The men, with the tall one leading, hunted in the vines and long grass, occasionally pausing to utter blasphemes in Portuguese, German and Dutch that would have sounded at home with her old husband. At last the leader turned, walked towards the grave of the sinful nun. Stooping down he gazed at the design on the gray stone. The moon had just risen, its light fell on the plump lily. The tall man stood erect and beckoned his companions.

“I found it,” he said, in surprisingly good Japanese. “Here.”

With that the four men approached, all five of them stood by the grave. The young woman behind the headstone could hardly breathe.

The two men bearing the long box laid it down in the grass and the young woman saw a coffin of bright redwood covered with silver ornaments. On the lid, wrought in silver, was the device of the lily rising out of a red sea.

“Dig it, men, dig,” the tall man ordered. Straightaway the two that held the shovels plunged them into the grave. The young woman thought her heart would break; no longer able to restrain herself, she flung her body across the mound, cried out to the strange leader.

“Lord Priest!” she cried, weeping, “do not touch my grave! It is all I have to love in the world. Do not touch it; she who is buried here is more than my sister. I tend it. I keep the grass cut. I promise you, if you will leave it to me, that next year I will plant on it the finest flowers I can find in the meadows.”

“Idiot woman, what does a heathen know about the holiness of those buried here?” answered the startled, stern-faced man. “This is a sacred ground; she who is buried here was a young woman like you; but a bride of Christ, a saint. Now your ignorant Shogun has ordered all missionaries out of your country. It is not proper that the bones of a saint should be left behind in a country that refuses to be saved. Across the sea we have built a grand mausoleum for all the dark saints, I have come to take her with us. We shall lay her in vaults of gold and marble and pray to her until Judgement Day. Men, do your work.”

In the moonlight the four men dragged the young woman from the grave by her shoulders, tossing her into the brown grass and fallen leaves. Then they dug up the grave — through her tears she saw the white bones clotted with wet earth get gathered together — placed in the dark wooden coffin. She heard the lid being shut — saw the dark figures shovel the earth back into the empty hole. Then they took up the coffin and faded away into the night. The gate hissed once on its hinges, then the young woman was alone.

She sat silent, tearless, on the grave, listening to the shadows move about in the dark. An evening star came out and shown down the cliff to the sea far below, shown on a moving tide that appeared asleep. The young woman knew, though she was too far away to see, that somewhere out in the dark upon that boundless deep, a ship was crossing the horizon; that by the time that the sun would come up everything would be lost to her.

onibaba, my love

10 Saturday Mar 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, story

≈ Comments Off on onibaba, my love

Tags

anal, ffm, Hiroshima, historical, hot springs, Humor, incest, mother-daughter, musician, onibaba, Shinto, story, succubus, threesome, yokai

Author’s note:

In 1964, Japanese film director Kaneto Shindo made a samurai-era horror film called “Onibaba,” about a mother and daughter-in-law who lived in a swamp and murdered passing travelers. In a world that fears women’s sexuality these two took on the personification of female evil, of Onibaba, a character from Japanese mythology. Traditionally, in Noh and Kabuki theater, Onibaba appears as a shriveled old woman with a somewhat maniacal appearance, wild-looking hair and an over-sized mouth full of sharp teeth. She is an Yokai, which generally gets translated into “spirit” or “demon,” and, much like the classical opinion of Medusa, even when she is minding her own business, the male protagonists of these stories have no qualms about trying to kill her.

I am a hairy barbarian, a Gaijin, a foreigner, one with only the slimmest grasp on Japanese culture, and I tend to root for the underdog, especially when it comes to erotic fantasies. As a translation note, the word “Okaasan” that Iriai uses is simply the informal term for “Mother.” Cheers!

* * *

“I know that perversion is the most important thing between heaven and hell. Greater than uninspired love, greater than sterile death, greater even than the wisdom both bring about. For without transgression, there can be no insight. Without debauchery, there can be no compassion. Without the drunken revelry there can be no sobriety. And without any of these, all of life, and indeed, all those who have ever lived it, are a tedious lot of old men, indeed.”
— Kasannoin (Japanese courtesan, 1477)

In the city Hiroshima, in the latter half of the seventeenth century, there lived a curious musician. We shall call him Tatsuo Soga. He was an artist of great genius, though, truth be told, not of popular genius, by which I mean that most people could not stand his music. There was, it was said, something in all his work that was both offensive and fantastic, and as Ludwig van Beethoven will attest, the ticket-buying bourgeois loath all that is both offensive and fantastic. Soga was too fond, his critics claimed, of introducing unfamiliar subjects into his tonal poems. One should not listen to music to discover new terrors, they claimed. The names of his compositions suggested their queer natures: “Tsukuyomi: death of a moon god,” “The Oni at Fukuoka Bridge,” “The Descent of Emperor Jimmu into Hell,” “The Hungry Ghost’s Climax,” as well as many others, all that pointed toward a powerful imagination that delighted in the perverse, the supernatural; an artist that often executed odd, airy, delicate melodies, crafting passages of exquisite beauty, but always formidable, always unnerving.

Tatsuo Soga believed in the decadence of the ancient union between Drama and Song, and brought that decadence to such a fevered pitch in the Kabuki and Noh theaters of Hiroshima, that his Magnum opus, his grand infernal, unpublishable, unperformable composition, “Onibaba, My Love,” an audacious, darker, far more sinister take on the old Shinto tale surrounding the legendary female demon who visited lovers in their sleep. It was in vain that he had struggled to get it performed before the stage. Even the non-judgmental, open-minded dramatist, Sawamura Zenji, master of Saruwaka-cho-style Kabuki theater shook his head when Soga favored him with a sample of one of his most thrilling passages. For, as he explained, the more ribald and obscene the music became, the more the general public who attended the Theater would sneer at it, especially a general public whose ears had grown lazy, some might even say indolent, on the tawdry melodies of mediocre composers of the day. Hiroshima has never been on the cutting-edge when it comes to music, even in those heady days.

Tatsuo was not only a composer, however, he was also an excellent performer as well, especially on the high pitched bamboo flute called a Nohkan, heard in concert halls throughout all of Japan. By that instrument alone he earned a decent livelihood as a member of the troupe of music-hall musicians that performed at the Great Theater of Chiyo. Here formal, harmonious scores by respected composers kept his lewd and gonzo-freak fancies in check, though it was recorded that no less than five times had he been kicked-out and banished “forever and ever” from the troupe for shocking his fellow musicians with his ribald performances, throwing the whole company into confusion with impromptu variations of so vile and diabolic a nature that one might have well imagined that the mountain ogres, the Oni, who had inspired so many of his compositions, now had somehow gotten hold of his instrument as well.

The impossibility, however, of finding anyone his equal — which is to say, his equal during his more lucid, chaste moments — had forced his reinstatement, time and time again. He had now, for the most part, resigned himself to the narrow world of performing the assigned ‘Debayashi’ and ‘Gidayubushi,’ those traditional, drab parts that Nohkan flute players were excepted to perform. But at home he would make amends for his loathing donkeywork that paid the bills, and, wide-eyed, panting, grasp the rigid, throbbing bamboo with ferocious fingertips, pouring forth all night, often until the dawn, sending his chaotic, lascivious melodies out into the street, startling the early morning shop keepers just opening up with superstitious glances at the sky, as if the noise of that high-pitched flute foretold the arrival of some cataclysmic tsunami.

And yet– and yet, his music, his inspirations, his nightmares, did not come to him during the long hours of sleep, like so many wretched souls experience them, they were born during his waking hours, hours spent with his wife, Iriai. Often, on dark nights, she would wait at the theater door with her paper lantern and blue umbrella, to help Tatsuo with her steady arm to lean on; otherwise, in his day-dreaming reveries, who knew where her poor musician husband might stumbled to? He would, after all, follow his “darling Onibaba” anywhere. Neighbors thought it cruel of him to use such an unpleasant nickname for such a beautiful woman. In the legends, Onibaba, the “night hag of Adachigahara,” appeared as a shriveled old woman, dried paps, an abyssal cunt that would literally suck a man’s essence away with a Mephistophelian hunger for flesh. Iriai was, on the other hand … well, if not always respectable in her dress and appearance, then she was at least saucy in her personality and obviously loved the poor man. Which was odd, because she made most men uncomfortable when she stood too close to them. Her hair was wiry and dark like onyx, which she brushed back from her temples into two magnificent braids. Despite her modern charms there was something slightly queer about her, though it was a challenge to say what, exactly, that was. Perhaps it was that she smiled slightly too widely, giving her neighbors the alarming notion that she was about to sink her teeth into their jugular. Perhaps it was that her eyes didn’t blink often enough, so that when a local Casanova or one of the big-cock merchants down in the market talked to her for any length of time their own eyes began unwillingly to blink on her behalf. Regardless, the reason that Tatsuo referred to his wife as his “darling Onibaba” was that, in fact, that she was a yokai, a night demon.

If Tatsuo’s wife caused heads to turn when she entered a room, it was nothing compared to his mother-in-law who lived with them, Raikou, who caused stoic monks to break out in sweat and erections simply by breathing in the same air she had recently exhaled. Of course, living with such a family caused problems of one sort or another. Raikou rarely went out into public, for most human males, driven as they are by simple hormones and a disregard for women, found they could not help themselves with such otherworldly pheromones lingering in the air as she passed by. Still, demonic Alpha females are nothing to trifle with, and more than one merchant and self-styled rake found himself nursing a black eye and broken nose every time he tried anything that was remotely indecent with the strange older woman.

What this meant, though, was that Raikou, accustomed to a randy and libidinous love-life, was stuck at home most days, moodily masturbating over memories of mountain god cocks she use to know, and how, during a thunder storm, a 100 million volts of lightning, if it struck you just so, was much more satisfying than those lame-ass leather and wood dildos the Christian nun missionaries with their unhygienic ways kept swearing by, damn all hairy foreigners.

Of course, Raikou wanted her daughter to be happy. It was the whole point of why she had pushed Iriai into marrying Tatsuo in the first place. Most human males made puny lovers, the sort that had bones that would break during the climax of a good, hard fuck. If a man can’t hold an erection for nine and a half hours at a go then is it really her fault that she had to grind his pelvic bones to jelly just trying to ride out the last of her orgasm? Such disappointments. But not like her son-in-law, though. Often Iriai would be shuddering in orgasm as Tatsuo worked her cunt and clit over with his tongue. He was one who knew the worth of a gentle lick. Soon his wife would be trying to jam his boyish face deeper into her drenched swampland, her back arced as she climaxed, literally flooding the bed for a good five feet in every direction. Then the two of them — she, blurry-eyed from cumming; he gummy-eyed from her cum — would blink and realize that Raikou had been sitting nearby the entire time, watching with something close to religious rapture on her face.

“Okaasan!” Iriai would cry at her mother, trying to disengage her husband’s face from between her thighs, always with little success. Oni cum, it has been noted, especially in the process of drying, becomes something akin to glue. In fact, as the haiku master Issa notes, more than one samurai has met his fate in post-coital bliss when he was not quick enough to wipe his face clean.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Raikou would grin and blush. “After the first eight hundred years sex doesn’t embarrass you like it once did when you were a kid.”

Time passed. It was a difficult peace between Raikou and Tatsuo. Publicly his mother-in-law tolerated him, though she claimed she could not stand his music. He, on his part, found her obsession with her daughter’s sex life a bit troublesome. One night over sake Iriai and her mother were reminiscing about their earlier years, during the heady years of Empress Jingu, when people weren’t so hung up about sex.

“I mean, look at me,” Raikou cried, pink-cheeked from inebriation, her breasts ready to fall out of her kimono as she leaned forward to drag her daughter toward her, to whisper-slobber into her ear. “I’ve done it all — boys, girls, octopus demons from Mariana Trench — and after all that fucking what did I get?”

“You mean, besides me, right?” slurred Iriai.

“O! My darling daughter!” cried Raikou, smothering the younger Oni in her cleavage. “Of course, besides you! I know you are happy. I know you cum every night–”

“Okaasan [mumble-mumble]” Iriai’s words were lost for a few moments until she was able to pull herself free from her mother’s warm embrace. “I, uh, yes,” she said, tossing her long hair back over her shoulder and downing the remaining sake in her cup. “But you know, Tatsuo has such a lovely–”

“Cock?”

“–way with me. What did you just say?”

Then Raikou blurted it all out. “It’s not fair that you get to fuck Tatsuo-chan all the time. I knew him back when you were only a three hundred year-old virgin. And he took your cherry.”

“Well, he took more than just one of my cherries.”

“Shame! My Iriai-tan-tan is not sharing, and here I am at the prime of my life. I’ve haven’t had an orgasm since the Kenmu Restoration.”

Finally it all made sense. Iriai giggled and said it must be the sake talking. She made tsk-tsk noises.

“Come on now, Mama-chan. You have had lots of lovers over the years.”

“After the first eight hundred and two you realize that not one of those bastard ever made me cum.”

“Come on, not one of them?”

“Generally speaking, mountain demons are too rough and the ghosts of drowned sailors refuse to go down again.”

“You’re saying you’ve never gotten off by being licked down there?”

“Look, idiot child, I even hooked up with a Leech god once, you’d think of all the men in the world a Leech god would know how to suck. But what did he say? He had no problem with a male Oni, but when it came to girls, ‘ugh, the taste.'”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Daughter, my sex life is in your hands! You are failing your filial duty by cumming before your beloved Okaasan!”

“Well, what do you want me to do, give you my husband?”

Raikou’s eyes grew to massive proportions and Iriai thought she could see an endless rainbow of gold reflected in them as her mother, clutching her hand, said, “Oh, daughter, you read my mind!”

Tatsuo, who, as everyone knew, was a total lightweight when it came to alcohol, burnt himself terribly by snorting his sake up through his nose in surprise. Spluttering, he gazed at his mother-in-law in amazement.

“What?!”

“I have three decades of sexual frustration ready to come out, son-in-law!” Raikou slobbered, her drool burning small holes in the wooden table top.

“It’s never too late, Mother-chan,” Iriai giggled drunkenly. “I bet he could give you an orgasm.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t– don’t I get a say in this?” Tatsuo asked, wildly. The female Oni is, as folklore will avow, insatiable. The fact that the heroic Mitsuyoshi Jubei, one of the most famed and romanticized samurai in Japan’s feudal era, imploded through an eyeball-shattering orgasm while he was jowls deep in Oni cunt remains common knowledge, at least to those who can read. Even Yosa Buson, one of the masters of Edo poetry, wrote about it: “Entering the Oni’s cunt/ like a fish drawn up from deep fathoms/ the Man’s cock implodes.” It was not one of his better verses.

“Tell you what, Mother-chan, we’ll bet on this. I’ll let him suck you to an orgasm, and if you don’t cum, you win the bet.”

Raikou raised one eyebrow and licked her lips. Somewhere someone was beating a taiko drum but at this news it was suddenly silenced. It had been a long time since she had been on the hunt, back when she once ran naked through the northern mountains, eating the enemy’s marrow and having the Ainu tribes worship her like a god. She loved the Ainu tribes, they were good folk. It would feel good again to get her wicked mojo on again.

“Let’s not be silly,” Raikou made a pouty face and pressed her trigger fingers together, the erogenous dark brown of her areola peeking out from the corner of her kimono. “Daughter of mine, soul of my flesh, there is no bet, besides what would we bet upon?”

“If I win … Tatsuo’s mountain of a cock gets to fuck you up that squishy asshole of yours, passageway to the heavens, and I know how you mumble in your dreams about how much you like it. If you win, I’ll take you to the Aizen-Myoo Onsen mountain hot springs and mercantile establishment.”

“Public baths!” cried Raikou, tossing her cup of sake helter-skelter. “Either way, I win!” Then, turning her blood-shot eyes upon Tatsuo, she cried, bearing her breasts, “Son-in-law, service me right now!”

Raikou laughed. “O! I wasn’t finished mother; I get to watch. I’ve always wondered what it looked like when my husband fucks me pell-mell in my tender little cunt, it’s a shame we higher creatures don’t appear in mirrors. So this time I get to watch!” Iriai was grinning wickedly, as if she was already witnessing her husband’s nine and a half inch-long cock standing potent and rigid before her.

“Er, I really think I should say something here–” began Tatsuo.

“Daughter of mine, you are shameful and I love you!”

Tatsuo cried silently into his cup. These women’s sake talk were always so rude and always led to such violent excess. The idea of anal sex with his mother-in-law frightened him. Iriai’s ass was inhumanly perfect, round and with a sucking action that defied the laws of physics. Indeed, when they were dating Iriai use to joke that all Oni orifices were like black holes, they led to other dimensions that not even light could escape from. Braver men than he had literally been sucked into that dire void, their bodies, starting from their imbedded cocks, seemed to elongate as they disappeared into that howling black portal. Legends tell of divine, ear-splitting crashes as their heads went through, their shoulders hitting the edges. Then, as if the their bodies were toothpaste, slowly, foot by foot, they were sucked, with a terrible whistling noise, into the gulf. Lustful mortal life is so cheap, yet we dream of being sex gods, regardless of the price.

“Think of me, son-in-law,” Raikou purred, slowly raising the hem of her kimono to her hips, “as a supernova about to explode.”

“I’d rather not. How about a game of Cat’s Cradle?”

“Mama-chan, get your koshimaki off,” her daughter cried, referring to the traditional wrap-around underwear, popular for all of the female species at the time. “I think we have a bet. Only, just to make it a bit more exciting, if I win not only does he get to fuck you in the ass, but you have to eat my cunt while I suck on your milky pillows. Marriage can get so boring. If only I could get Tatsuo to grow large breasts like yours, Mama-chan, I think I could be happy.”

“I’m happy with what I have,” sobbed Tatsuo.

“And we still get to go to the Aizen-Myoo Onsen mountain hot springs? That’s where I want it to be.”

“Of course.”

Raikou looked into Iriai’s inhumanly large eyes, then at her son-in-law, who made little puppy-dog moaning noises of fear, then took a long drink of her sake, emptying the cup.

“Fuck it. Either way is going to be fun. Lick away, son-in-law, lick away.”

She pulled her kimono open, exposing her naked thighs, peeled her koshimaki off, sat on the edge of the table. Iriai grabbed her husband by the back of his skull, thrusting his head down to get him encouraged. Once Tatsuo was properly placed against her mother’s girl-lips she moved so she could watch. Raikou spread her legs in ways that should be, for one who possessed the mechanics of a pelvis, impossible, and yet when the older Oni flipped her kimono up, Iriai was surprised to see her mother clean shaven between her legs.

“Oooo, you’re a baldy, too. Like mother, like daughter,” the younger demon quipped.

Abandoning himself to the Buddha’s mercy, Tatsuo caressed Raikou’s legs, working slowly from her knees down to her inner-thighs. Soon he was brushing the backs of his fingers across her pussy lips, which threw sparks against his face, causing her to sigh. Blowing gently across her cunt he kissed her down one thigh, gave the lips a gentle lick. She moved about on the table and as Tatsuo bore down on his task Iriai knew would win her bet.

The long evening passed. Tatsuo licked, nibbled, tracing with his tongue the entire Japanese alphabet upon Raikou’s clit. He sucked on it, prayed to it, fingered her pussy, probing everywhere. She flooded like high-tide on the delta, and he used some of her copious Oni cum to paint sunflowers around her anus’ rosebud, tongued her anal triangle, which she clearly liked. Raikou became wetter, salt-spray splattering in his dark hair, her her wild mountain breathing becoming quicker and quicker. Iriai pulled Raikou’s breasts free, began to play with her mother’s tits, her preternatural nipples. Tatsuo suspected his wife and mother-in-law had completely forgotten their plans of who was to win this bet.

Then it came; an Onibaba orgasm. Raikou shuddered as Tatsuo drowned himself in her, kept at her clit even when she tried to suffocate him between her thighs; pushing him further and further in as she climaxed. He could feel her nails becoming claws, leaving scar-worthy wounds in his scalp. Her human visage was slipping, slightly, like wind momentarily blowing up the skirt of a modest woman — revealing an inner-nature kept in check, but only barely.

“Fuuuck — Fuck Me, son-in-law, I need your cock in me. Now! Please. Fuck me.”

A thousand different melodies ran through Tatsuo’s mind at those words. Who cared if you had to be fucked to death to get your inspirations? If he could simply capture that essence of that experience in song, be it in one of Iriai’s blowjobs or the deepest reaches of Raikou’s ass, that was worth risking immortality for.

Now Iriai was helping him strip out of his own kimono as quickly as possible. “Tatsuo-chan, just ram it in, start fucking her for all you’re was worth,” she whispered huskily in his ear. He momentarily wondered about the second bet. It would be interesting to see his wife being pleasured by his mother-in-law. After all, the whole world is bisexual, when you got down to it, just in varying degrees.

Raikou was panting as she moved closer to her thirteenth orgasm in the last ten minutes. Her eyes were practically black ink wells, he had never seen her in such a demonic heat. Tatsuo thrust faster as she began to hit peak.

“Don’t — pull — out — darling — don’t pull out.”

“Why — would — I?” he grunted between strokes.

“My cunt can reach temperatures of a hundred and four — but only when I — O! O! O!”

At that she ran out of breath for words, uttering a low rumble like a springtime thunderstorm, rolled her eyes up in her skull and wrapped her legs around Tatsuo.

“Faster, boy. Faster, faster!”

Iriai moved around, positioned her face right above Raikou’s. She placed one hand on side of her cheeks, pulled her mother’s face to her, kissing her, then pulling back to gaze down.

“Okaasan, isn’t this so much better? Why have we been denying ourselves for so long?” Iriai kissed her again, pressed forward, letting Raikou open her mouth, accept Iriai’s tongue, gifting her daughter with her own. Tatsuo simply kept his pelvis-grind-fuck going, leaning down to suckle at her breast, feeling waves of cum wash over his hips as Raikou shuddered in another tsunami-size orgasm.

Iriai broke the kiss, quickly striped out of what was left of her clothing, reclining herself on the table as well so that she was open to her mother, ready to collect on the second part of the bet.

Tatsuo slowly disengaged, helping Raikou to sit up. The older Oni then knelt on a chair in front of her daughter’s open pussy. She moved her face towards Iriai’s deluge, started with a tentative kiss, then slowly started to work her tongue to the bone.

Raikou’s ass was now in the air and Tatsuo had yet to cum, so he positioned himself behind her, slipping back in, giving her a slow, leisurely orgasm as she worked her magic on Iriai’s clit. Iriai was clearly enjoying herself, mewing, flashing the ceiling her happy smile as they settled into a three-groove rhythm. Just as his wife was about to cum herself Tatsuo eased out of Raikou and, rounding the table, came up to her, offering Iriai his cock to suck.

“Mmmmm,” she said around her husband’s cock, then, after a deep hard suck, indicated that Tatsuo should go back to fucking her mother.

The three of them tried several different positions before Iriai stopped in mid-finger fuck, repositioning herself and her mother so they were laying belly to belly, cunt to mouth, with herself on the bottom, ordering Tatsuo to “bring the Devil’s cock here.”

She gave it another wild suck, then inserted it into her mother once more, was lapping away at her clit, licking the underside of his cock as Tatsuo ground into Raikou. The three of them were slowly building up into an universe-shattering climax. The first to go over the top was Iriai, quickly followed by Raikou. Tatsuo finally exploded himself, soaking the Onibaba’s cunt with his own sexual satisfaction, his perversions finally catching up with him. He stayed inside Raikou as long as possible, until he had emptied his reserves, pulling out to his mother-in-laws mewls of disappointment, only to be immediately sucked clean by his wife.

Once she was done Tatsuo sat down to watch as Irai tenderly licked her own mother clean of his mortal cum. Raikou gave Iriai’s pussy one last festive lick, then contented herself by sitting next to her daughter’s head, stroking her cheek.

“I have only one question,” Raikou asked dreamily. “Why didn’t we try something like this ages ago?”

“We did,” her daughter replied. “Back in 1369.”

“O piff, you know I can never recall anything prior to moving in next door to lovely Tatsuo.”

“You’ve only known him for six years, Okaasan.”

Raikou started to laugh and Tatsuo saw a deep down smile that he had not seen for a long while. It was the true form of the ancient Yokai; Raikou the Widow Maker.

“I don’t know,” her mother chuckled. “I had too much built-up sexual tension, I suppose. You just took five hundred years off me, I feel like a new woman! Thank you, thank you both for this.”

They chatted for a time, Iriai admitting that it was the best possible way to draw the three of them closer.

“Who knows? While we’re at the Aizen-Myoo Onsen hot springs it might give my husband the motivation to finish that dreadful score he’s been working on for ages and ages.”

“Dreadful?” squeaked Tatsuo, deflated in one corner of the bed.

“Do you think, daughter, that if we waited for another ten minutes that Tatsuo-tan-tan would be up for another round of rumpy pumpy? I still want my rump pumped and all this fucking has made me horny.”

“Ten minutes?” squeaked Tatsuo.

“Of course, Okaasan. If you think Tatsuo can’t handle the two of us, you weren’t paying close attention just now.”

the night witches [3]

14 Tuesday Feb 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on the night witches [3]

Tags

Die Nachthexen, historical, lesbians, Lily Litvyak, Marina Raskova, Night Witch, pilots, Soviet air force, Soviet Union, story, war, World War II

Author’s Note:

My spiritual mother, Colonel Marina Raskova, founder of 588th Night Bomber Regiment — what the Germans in WW2 called “Die Nachthexen,” the “Night Witches” — once asked me, “what is the purpose of prose if not poetry?” She delighted in French Avant-garde theater, Dada art, surrealistic verse, and so do I. If stream of consciousness bores you, dear reader, you might want to read elsewhere. Since erotica is, by its very nature, fantasy, writing about women warriors in an erotic setting, even set during the Siege of Leningrad, can be helpful. For one, it allows me to bypass certain sexist ideas that, surprisingly enough, remain in effect even today. National Public Radio recently ran an article “Women In Combat: Inevitable?” (02/16/12) where a surprising number of readers wrote in with comments that seemed to be based on some sort of odd 1950s-era, Father Knows Best, gender determinism. While my Night Witches are based in the realm of the erotic and the fantastic, that does not take away from the fact there have always been women warriors and there always will be. As always, these stories are dedicated to those of us who have survived.

* * *

[a dream, half wild: the naked ambition of war brides]

A room in a peasant’s cottage on the Ukrainian front. A large fireplace dominates the right. On the left sits a heavy oak table with benches. Woven mats litter the floor. A door at left leads into a bedroom. In the corner rests a cupboard. At the back of the room a wide window with blood-red geraniums poking up here and there, beyond that, an open door. A few rifles are stacked near the fireplace. There is an air of homely interest and care, even tidiness, about the room.

Through the open door women can be seen stacking grain. Others pass by carrying huge baskets of apricots, still more others are loaded down with wood. Every now and then, in the distance, a bugle blows or a drum beat can be heard. A squad of soldiers, none over the age of sixteen, march quickly by the open door. Everywhere there one can feel the tense atmosphere of dread, the anxiety of the approaching war.

Pizlina Katzev, a slight, flaxen-haired girl of seventeen, enters the room. She brushes off a couple stray stalks of hay from her jacket, walks over to a small travel bag with an air of secret determination. Her mother passes by the window, stops, silently appears in the doorway. She is old, work-worn, cranky but sturdy. She carries a heavy load of wood on her back, looking even more weary. She casts a sharp eye at her daughter.

“What are you doing, girl?”

Pizlina jumps, puts the bag in the cupboard and turns to face her mother.

“Who’s going away? They haven’t sent for Zhorah yet?”

“No.”

“Is all the hay in?”

The old woman sighs, drops her load on the hearth.

“Yes. I put in the last load. All the big work here is done, so …”

Pizlina turns, looks at her mother, hesitates, while the old woman begins sorting the wood into kindling.

“I’ll do that, Mother.”

“Let me be, girl. It keeps me from worrying. What were you doing with that bag? Who were you packing it for?”

“Myself.”

Her mother turns, anxious, “What for?”

“Listen, Mother, be still while I tell you …”

“Is there any news?” her mother asks quickly. “Chop-chop! Tell me!”

“Not since yesterday. Only they say Brody is at the front. We don’t know where Jurg or Karolek are, there’s been a battle …”

Her mother sways a bit, closes her eyes.

“My boys, my boys.”

“Don’t think like this, Mother! They might come back.”

Far off a cheer can be heard. Despite the war someone, somewhere, is celebrating.

“What’s that?”

Pizlina looks out the window, shrugs.

“They are cheering the war brides, that’s all.”

“Aye,” her mother nods. “There’s been another soldier’s wedding ceremony. Someone will ask you soon, too.”

“O Mother,” Pizlina cries. “That isn’t what I want to do.”

“What is there that’s better than having boy babies for the Motherland?”

“Colonel Marina Raskova has called for volunteers all across the country–”

“Oh, her.” A dismissive sniff.

“Kamenka, Bratrumila and I saw a newsreel of Colonel Raskova down at the theater yesterday. The Germans are calling them Die Nachthexen, The Night Witches!”

“My daughter, the witch.”

“Yes. That is what I was going to tell you just now. That is why I was packing the bag.”

Pizlina goes over to the cupboard, removes the little bag.

“I– I want to go to Moscow, to volunteer. I want to go tonight. I can’t stand this waiting.”

“You leave me, too?”

“I want to go to the front with Brody, Karolek and Jurg, to drop bombs on the Nazis, to help push the invaders out of our country. Why not, I, too, must do something for my country.”

“Nonsense, you are a girl. Who has ever heard of a female soldier? Fiddle-faddle.”

“Look, Mother, the apricots are plucked. The hay is stacked. You can spare me. I have been dreaming of it night and day.”

“No, Pizlina! Having babies. That is our first duty. Anything else is … unnatural.”

At that there comes a knock at the door.

“Who’s that?” her mother asks.

Pizlina, glancing out of the windows, whispers, “It’s Vasya Pupkin.”

The knock is repeated.

“Open, stupid girl! Don’t stand there!”

The door creaks. Pupkin strides in, tall, with curious patchy skin. His voice, like the pink patches on his cheeks, grow husky and he labors for breath in-between each sentence. His lungs were once vast, now ill used. The blue of his eyes gleams with moisture and his lips lighten until they are no more than a thin purple suggestion, cutting his wide, unwashed face into a smile. Accustomed to having women wait upon him, he turns fondly to Pizlina.

“Well, well, well, well! Not one appypolly loggy. You snuck away from me yesterday!”

He is from Moscow and speaks a polyglot of teenage slang and ancient, Tzarist Russian. It sounds ridiculous. Pizlina glances, highly uncomfortable, at her mother, who does not look her in the eye. Finally she nods.

“This is my mother.”

“Dobby day, Mama,” Pupkin nods.

The old woman rises to her feet and attempts to execute a curtsey. There is something forlorn in the gesture.

“Where did you itty?” He demands of Pizlina. “Here she was, as baddiwad as promising that we were to be married today, my Mama.”

“Oh, no!”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes you did. You let me lubbilub you full on the piggy tips, in front of everyone and Bog.”

“No, sir,” Pizlina says again, taken aback. “You simply fell out of the local tavern, I had the misfortune of passing by you in the street.”

“And then,” Pupkin continues, paying no attention to her, “when I itty to the church today, no bride for Vasya Pupkin. I must skazat, they had a bratchny smeck about that, for I had told everyone I had found the prettiest devotchka for me. But tomorrow …”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, yes, you will.” Pupkin cries, roughly taking hold of her, vodka fumes making the girl squint. “I won’t bother you long. I’m off to the front any day now. Come, marry me! What do you skazat, my Baboochka?”

“Aye. I should like to see her wed,” her mother says.

“There! You viddy? It’s offical.”

“But I don’t know you.”

“Smot me yarbles. Don’t you think I am dobby enough for her, Mama? Besides, we can’t stop to think of such veshches now, Pizlina. It is war time. This is an emergency measure. Then again, I’m a krovvy soldier, that ought to count for something, I should skazat, especially if you love the Politburo, you do, don’t you, Pizlina?”

“…”

“Khorosho, then, we can get married, get acquainted afterward the war.”

“I’m going to be a pilot.”

“Chepooka!” Pupkin laughs. “Pretty devotchkas like you should marry. Uncle Josef, even all the generals, they all have commanded it. It’s for the bezoomy Motherland. Shouldn’t she have my baby, eh, Mama?”

The old woman nods, remote, a million miles from home.

“Of course. It is your patriotic duty, Pizlina. You’re a queer one. All the cheekas are tickled at the chance. But you are the one I’ve picked aahhht. I am itty to have you. Now, you sweet devotchka – come with me!”

“And that,” Pizlina Katzev laughs as she walks across the muddy ground of the aerodrome with her comrade, Florentina, by her side, “was the last I ever heard from that bastard. Someone said he choked on his own vomit later that day, wouldn’t be surprised.”

The day before it had rained and the fog kept the 588th Night Bomber Regiment grounded. Today the girls would resume their daily practicing. Even with having to go a whole day without flying, Pizlina remained cheerful by noticing that near the hangar where she normally climbed into the cockpit of her old biplane, there sat eight new airplanes none of the female pilots had seen before — smaller crafts, with peculiarly curved tails; Yakovlev Yak-1s — each with an up-to-date machine gun mounted just along side the top, right where any forward pilot could conveniently squint down the sights.

“Why, it’s a thousand times better than our old ‘Kukuruzniks’,” exclaimed Pizlina on closer examination, using the Russian word for crop-duster, the ancient biplanes the Soviet air force had allotted their female pilots. “It says, huh, let’s see.” She squinted at the call letters. “Ee-dee nah hooy.”

Just then Lily Litvyak and Tatyana Mozarov strolled up, hand in hand. Litvyak had a great green woolen greatcoat on that she had found somewhere. It was ridiculously large on her small frame, as well as a pair of shiny spit-polished kick-boots.

“Going out for a little spin, Piz’da?” laughed Lily, throwing open the hangar door so that the sun fell full and proper upon the single-seat war machines.

“You can do anything with these uncontrollable cunts,” joked Florentina, stubbing out her cigarette on the sole of her boot, “except fly to Venus. Do you think we’ll all going to get one? Those motors will drag you to Hell … or to the Nazi stomping grounds, whichever you choose. As for stunts, heh,” and she spread her arms wide, “diving, dipping, playing dead, you have never seen the miracles of what a girl can preform who can work a joy stick while snot, blood and fire is erupting all around her. I only hope we go up in one soon. I hear there’s a new raid on in the works then it’s back to the old cardboard and twine Po-2s.”

Drifting away from the crowd Lily moved into the shadow of the hanger as her friend ambled away, talking and laughing, oblivious to everything, musing on that day’s hinted raid. Reaching the clubroom door, the gaggle of girls entered. There were a dozen or more of the flygirls inside, blue cigarette smoke tinging the air. Just as Lily hoped, Oksana Rzaev was working on the engine of a shot-up Ilyushin Il-2, her legs sticking out from underneath the small bomber’s underbelly. Lily remember watching the mechanic’s body before as she sweated under the boiling Ukrainian sun. She would put down her wrench, peel off her outer shirt, her breasts hanging loose in the skimpy t-shirt that all gunners, mechanics and armament specialists were required to wear, swish her mouth out with sun-warmed tea, then cock her head back, spit like a fountain into the puddles of grease that dotted the hanger’s floor. Lily would finger herself at that sight, cumming all over inside her flight suit, as well as later, at the site of Oksana bending over an open engine hood, sweat dripping down her breasts, forehead, lips.

To the city girl Oksana was exotic and alien. Her mastery of the Russian language was terrible and, truth be told, she was probably a dozen or so years older than Lily, but that didn’t show on her broad shouldered frame. She was short, like so many other of the Arctic women, had a welder’s body packed into her boilersuit. Rumor had it she had been a professional boxer once, back in Helsinki, though, of course, such things were unheard of in the more lax warmer climes. She was a refugee from the Winter War. Lily loved to watch the muscle-bound Minerva, a modern-day Roman goddess of wisdom and war, hard at work. Every airplane was different to Oksana.

“Each engine say to me, er,” and she broke into her native Finnish-Sami, the language of shamans, “nyt suunsa ja syö minun pillua.” [1]

“Say what?”

“Eh, you know, pillua,” and the older woman put the victory-sign of her index and middle fingers on either side of her lips and stuck her tongue between them. Lily’s eyes bulged then watered as she tried not to snort coffee out her nose from laughing.

“What! You mean, working on an engine is like licking pussy?”

“Juu! Yes, poosy, leek, pillua!”

“I … well, I never really thought about it like that.”

“Metafora. Just like how every pillua wants to be leeked differently,” Oksana confided. “In an areoplane her buzz only happens when you make her happy. Juu? Yes? Like a kiss – always sounds like a kiss.”

There were few mechanics in the training camp that knew engines like Oksana. When she started to work on a small attack plane like a Kochyerigin DI-6 she would radiate delight at all its complexities, laugh at the Curtiss-Wright engineers who had obviously attempted to stump the Ural mechanic with problems of its radial motor. The whole hanger brought something different, there were female mechanics from every corner of the Soviet Union, but even when Oksana was doing something mundane, repairing a fixed landing gear, she was alive in every movement, as if she were leading a jazz combo, or present when Billie Holiday first hummed the tune ‘These Foolish Things’ under her breath.

When it got beastly hot she’d drag the engine into the deep, dark parts of the hanger, where no wayward eyes could see, then strip off the top of her uniform. Her breasts, arms, stomach would all ripple in the heat. When she worked on a classic engine, like the Petlyakov that Lily flew, she would literally cum. Lily once saw Oksana as she adjusted a bolt on a Peshka Pe-2. Her hips swaying, big black boots tapping out a tune that only she and the forces of the universe could hear. Once she even reached down between her legs with the flat side of a wrench and began rubbing her clit.

* * *

On the day that Oksana didn’t hear Lily approach, she lay on her back, trying to wrestle a bolt back into place. When the shadow of the pilot in the immense greatcoat fell over her face, blocking out the sun, she stopped. Lily stood over the mechanic, one leg on either side of Oksana’s roller board, cleared her throat, trying not to giggle, asked, “Synishku, do you want something to drink?” She purposely called Oksana a ‘darling boy’ just to see her reaction.

When the Sami shaman heard the pilot’s voice, she couldn’t help but smile. She had wanted Lily for a long time. She reached out to roll herself out from underneath the plane, found Lily’s legs planted on either side of her shoulders. She used the girl’s boots for leverage to pull herself out and as Oksana emerged into the sunlight she could see straight up the pilot’s greatcoat, showing off her curvaceous, naked body underneath. The body of a killer.

“Synishku, you didn’t think I walked all the way here just to show off the latest Moscow fashions, did you?” Lily squat down, bringing her cunt inches away from Oksana’s up turned face, asked coyly, “my little king, are you more hungry or thirsty?” Oksana reached up, grabbed Litvyak’s scarred thighs with both of her dirty, greasy hands, brought Lily’s clit right down to her face. She was hungry after a day of working with her hands and ready to sate her herculean appetites.

Oksana sucked all of Lily’s cunt into her mouth at one go, like how one strips down the flesh of a kumquat with their teeth; however, she didn’t break the surface, didn’t leave a mark, only took the girl’s clit between her powerful lips, as if to say ‘my, look what I just discovered.’ Soon she was rewarded with the first fingernail shiver running down Lily’s entire frame. Oksana massaged Lily’s ass, spreading her cheeks wide, bringing all of her down to rest upon her face. Those cunning Alices who consort with the taboo always develop feral, emphatic hungers. Lily knew what the older woman wanted, felt those strong, callous hands on her thighs bringing her closer still. The mechanic took her time devouring in, kissing up, licking down every inch. Then her tongue reached her Lily’s asshole and for only the third time in her life Lily’s short life she was startled, but then cooed for it felt so fucking good. No one had never tasted her there before. It sent shivers through Lily’s battle scarred aura. The universe collapsed in on itself momentarily. She could feel her goose bumps spreading out in waves, infusing all the colors around her in orgasmic shivers.

Lily opened her coat wider, exposing her round ass. She wanted to give the mechanic full access. She loved the way Oksana’s greasy hands left imprints on her legs, her feet, everywhere. Oksana went back to feeding, lightly biting Litvyak’s clit, taking it in her mouth again and again — sucking on it, humming – urging the quivers onward, forward, up, everything between heaven and earth that was in her power to drive Lily wild. The girl looked down just as she opened her eyes. Their eyes met. Oksana could see the lust in that down-turned face, Lily could see the radiant energy staring up at her. They exchanged smiles that pulsed like magnetic fields. They were both lost in their distant worlds, oblivious to the fact that the hanger door was still wide open, anyone walking by could see what they were doing.

Lily started grinding — up, down, up, down — as Oksana’s tongue, her nose and chin, probed her deeper, deeper still. Pity the lover with an one inch tongue. The pilot was so wet. Her pussy was practically gushing. Oksana reached up, grabbed her tits in her boxer hands, massaging them, pinching her nipples, evoking out loud moans with each twist.

“Take off your coat,” Oksana ordered hoarsely. Lily momentarily snapped back to reality. She looked out, around, noticed the hanger door with the shadows of people walking to and fro just outside.

“Synishku, the hanger door is open, anyone can see us,” she moaned.

“Obey your mechanic,” was all the other could get out.

There was no arguing. Lily let the coat fall to the floor, swayed momentarily, turned around, came down on her knees facing away from the older woman. She unzipped Oksana’s boilersuit, ran her fingers down, between the valley of her breasts, over the little potbelly Oksana’s first baby had left behind, down into the mighty hedge of pubes, a wall of curls and colors. She could smell her pussy juices, mixed with all the other smells of the hanger — industrial paint, heavy-duty exhaust, diesel gas, twenty year old oil – all the birthing smells of machines of war.

Oksana stopped feasting on Lily’s cunt long enough to slap her hard on the ass. From far away the tell-tale klaxon siren was winding up. Suddenly she hugged the pilot as if passion alone could somehow protect her. Their faces came together, she kissed, almost fearfully, while Lily caressed the mechanic’s strong back, her biceps, the buzz cut of her hair. Then Lily stood, turned, the greatcoat now around her shoulders, buttoned to her chin, and walked out into the sunlight, taking nothing with her save two greasy hand prints on either of her ass cheeks.

* * *

The clubroom door burst open as the siren sounded off on the parade ground near a grove of trees. It was the general summons for squadron practice. From deep inside the cigarette smoke tinged the air the girls filed out, each in their full flying suits. They saw Commander Popova on the field, watching the mechanics roll out the Yakovlev Yak-1s. Each aviatrix at once mounted her own. Lily, as squad leader, had indicated that she wanted to pair off with Pizlina earlier that day. In the east, from over a monotonous expanse of scarred, war-torn country, came the sullen roar of artillery at the front, a stern reminder of what was close approaching.

In a few moments the entire squadron was aloft, in ones or twos, gyrating playfully, always climbing, swooping higher, until to the naked eye they became nothing more than mere dots in the vast sky.

At a signal from the lead plane they began maneuvering — two hostile squadrons about to engage in aerial combat that would have left the spectator amazed at the girls’ battle tactics.

“Budʹte vnimatelʹny!” said the Commander cried out a warning, her fieldglasses screwed to her eyes. “The Lieutenant is going to loop.”

True enough, Lily’s Yak took a nose flip, was soon flying upside down. Then she leveled out again. The rest of her squad followed suit, then followed their leader into a wicked angle, all of them righting up level once again. The first plane in the other squad, flown by Pizlina, began rolling over and over soon as well. The others behind her began much the same tactics while the first line drew away as if preparing for counter moves. Now they were descending in long spirals, each handful of planes by themselves, yet preserving the mathematical distance required from both opposing sides. Finally the two leaders circled slowly as their respective members followed each other to the ground, some coming in recklessly, others drifting down slow, while others slanting lazily in as they passed under their leaders. However, as giddily as it looked, it was all mathematically timed. The planes saluted methodically as they passed the Commander on the ground.

As Lily and Pizlina taxied their aircraft across the gravel in front of the hanger, the other pilots at last arranged themselves at opposite extremes of the landing stage. Soon all the exhausted aviatrixes had left their busy mechanics who were crawling over the Yaks, while they, discussing what just took place, walked away soberly into the shadows.

* * *

“Are you going to take me with you?”

“Say what?”

“On this raid.”

“What raid?”

“Manda!”

“Did you just call me a cunt?” Lily asked, giggling.

The vodka bottle had been getting passed between her and Pizlina for some time now. Rain kept the Polikarpovs grounded, pointless to send bombers out into a fog when the ground was invisible. At the word ‘cunt’ Pizlina thought she would melt. She reached for the bottle, took a long swig. Lily was sitting on her bunk, leaning against the wall, about a foot away from her. Pizlina stared at the empty bottle for a few moments, then announced there was another one in her trunk.

“A copious supply of vodka isn’t the real reason I want you flying with me,” Lily said.

Pizlina blinked.

“The real reason?” she asked.

“Well, if you want to get up, you can always show off your ass to me, I won’t mind. I’ve always liked a girl with a big ass in a tight flightsuit.”

Pizlina turned around to face her, suddenly feeling very self-conscious in the dim light and warmth of the aerodrome dormitory, while at the same time quietly elated.

“Are you drunk?” she asked Lily.

“Most indubitably,” said the girl from Moscow, “now come over here.”

As Pizlina leaned back she repositioned herself so that she was leaning closer to Lily than before. Before she could say anything Lily she took her face in her hands, brought their lips together. She pulled back slightly blurred, only a tad taken back. She looked the other girl in the eyes, she knew then that Lily Litvyak meant everything she was doing. The quiet elation she had felt turned into total, utter delight. She kissed her again. Pizlina’s lips were plump, soft. Opening her mouth slightly, Lily probed forward with her tongue, rewarded with Pizlina’s tongue making its way into her own mouth.

Pizlina couldn’t recall how long that kiss lasted, they were lost in the moment, but after some time she pulled away, began to kiss Lily’s neck. The girl obligingly threw her head back, giving her access to the muscled lines of her windpipe. At the same time she undid the top button of her shirt, then stopped. The barracks were empty, everyone was in the officer’s club. With a smile Lily placed her hands on Pizlina’s hips, started to run them over her stomach under her loose top, her fingertips slowly working their way upwards towards her breasts, felt her own nipples staring to harden in anticipation. She kissed her again, seizing her lips with her own, plunging her tongue into her moist depths, then resumed her work on the buttons on her shirt. Before long it was hanging open. Still kissing her deeply, Pizlina pushed the shirt back over her shoulders, unhooking her bra.

Lily’s newly freed breasts were now before her. So struck by them was she that Pizlina simply gazed for a second or two. Lily smiled as she looked on; delighted by the way she was in awe of her body. Finally Pizlina tilted her head, again caressed the side of Lily’s neck with her lips, but this time she worked her way downward. Lily moaned quietly as she started to play her breasts with her tongue. She could tell from the aroma that Lily was wet, that thought made her own juices start to flow as well. She thought about all those fantasies she’d had in her little life before now, all the times that she so desperately wanted to make love to a girl while growing up in a village of drunken louts, she also thought of all the times in the last few weeks when she’d been fingering herself while sitting in her cockpit. And during all that time, an eternity of waiting, she had wanted to have a girl just like Lily in a situation just like this; now she did.

The door at the other end of the barracks burst open, sucking out all the warmth and light as four girls entered, laughing, oblivious as Lily sighed and began to button up her shirt. Pizlina was about to say something but the other just shook her head, speaking into her ear.

“There will be time enough when we get back, darling. Be patient. There will always be time.”

* * *

It rained all the next day as well, but Florentina’s speculation about a night raid finally came true. From time to time, Lily, who would be in charge, held private discussions with various members of their night bombing squad. During the dark hours assorted scouts penetrated the cloud banks over the enemy lines, their reports returning being favorable for the plan Lily had in mind. A risky plan, yet, as with all good things, promising, if skillfully carried out.

“Well, well, Piz’da! How do you feel about a little search and destroy?”

This from Lily as she jumped down from her bunk earlier that morning just as the dawn was breaking. The time for teasing had just begun.

Pizlina, still drowsing, opened one eye. The next instant, remembering what the day would hold in store for her, she threw off the covers, leaped from her bunk in her bare feet. At the same time she hit the little lieutenant a mock blow to her abdomen where, according to ancient Greek history, Theogenes of Thasos, the greatest female boxer with over 1300 titles wins in the course of her 22 year career, would always drop her opponent. Then she sprang back, feet maneuvering, fists feinting.

“I can take on the whole Nazi Luftwaffe,” she retorted. “Want some more?”

“Manda, you mad vag gunk, manda!” Lily was laughing as she recovered, retreating, grimacing. “I don’t want any more ugly scars at this stage of the game.”

Night came, with it a thin ground fog that rose white, misty, good for the purpose in hand. The clocks were pointing towards midnight, the witching hour, when two dozen women, wearing their regulation flight suits, gathered at the usual open space, while from the doors of several hangars mechanics silently rolled out their machines.

Each aviatrix gave a few modest adjustments to her own biplane, just to reassure herself that things were all right. Then came a brief minute or two of silent waiting. There were no spectators. The rest of the women at the aerodrome had orders not to appear.

Out in front stood Commander Popova, attended by Lily and Pizlina, talking in low, indistinct voices. Finally Popova looked at her watch.

“It is time. Do your best, you two. Comrade Litvyak, you will veer to the right as you approach the enemy trenches. You, Comrade Katzev,” she said to Pizlina, “will draw to the left. Your squads will follow. Should you meet opposition before you reach your goals, don’t recoil, don’t retreat. Don’t signal unless necessary but obey ever signal given. Good hunting, girls!”

Each pilot returned to her machine, heading out in front of a short double line of six idling biplanes. Lily smiled up at Florentina, who would be her navigator for the flight. About this time there came a sudden blue flare, a signal rocket, shooting upward from beyond the grove of trees. At the quiet signal the leaders taxied away, finally rising, spiraling up into the arching darkness. Presently all had vanished, motors making their familiar putt-putt-putt noise, the sewing machines, zigzagging up toward an easterly direction.

Once clear of the Soviet front line, the double platoon of planes spread out on either hand, flying swiftly, keeping near the earth. The night mists, growing more murky, promised favorable cover from any forward observers. Without question the few advance sentries that still remained near the ruins of a train station they had bombed a week before were keeping indoors. The Nazis had hoped to use the station as headquarters, doubtless expecting a swift assault; however, the Soviet bombardment turned any advance futile so the vast bulk of the Hermann Hoth’s troops pulled back to a safer location.

But for the forward observers, the distinctive noise of motors of the Night Witches close above in the clouds confused their computations. Why were Die Nachthexen flying so low? Might they not be up to more devilment? Then the motor roared over, passed, then dwindled, but towards the east. What did that mean? Their sergeant was telephoning hurriedly as to what was happening.

“Achtung! Airplane motors close overhead. No bombs.”

Presently the drum and thrum of approaching biplanes became more audible along the eastern portion of the front.

From her plane Lily made private signal to the others to put on all speed. It was not a minute or so after that that the raiders were upon the front trenches. Each woman sat with the release wire of their bombs within easy reach. The handle of the machine gun handy, its deadly muzzle pointed along the top of the fuselage into the dark future.

At the final signal down through the night air dropped bomb after bomb as the line passed over those open trenches in which German troops were massed. As they fell and exploded their flashes could be seen distinctly. Great tongues of flame leaped high along with dirt and debris skyward as if trying to reach the aircraft that had hurled the destruction down upon the cowering shadows. A dull boom told of an explosion, then another and another. The air rocked with the disturbance.

By this time heavy-caliber machine guns began to splatter shots among the darting planes, while further back anti-aircraft artillery rounds were fired into the night and exploded into clouds of smoke and fragmentation that pockmarked, black upon black, the heavens. On they went. In a minute or so the gas-bags would be in sight, the zeppelins; for these observation balloons were the real object of this nocturnal journey.

Suddenly one of the planes in Pizlina’s close formation began to belch fire all around her left wing where it joined the fuselage. Whoever it was in that plane was gliding without power, it seemed, cutting the engine, slowing up and pulling off to the right in the direction of a moderately empty stretch of countryside, fighting now to save herself and her navigator. She was too low for them to jump, there was not time for the biplane to climb to a sufficient altitude to permit a chute to open. Slowly the little wooden craft lost speed, began to settle into a glide that looked like it might come to a reasonably safe crash-landing. But Pizlina could see that the flames were spreading furiously all over the left side of the ship. Right before it touched down the left wing came off. The Polikarpov cartwheeled, a great shower of flame, smoke and sparks appeared just ahead of the point where the bomber disappeared.

“Onward!” came the signal from Lily’s plane, running a gauntlet of tracers and cannon fire, steering to the left, rising higher from the forty to fifty foot level they had so far kept to. The squadron made for the rear line. Here rose a shadowy line of oval bags, so shaped as to qualify them for the term “zeppelin,” though far less regal or large than their commercial brethren. In daytime their elevation enabled them to see over a great expanse of that level, war-ruined countryside.

There were open gondolas below each, but here, too, the Nazis were at a decided disadvantage. Evidently no raid was anticipated, for there they swung, hardly half-manned except by the few drowsing guards at night watch. In and out among them shot the planes, their machines belching their curtain of steel, with the Nazis apparently too dazed to make much resistance or lower their zeppelins to the ground.

Using explosive bullets that flared at the moment of contact soon the bags of gas ignited, one after another. As a burst of flame enveloped the last zeppelin, Lily was already mounting higher when she saw Pizlina’s plane go corkscrewing earthward with one of her wings shattered.

“What ought we do?” Lily called into her microphone that connected her to her navigator.

“What do you mean?” Florentina asked, peering over the side of the cockpit into the dark.

“We need to put down, we need to go find them.”

“I don’t see – wait, there is something burning down there. Do you think you can put us down in the dark?”

“It’s a still night, foggy, terrible for anything besides not being seen. Of course.”

Taking her bearings as best she could, Lily swung the plane into a wide arc, heading back westward, keeping at an elevation of six or seven thousand feet. The moon came out behind a cloud for the first time, she could see a little road, even partway across the field they were heading for. Briskly yet carefully working her machine, the girl from Moscow descended until she was able to flatted out over the darker background shadows of war-torn earth.

Circling round at an even lower level, the ground came up fast through the mist. Gently, cautiously, she felt her way downward, easing up in speed as best she could. The wheels jolted over rough but level terrain, until the plane came to rest along a dirt road in a small field. Far to the east the sky glowed red. Quickly she adjusted the controls, killed the engine and, revolver in hand, boldly leaped out.

Except for the lurid flashings of the distant artillery it was dark. Leaving Florentina to guard the plane Lily raced across the field toward the burning wreckage. A heavy, yet trembling groan of metal, bending in its own immolation, startled her. It was a noise of nothing more but mechanical pain. It slowed her course. Stumbling forward, she almost tripped over a body laying prone across her path. The dying plane gave another horrid metallic groan.

Dropping to her knee she gently turned the body over. It glimmered in the moonlight — a face at once both familiar and horrible. A face she might have called beloved one day, yet so ghastly now in its disfigurement that Lily shivered, drew back, then bent forward once more, hating herself for such a reaction.

“Pizlina!” she asked. “Is this you?”

The one eye left opened faintly, the gashed lips made a noise that was less than a mutter. Lily shuddered as she saw that the face, indeed the whole head, were so torn by the impact that had thrown her from her plane that it was only a question of minutes, if not seconds, before she would be dead.

As it was, Pizlina’s one eye recognized Lily. She tried to speak, but faintly. Lily reached down and took the girl’s hand. She sat there for a full five minutes holding the dead hand in her own, looking intently into the face. She never uttered a sound all the time, except once and it was only a sniffle.

Finally she put the hand down. She reached over, straightened the points of the pilot’s shirt collar, then she rearranged the tattered edges of the uniform around the gaping wound. Then she got up, walked away down the road in the moonlight, back to Florentina.

There was a little copse of trees at the end of the field, but long ago the ruthless shelling had reduced most of the timber to scraggy, scarred skeletons. Still they were dangerous for planes when trying to land — or to rise again. The fog was rolling in once more. Soon all of this would disappear, as if it belonged to another world. A shaman’s journey into a fever-induced nightmare.

A little while later the war machine was flying through the fog, quicksilver in the night, gradually lowering its altitude, advancing across the lines of the enemy, revealed only to the pilot and navigator by the flashes from the barrage of distant artillery in the rear.

Almost in an instant they were over the front platoons, spectral, flying as close as they dared in order to escape the bombardment that was now passing overhead, falling here and there over the front trench line of the Germans.

Occasional a few shots were fired upward by soldiers who turned far too slowly at the sound of the noise, a phantom in the clouds; however, the ghost machine vanished almost at once, and the quicker of the men, these lumps of clay that sat in the dark, would urge their fellows to holster up their guns, to keep quiet, keep respectful of the night, for all around them, and high overhead, it felt as if the dead were too near. [cont.]

FOOTNOTES

[1] “Nyt suunsa ja syö minun pillua.” I understand using untranslated foreign words in stories is irritating. I spent some time trying to find out how to say “lick my pussy” in Finnish, or Norwegian, or Sami, one of those North-polar languages the shamans used to speak to the spirit-world with. I finally found this phrase, which Google translates into “Now shut up and eat my pussy.” I guess my point was that oral sex, much like mechanical engines, requires a whole different language most people never bother to learn and sounds alien when spoken aloud. Still, there is a reason why everyone loves Oksana’s skilled fingers, regardless of how it sounds when written down on the page.

Other foreign phrases used:
“Budʹte vnimatelʹny” / “Watch out” in Russian.
“Ee-dee nah hooy” / “Fuck you” (spelled phonetically) in Russian.

mizukume: the fox-spirit

03 Friday Feb 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on mizukume: the fox-spirit

Tags

boat, cunnilingus, fox spirit, ghost, historical, Japan, Kyoto, lesbians, Mizukume, story, war

Author’s Note:

“History,” Napoleon Bonaparte once said, “is an agreed upon set of lies.” I like that quote because it helps me understand some of the prejudices that modern society, in all its wisdom, keeps holding on to, such as the concept that there never were any women warriors, or, at least, if there were then they were isolated instances during extraordinary times. The period of Japanese history this story takes place in is called the “Warring States Period,” a ten year long civil war between two powerful men, Hosokawa Katsumoto and Yamana Sozen, which then escalated into a nationwide war over who would be the next shogun. A lot of samurai movies from the 1960s and 1970s are set in this period; local warlords, daimyos, and their armies, all laying siege to each other’s castles and the like. Akira Kurosawa’s 1985 film “Ran” is set in this period. But that’s not what interests me.

Recently the U.S. War Department has contemplated allowing women serve as front-line soldiers, a level of equality in the armed services we’ve yet to attain. Many conservative groups have tsk-tsked the idea, though most of their objections seem to revolve around being squicked out at the idea of menstrual blood and cooties, in one form or another, and more than one talking-head pundit has made the claim that “the frail sex” simply is not the stuff of warriors. This is, of course, bizarre, since, as long as there have been wars, there have been women who have proved themselves again and again, not just in secondary roles, but as front-line soldiers, as generals and as strategists. In the bloody, feudalistic era of Japan there was a whole upper-class of female warriors called the Onna-bugeisha, trained in bushi (the way of the warrior) and the use of weapons, who fought along side their samurai counterparts. Significant historical figures, such as Empress Jingu and Tomoe Gozen, were, along with other women, all Onna-bugeishas who came to play an important role in Japan’s history. Though the term is only used once as a reference here, the point I wish to make is that Amaya (whose name means “night rain”) has the option of becoming a front-line soldier if she wished, something that today’s female American soldiers don’t have.

* * *

Love fills me completely
But after my first climax
Alas, she is gone.
— Kasannoin (courtesan, written on the eve of the Onin War, 1467–1477)

Snow. There was a moan, running backwards into the falling silence of dark flakes, golden dust motes. All that was simply reflecting upon itself over and over. Dark moments turned into light into dark into — it was afternoon. Warm winter sun slipped through the bamboo curtains. The young woman sat on her sleeping mat, legs akimbo, robes undone, an edge of black hair, a mouth perpendicular, then fell back, stretched out. A nice little warmth in her belly. When she rubbed, first it was nice, then it was good, then she itched in a way that was both curious and weird and — she forced herself to breathe, rubbing deeper, squeezing, warm-wetness between her legs, liquified heat in her belly, rising in pulsating waves. She panted and rubbed and something broke, she thought something broke, a release, an abominable gushing — so much! — gushed out of her, all greenish heat and bluish light and her legs wobbled and she slid, panting, into puddle on the floor.

The bedroom’s sliding door was open. She brought her hand up; peered at it. Something was wet, smeared against her fingers. She could feel her soul pulse, throbbing away out on the tips of her cum-coated fingers.

Yes. The bedroom’s door was open. Curious. There was no light in the room, though swirling snow fell outside. Why was the bedroom door open? From far out in the dark a fox barked. For, there, outlined against the bleak light of the winter dawn, a figure stood at the bedroom door. Silhouetted. The young woman on the floor, flustered, attempted to pull her robes around her naked shoulders. But even as she began to move, suddenly, there were hands reaching down to grab hers, a shock of impossibly white hair like what the dead wear when they visit you in your dreams, and the young woman was on her feet, her kimono billowing while the two of them now ran; away from the bedroom and the dark and the light and now the one in the dark robes, holding her hand, had begun to laugh and suddenly the young woman laughed too and they crossed a field of dust and snow, their bare feet leaving not a single track in the drifts and tumbled against a stone wall with frozen aloe plants all in the nooks and crannies and the stranger kissed the young woman, a brush of sharp lips, whiskers, a quick dip of her tongue against a closed lower lip. Her skin was darker than the young woman’s, her hair larger, her body thicker, her voice richer. She tasted of roses and cinnamon. Tongues explored, coaxed, exhilarated. Fingers laced with the cruelest of claws running between the young woman’s open thighs as she, for the first time, touched the stranger’s kinky hedge of pubic hair, then slipped into wet slick flesh.

There was a pounding in her ears. Blood. A war kettle drum. A fist banging upon a wooden door. The ghost of all this desire pounding against the heart.

The wind, naked and flushed and glowing, found them. Snow curled around them, pressed together, grinding, this new hunger that led from hand to hand to fingers to fingers to lips to lips to …

… Amaya no Sozen sat up in the darkness of her bedroom, roused from her rabid dream by a violent muffled knocking. The house was full of indistinguishable sounds. Her little room was dark, cold. She huddled against the tatami mat again, pulled the coverlet round her shoulders, still listening. She knew that the knocking had been on the outer gate, she could hear horses in the courtyard, the clatter of armed men dismounting.

A quickly-moving glow, a lantern on a pole, flickered across her narrow window. Doors could be heard opening, shutting, footsteps running along the passage.

Unable to endure her curiosity any longer, she sat up again, leaned over her sleeping mat to prod her little brother. They shared the same room, along with their old nurse maid who slept next to her. Chizuru, though, was gone and her brother dreamed on, undisturbed by the sudden clamor which had broken upon her during a long winter night.

“Wake up!” she whispered with impatience. “Wake up! I believe father and elder brother Mori have come home!”

The younger child stirred, sighed.

“Don’t you want to go see?” his sister asked.

“But it is only father!” protested the half-awake boy. “If we get up to go on to the stairs he will probably see us and scold us.”

“How can you sleep, Ki-yo?” Amaya asked, brushing a lock of black hair out of her eyes. “When you know father has just come home?”

“I am not sleeping.” Kiyotaka sat up grumpily, shivered in the February air. “How do you know it is father? It may be Yoshi.”

“Yoshihisa has gone to Nagasaki,” replied the young woman, in wise, eager excitement, “but our father only went to Kyoto. Nagasaki is a much greater distance away.”

Sister and brother listened in dark, fixing their straining eyes on the streaks of light that now showed faintly behind the shoji screens.

“If it is our father, he will want to to see us,” remarked the young woman.

“There is a great deal of noise,” responded Kiyotaka. “They seem to have forgotten all about us. Where is Baa-chan? I want a light, I hate the dark. You get up, Amaya-chan, see what is is all about.”

Eagerly the young woman stood, the sash of her sleeping robes trailing behind her as she fumbled across the cold dark room, then out into the upper gallery, full of flickering lanterns. Flushed with excitement, she stood still and listened. Amaya was just now nineteen, with a small compact face, bright dark hair flowing down below her hips. Seeing no one, not even Chizuru, who usually stood so diligently behind her ward, nor Morioka-sensei, her tutor, who was never generally far away either, she pattered across the dark gallery, looking over the head of the stairs.

She knew what her father wore when he went out: his purple and gold kimono, the emblem of the Shogun, his banner with the design of bamboo leaves and the moon, which, ever since she could remember, had been on the great northern gate of Raikou Castle, where she had been born and lived.

Now there were men in the great hall below, but none of them bore her father’s banner, nor the swallowtail butterfly descending upon a sprig of wild ginger, the coat of arms of the Nakahara clan, their allies. Her younger brother came up behind her, shivering.

“Why have you taken so long? What has happened?” he asked, peevishly.

“I do not know,” whispered Amaya, “there is a crowd of people down there, but they seem to be strangers. I can’t see father, Mori or Yoshi.”

The two of them huddled together, alert, curious, somewhat uneasy.

A few months ago their peaceful life at Raikou Castle had been interrupted by a rebellion. They had been taken, as prisoners, to Yakunan Castle, where they had escaped only by their mother’s vigilance, back to Edo. Then they, along with their little sister, Akki, had been put into the sanctuary of the head monk, Osaka-gûji, at the ancient Maruyama Shrine.

Their father, though, had defeated the rebels, pacified the district, then brought them here to Koga’s estate, the heart of Raikou Castle, on the banks of the river Sumida. The family felt secure once again when their mother had told them that the poor witless Emperor made their father Shogun. But that pleasant security had lasted only a short while before Hosokawa Katsumoto, their uncle, refused to be bound by the divine will of the Emperor. He had raised a new rebellion, shortly before the eve of Shogatsu, the Shinto New Year’s Festival, that the Shogun and his two older sons had gone out beyond the city gates to put down. Amaya had wanted to go, too; but her father had laughed, though his son, Yoshihisa, the Daimyo of Qijue, the one who had gone north to put down a rising of the Omura clans in the province of Nagasaki, had said he would like to take Amaya with him, for she was both serious and well-trained, then to teach her how to be an Onna-bugeisha, a female warrior.

“A Sozen lady riding out to do battle?” her father had joked. “You have been spending far too much time with your romantic poetry and fairy tales, my son.”

Now the entire household appeared to be gathered in the great hall: Jito, the steward of the castle; several high ranking Shinto priests; the captain of the samurai; even the low-ranking servants from the kitchen. As for Amaya and Kiyotaka, their anxious eyes soon discovered their mother and, with her, Ki-yo’s nanny. Both were still in their sleeping gowns, their hair undone. Their mother sat by the great hearth on which a few embers of the day’s logs glowed. The old woman, Chizuru, and Amaya thought this odd, was kneeling beside her lady, holding her hand. Standing before the women was the one man that Amaya knew instantly from all the other warriors present: old Nobuhide Oda. He was bareheaded; his white hair was matted together with blood. There was blood, too, on his hands. Amaya saw this with shock, blood on his hands as he moved them — up, down, up — fleshing out with simple gestures what he was relating as he spoke in a low, exhausted voice. Amaya noticed, as well, that his battle armor was torn and beaten and that the butterfly and the ginger on his banner had been ripped into shreds.

The two siblings crept down the stairs. No one looked up, no one heard their hesitant bare feet on the oak wood. As Amaya drew nearer, she observed her younger sister, Akki, bright-eyed, silent, sat on the other side of their mother, clinging to her neck. Amaya’s heart beat quicker at the strangeness of the scene. She set her earnest face decisively as she went slowly forward. Kiyotaka had not so much self-control, though. He began to half-sob, half-whimper, holding onto his older sister’s hand, staring at the little group standing close to their mother.

At this sound a shudder ran through the lady sitting by the fire. She got to her feet at once.

“They are marching straight to Edo, you say?” she asked, then came to the foot of the stairs. “We will be besieged.”

Amaya wanted to embrace her, but was too shy to do so because of the strangers, neither did she dare ask about her father or her brothers. Her mother’s face was terrible, she could hardly recognize her, yet she spoke as if she had complete command of herself.

“Amaya and Kiyotaka; return, hurry into your clothes. You, Chizuru-chan, go up, assist them. Quick! No talking, not a word! Tell them nothing.”

The nanny had hurried back to the room. She led the little boy by his hand, urged Amaya on and the young woman could judge from Chizuru’s expression that something atrocious had just happened to the House of Sozen. By the flare of a solitary candle the two were dressed in their travel kimonos, gowns and caps. The nanny said nothing to either. When they returned to the great hall, fresh logs had been placed on the fire, the flame were billowing upward, casting weird shadows. A grave Shinto priest was standing by their mother. Akki, still bright-eyed, resolute, was seated in the chimney-corner, warming her bare feet near the fire. Their mother drew her children into the warmth.

“You are going away tonight,” she said. She spoke so calmly that Amaya’s heart leaped with relief. If she could talk like that, nothing so dreadful could have occurred. “I am going to send you abroad with Chizuru-san and Morioka-sensei, your tutor. You must do as they say, so you can come back very soon.”

Amaya blinked.

“What do you mean? Send us abroad? Where?”

“The King of Ryukyu, Sho Shin, has been a friend to your father. You will be safe there.”

Kiyotaka protested.

“I don’t want to go on a boat. I want to stay in Edo.”

“It is not safe in Edo, young lord,” spoke the Shinto priest, kindly. “Not even in this fortified castle.”

“Is Akki-chan coming with us?” asked Amaya.

“It were better if she went,” said the priest, “and you, too, my lady.”

Their mother shook her head.

“I must be here to meet my son,” she answered.

At this Amaya shuddered again, why didn’t her mother mention her father? Why “my son,” and not “my sons”?

The great door was opened, someone said the horses were ready. Morioka was there with his parcels in one hand, while lanterns were being lit in the courtyard, their flames wavering, fluttering in the rising wind.

The Shinto priest blessed the sister and brother, commending them to the care of Buddha and the Seven Lucky Gods. Their mother embraced the boy, but could not bring herself to look at Amaya. Then, quickly, she took a cruel knife from off the wall, put it in the young woman’s hands, telling her to make a good companion of it during the voyage. Then she turned away from all of them, crouched down by the fire, clutching her youngest daughter in her arms.

Old Morioka put heavy cloaks around his wards’ shoulders, hurried them out of the Koga’s estate. Snow was in the courtyard. Two horses stood nearby, as well as samurai guards. Morioka mounted one horse, pulling Kiyotaka up behind him. Chizuru and Amaya were to ride in a lacquered palanquin. The litter carriers set out briskly, through the gate and into the dark. The wind was becoming stronger, blowing up from the river. It felt as if it were filled with tiny splinters of ice.

Time passed silently in the dark. Despite her anxiety, Amaya began to feel sleepy. Lulled by the clop-clop of the wooden sandals, the the winter air on her face, all the disturbing sights of the ride, the dread of what the night must hold, all began to blur together, then blend into a dream. A smell, vulpini-like, musk-like, came to her, the scent of a wild beast in heat, a hand stealing inward, over her rounded hips and tummy, heading relentlessly towards her lush, pouty cunt lips. Down over her bedewed folds, queer fingers dancing. Amaya’s body shivered in response as her pussy trembled under the touch. But she woke with a start and followed the old woman up a gangway and onto a ship with sails set that rose above them all, monstrously huge. Once up top, dazed by the dream and journey, she saw that the deck was piled with bales of merchandise. Sailors from Korea and China were moving about, talking in tongues she did not understand.

She saw her sensei arguing with the captain, Morioka’s thin, slow fingers plucking out of a leather bag, putting it into the sailor’s hand. Kiyotaka was protesting with his nanny, crying out in disgust about the ship, the smells, the looks of the crew, the wind in the rigging, the noise of ropes creaking. Looking across the water, Amaya saw a cluster of dim lights either side of the riverbank — the ancient city of Edo — as they passed by; and then, further down the river, the lights of Yokohama itself. Over everything hung a faint sprinkle of stars, loose dark clouds moving swiftly toward the sea.

When the ship began to move into deeper water Amaya thought of her mother left behind in chaos and of her little sister, Akki. Then she thought about her father and her brothers and all those who would never return. She did not know what terror had overtaken them, but in a fit of hopelessness that shook her, the young woman fell to her knees on the deck, despite all her efforts to remain in control and began to cry.

Chizuru helped her up, the tears streaming down her face as well. She pulled the younger woman into the cabin which the captain had told them they might occupy. It was on the deck, furnished with rough mats for a bed, piled round and round with bales of products: Tokachi rice to make Obihiro wine.

Amaya refused to speak, she would not say what dread she felt. She clutched the knife her mother had given her. When the nanny was not looking, kissed it. Soon, so that the old woman could have a little peace of mind, Amaya pretended to be asleep.

Chizuru finally left her, then, peering over the edge of the nearest bale, she saw, by the light of the great ship’s lantern which penetrated the cabin doorway, that Ki-yo was asleep as well.

Quite still, very much wide awake, Amaya thought over what had happened. Had her father been defeated by the rebels or, perhaps, was he their prisoner? That would mean her brother, Morikuni, would be a prisoner, too. Staring into the gloom she could make out the coast that now lay far off, a few scattered lights showing, like so many low stars, pinpoints fading away, then Nippon was lost in darkness.

The nanny, followed by the tutor, crept to the cabin door, sitting huddled in their robes, sheltered from the wind. They began to talk to each other, consoling themselves and Amaya, whom they supposed asleep, listened.

She heard the nanny whisper, “they cut off their heads, stuck them on the Sanjo Ohashi Bridge at Kyoto.”

“Where was the fighting, do you know?” whispered the tutor. “I heard it was near the grounds of the Sendai Tanabata Festival.”

“I do not know,” answered the nanny. “I heard they fought down by the river. Who can tell the truth?”

“Nobuhide-dono,” said the tutor, “thought it was a hunting party. A counselor of the second rank said that our Lord came out from Sendai Castle to help them, but I could hear little of it for the confusion.”

“What does it matter,” moaned the nanny, “since they are all dead with their heads decorating the Sanjo Ohashi Bridge!”

“Nobuhide-dono said he saw our Lord’s son overtaken a little before the grove, beyond the bridge, on Jozenji Street, the one leading up to the market-place. He was killed within half an hour of leaving the castle!”

“Yes, it is young Morikuni who is our worst loss,” sobbed the nanny. “He was not even twenty and would have ruled for years and years. It seems but yesterday that I had him at my knee!”

“Where would the rebels be now? Their headquarters are in Kyoto, I’ve heard.”

“They are marching on Edo right now.”

The tutor and the nanny spoke disjointedly, expressing, little by little, their thoughts, their grief, in short sentences which fell with dreadful clearness on the ears of the young woman laying in the dark of the cabin.

“And there was no news of Yoshi? No news of Lord Yoshihisa?”

“No. He will still be at Nagasaki, facing the Omura clan. He might not even know what happened.”

“Nobuhide-dono said the slaughter was hideous, blood everywhere, two thousand slain, the prisoners killed. There are heads nailed to every bridge in Kyoto. Seiji Nakimura is slain, as well as the Lord of Funai. Did you hear what that poor priest reported he saw? Fifteen miles on either side of the road the country has been ransacked. That devilish usurper’s troops are even setting the shrines ablaze.”

Amaya lay rigid, tearing at the coverlet with her strong teeth, as a horrid malady seemed to overtake her will; sapping her of strength, courage, a will to go on.

The night slipped by. The ship, at length, gained the open sea and began to sway. The lanterns swung back and forth, casting rhythmic patterns of light across the floor of the cabin, shadows reflecting upon themselves, over and over. Dark turning into light into dark into — the young woman began to shake feverishly.

Whose heads were they talking about? the ones on the bridges at Kyoto? Who had been killed?

The two whispering, hunched shapes in the doorway mentioned her father, Yoshimi no Sozen, as well as her brother Morikuni, then about Seiji Nakimura, her dear good friend. Then about Funai, her uncle. Had all these people been killed? Was it their heads on the bridges?

The young woman turned on her knees in the dark, began to pray, clutching the cruel knife her mother had given her to her naked skin. The metal chilled her, but she pressed it closer, until the edges left marks, curious designs, in-between her breasts.

The ship was now lurching from side to side, the wind growing much stronger, there was a whining, a whistling from up in the rigging and the waves rose higher.

How could Kiyotaka sleep?

Amaya, lonely, frightened, crept across to her brother, touched his warm forehead.

Kiyotaka was beginning to groan in his sleep. She curled up on the floor next to him, hoping that she could warm him. But in his delirium he rolled this way and that, so that soon, feeling feverish herself, Amaya crept away. The tutor entered the cabin, holding a small lamp in his unsteady hand, then peered about from the boy to the young woman, sighing deeply, thinking of their sudden fall from grace and the dark future that lay before them. For, faithful as he was to the House of Sozen, he did not doubt that that the family was destroyed and scattered to the wind. Few that had been exiled to the Okinawa kingdom of Ryukyu ever came back.

Who was left of the clan now but a handful of women, these two and young Yoshihisa, who, for all Morioka knew, had been killed by the victorious followers of the House of Omura?

As he stood there — a weary, sick, spiritless old man — he observed Amaya’s bright eyes gleaming from the floor.

The young woman sat up, shaking.

“Morioka-sensei, where is my father? Where are my brothers?”

“Dead,” whispered her tutor. “May Lord Buddha have mercy on their souls. May Buddha look after you, too, my Lady Ama-kyou.”

“So it is their heads–” Amaya began, then could get no further. “–that are on the Sanjo Ohashi Bridge?”

“How much have you heard?” asked the old man. “Why were you not asleep just now?”

“Where is my uncle Funai?” demanded Amaya, ignoring his question. “And Lord Nakimura?”

Her cheeks were shining, her lips parted.

Morioka sat down by Amaya. He took the stricken young woman in his arms to comfort her, but although Amaya was usually affectionate, now refused all comfort, pulling away, shaking, feverishness, asking in a high, strained, excited voice for her father, demanding to know whose heads they were on the bridges at Kyoto?

The winter wind blew the ship, plunging, dipping across the dark waves of the Eastern Sea, the lanterns sent rummy shadows streaming across the deck and the voice of the wind, talking in its deep, throaty alien language, silenced the regular cries of the waves. Kiyotaka moaned in his sleep. Amaya was awake, hot, delirious.

She thought that the swinging lanterns were like dead heads, severed at the neck, lit from within, then the sound of the waves was changed into the clangor of battle in which all her friends and family fell, hacked down and cut in one crimson howling rainfall.

The tutor, sick, dismayed as much as the young woman herself was, tried to fight such phantasies with words of hope, but, instead, he found himself overwhelmed by Amaya’s nightmares.

Amaya struggled, finally slipped into restless sleep. Morioka covered up his charge, laid himself down, groaning softly, on the tatami mat between the two, so that the fugitives passed into the endless night, but their dreams would not let them forget.

As the merchant ship plunged through the billowing waves that broke both equally upon their bow and the far away islands of Okinawa, Amaya woke suddenly. Though it was winter, sick-sweat ran down her back. She glanced about her in terror. She recalled the events of the night which brought them out into the middle of a storm on the high seas. Looking about she saw that her three companions were still asleep. The cabin’s sliding door was open. She brought her hand up; peered at it. Something was wet, smeared against her fingers. She could feel her soul pulse, throbbing away on the tips of her blood-coated fingers.

Blood? She brought her fingers to her lips.

Yes, that coppery-metallic taste. What was more, the cabin’s door was open. Curious. There was no light in the room, though heavy rain fell outside. Why was the cabin’s door open? From far out on the sea thunder boomed, a bark of some fox god. For, there, outlined against the bleak light of the winter dawn, a figure stood at the cabin door. Silhouetted, a shock of impossibly white hair. She wore a dark kimono, smiled at the ill young woman jubilantly. Her face was narrow with close-set eyes, thin eyebrows, high cheekbones.

Amaya searched for the knife her mother had given her. As her sticky fingers closed round the leather-bound grip she felt a thrill of courage, then mustered the boldness to whisper into the dark, “Who are you?”

She wanted to say more, but at that moment a coughing fit caught her and bent her double in pain.

The woman replied in the dark, “I am your humble servant, m’lady, Mizukume.”

Coughing deliriously, Amaya couldn’t even get a single word out. Suddenly the stranger was on top of her, a blur of silk and fur, holding her down, peering into her eyes, smiling. Amaya’s coughing slowly died, to be replaced by Mizukume kissing her. The pressure of her vulpini lips on Amaya’s shocked, then thrilled, her. When the woman finally released Amaya, pulling open her kimono, pinching her naked breasts as she sat back and gazed at the mortal who, finding her strength returned, pulled the stranger down upon her. The cabin disappeared into shadow. The ship stopped. The waves, the storm, the breathing of her companions, all faded away. Amaya buried her face in fox-spirit’s neck and let a tear escape. It fell on Mizukume’s out stretched tongue and Amaya quickly sucked her tongue into her mouth in order to taste what Mizukume was experiencing. Amaya’s right hand traveled up the other’s robe to explore her ample breasts. She pressed one erect brown nipple between her thumb and forefinger and was thrilled when Mizukume let out a soft moan, a low dog-like yip. Amaya pulled her robes open letting the heavy breasts hang inches away from the young woman’s open mouth.

Amaya took one of her rigid nipples into her mouth and Mizukume gasped. The young woman pulled her face in-between Mizukume’s breasts and breathed in her musk. Rolling her over, Amaya’s lips left a trail of wetness from between her breasts down to the top of her pubes. Mizukume was sopping in anticipation.

Her pubic hairs were drenched, her vulva completely engorged. Amaya could see her large clit peeking out of it’s hood. Everything was soft and brown. She ran her index finger from the bottom of Mizukume’s cunt up to the top of her clit, then back again. Mizukume shuddered with the sensation. Amaya sucked her finger into her mouth provocatively, to get her first taste of a spirit’s cum. She had never tasted anything sweeter.

Amaya tongued her clit and put one finger inside Mizukume, pressed upward. Mizukume’s soft canine whimpers turned into full fledged cries and the young woman had to cover her lover’s mouth with her own because she didn’t want to wake the whole ship.

By now Amaya’s other hand was busy on her own clit and she brought herself to orgasm with her head still buried in Mizukume’s crotch, setting off little sea-quakes, her thighs quivering and the young woman was suddenly engulfed in a stream of her girl-juice. Ghost cum. Amaya lapped up as much as she could and felt the fox-girl’s quivering legs wrap around her head.

There was a noise in her head, a pounding in her ears. Blood. A war kettle drum. A fist banging upon a wooden door, the waves breaking over the bow and Amaya’s head fell back upon the tatami mat. The shadows came crashing back down on her and when she opened her blood-shot eyes she saw Mizukume’s naked form slipping away across the ship’s deck, waving her wild tail, gleaming with spray.

Half-naked, Amaya crawled her way up from the floor, reaching for the nearest sleeper, finding her tutor, shook him.

“Who was that?” she asked. “Who is Mizukume? Why is she with us?”

Morioka blinked himself back into wakefulness.

“Mizukume?” he murmured, vaguely. “I do not know. I’ve never heard the name. Did you just say ‘why is she with us’?”

“I thought she had a tail,” sobbed Amaya, “I thought she was going to stay with me,” the delirious young woman mumbled, and then, at the end of her strength, she fell backwards and kept falling, for miles it felt like, until darkness swallowed her.

The buffeted ship labored down the Amami island chain, dropped anchor off Yogochi harbor. The captain had serious matters for the ears of the King of Ryukyu’s servant who had come aboard to collect some of his master’s letters and goods.

“There is trouble again in Kyoto, as I hear. The Shogun, along with his eldest son, were slain on the outskirts of the city. Now his brother is marching on Edo. There are two of his children among my passengers. I was asked to take them on board, this by favor of the late Yoshimi no Sozen, to whom I am in debt. The boy seems lively enough, but the older girl is likely not to make it through another night.”

“Ask them to come forward, I should be interested to hear what they have to say,” said the King’s man, curiously surveying the sick and bedraggled forms huddled forlornly in the cabin.

Blue-lipped, shuddering, with the unconscious Amaya draped over his shoulder, the tutor came forward to tell their story, which amounted to nothing more than a desperate appeal from the widowed wife of the Shogun to Lord Sho Shin, King of Ryukyu, for asylum, protection for her two children.

“A lost cause,” mused the King’s servant, stroking his chin. He knew the temper of Hosokawa Katsumoto, of his fierce followers. Lord Sho Shin of Ryukyu was kind, but politic. He would, his man knew, be anxious not to embroil himself with the triumphant factions in Kyoto but old Morioka, the tutor, patiently, humbly, reminded him that the young Daimyo of Qijue, Yoshihisa, he was sure, still survived. He was even now, perhaps, pressing on Nagasaki with a large army. He might then, possibly, defeat not only the Omura clan but the Fujiwarans as well, their allies.

“His Highness is at Shuri Castle,” said the Ryukyuan, still doubtful, but not unsympathetic, “I can take you there. I will find a wagon for the young lady, she seems stricken low,” he added, with a glance at the deathly figure, lying limply in the tutor’s arms.

They landed. The mountainous island seemed one with the low gray clouds, a few orange tiled houses glistened with the wet. The scanty fishing fleet had come in from out of the storm, rocked at anchor with furled sails. The King’s man found them a wagon, into which they were glad to creep, then gave them bread, meat, a bottle of sake. They all ate, except Amaya, who was still half-delirious. The wagon took them through mist, along a road that hugged the coast. On the nearest peak there stood an immense tower.

“Shuri Castle,” said their guide, nodding, pointing.

Houses began to close in on either side of the road as the tower grew nearer. Finally they stopped at a gatehouse at the base of the castle. The King’s man hurried off to talk to the sentry, as the four fugitives sat shivering in the cold morning light, while the soldiers who rode along with them stared at them curiously.

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