12 Wednesday Jun 2013
Posted in Erotic, Feminism, Illustration and art, Poetry
≈ Comments Off on in her lover’s tongue
Tags
I.
A grave lost at dusk.
She speaks to her dead lover
in her lover’s tongue.
II.
Two fingers inside.
What do I taste like? Bleed me.
Fuck me. Make me burn.
III.
I’m fire: fire’s climax.
I burn, I die, I embrace
all our little deaths.
19 Tuesday Feb 2013
Posted in Feminism, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on like cherry blossoms swift we fall
Tags
Bushido, female samurai, Japan, mythology, Onna bugeisha, sonnet, sword, The Way Of The Sword, witch-queen
If she dies? She has her hand on the hilt,
aware of herself; aware of what she
must not do, not yet. Nothing has been split
out of her, yet. She knows of the red sea
and the purple stars. Her father told her
about the witch-queens; how that long ago
one of them helped save the world. Her mother
taught her the “Way of the Sword,” Bushido
and how death in war is the greatest gift
any samurai could hope for. What’s death
next to letting down your mother? Afraid
does not work here. “Like cherry-blossoms, swift
we fall,” the poem goes. With a deep breath,
she took a step forward and drew her blade.
* * *
Note:
Bushido, “the way of the warrior,” is a feudal Japanese word for the samurai’s code of ethics. It has been compared to the Western concept of chivalry. As a philosophy, it stresses loyalty, martial arts and that death in battle is the greatest gift a warrior might receive.
08 Wednesday Aug 2012
Tags
Buddha, crimson, ghost, historic, Japan, Lady Leiko, masturbation, Mistress Fuyu, Nagasaki, Onna bugeisha, sculptress, story, succubus
In a large room of an artist’s studio, somewhere lost within one of the many suburbs of Kyoto, a boy watched an older woman, red paint up to her elbows, in the act of crimsoning a succubus.
The studio looked out on the courtyard which the building itself was built around. The sun, at that moment overhead, blazed down upon the mossy wet vines that clung to the brick work, sending their red reflections glowing into all the sombre nooks of the work room.
The succubus, rudely cut from lecher’s wood, rested at ease upon her tail, her curled-ram horns pressed against the wall, her legs obscenely sprawled open. The sculptress sat before her creation on a low stool, hard at work. The silent boy sat nearby, gazing fondly at both.
On the table in front of the open window stood a row of Oni, rough mountain demons, modeled from river-bed clay. Beside that project were piles of washi parchment covered with drawings in the woman’s own hand, done in blues and reds. By the door a figure of Inari, the trickster fox god of rice, sake and prosperity, sat upon its haunches, a sacred minashigo key hanging from its mouth.
The woman was dressed in simple browns, she had a round, dark face and straight black hair. From the globs of scarlet-red paint spread out at her feet she carefully, with only her fingertips as tools, crimsoned the succubus into life. The effect was less of a statue being given a second skin with an ox-tail brush; rather, it was as if life was slowly seeping through the cold dark hues of the wood through the miraculous use of the succubus’ own menstrual blood. From her thighs on down she appeared to have spurted and spouted sticky rivulets that coated her goat-legs; while, from her navel upwards, the artist’s red-soaked fingerprints could be seen upon the naked wood, fondling each intrinsically carved breast, the thick neck, the bulbous lips.
Once in a while the woman would say the boy’s name, “Shijo;” but it had less to do with starting a conversation and more in a childish, sing-song voice, as if his name were precious to her and she simply enjoyed saying it for the sake of hearing the syllables roll off her tongue. Whenever she did say it, though, the boy would look up from whatever he was doing and smile to himself. He was use to her moods, had seen all of them in the last two years. She was having a mood right at that moment. He could tell. The studio was utterly silent, a perfect hush enhanced by the heat of a noonday sun beating down. Presently the woman rose, crossed to the window, her arms sticky with paint and looked out into the heat.
From where she stood she could see the sparse flowers edging the neglected pathway, the building opposite her with its broken windows, the scandalmongering vines climbing up the tiled roof that cut the violet-blue of a July sky into fragments.
In the center of the courtyard was an ancient, dry fountain; some tall red sayuri lilies grew there, the pure cherry of their hearts bright as the paint the woman had been applying to the succubus reclining wantonly behind her.
The boy stood and walked to stand behind the woman, to see what had caught her attention. The sculptress rested her elbows on the sill, it was so hot that she felt it burning through the paint that was quickly drying on her hands. She had the air of one routinely use to being by herself, the unquestioned calm that arose from a life of long silences. Her face was reserved, even sombre; her lips, well shaped but pale, were resolutely set; there was a fine curve of strength to her chin. She had wide, black brows, smooth dark skin, nebulous mahogany eyes. Her throat was full, she had the sort of muscles sculptors called beautiful.
After a time of gazing at the sun-burned garden she turned back into the room. Standing in the center of the studio, with her teeth worrying her red middle finger, she looked questioningly at the half-crimson succubus. The boy smiled, waiting patiently to see what she finally would say. Some times it would take her hours to form a single comment, but they were observations he always found endlessly interesting. Instead, with a sigh, she took a curiously wrought key from her belt, swung it about in her fingers and left the room.
The building was built without connecting corridors or passages. Each room opened onto another, the upper ones were reached by short wooden staircase built against one of the outer walls. There were many apartments on the second floor, each one boasting imperial designs from at least fifty to sixty years ago. As with all the windows on the first floor, the ones on the second were set facing the old courtyard.
Many queer and exquisite objects could be seen in those long deserted rooms; carved chests full of Korean silver; paintings from China full of erotic terror; furniture made by long-forgotten hands. In one chamber hung several gold-silk tapestries depicting the Eight Devils of Kimon, all done in shades of ruddy brown. As she walked lightly from one room to the next her footsteps caused little clouds of dust to billow up, marking her slow passage.
Passing these things without a glance the woman unlocked a door on whose rusty hinges it took all her strength simply to turn. It was a store-room, one lit only by one low window looking down upon the street. Like everything else in the building, it too was full of dust as well as a sallow, moldy odor. About the floor lay many bound-chests, untouched and before one of these the woman knelt, fiddling with the lock.
The smell of rust filled her nose as the lid swung open. The chest contained a number of cut gemstones. She selected two of more or less equal size, each a crystal pink in hue. Then, after locking the old door behind her, she silently made her way back from where she had come, returning to her studio. When she saw the hollow eye-sockets of the succubus, she placed what looked like living liquid fire into the wooden skull. Watching her statue’s eyes sparkle she finally relaxed, standing for a long while contemplating her handiwork. Finally she washed her hands and arms, putting away her orphic paints.
By then the sun had changed position as it crept across the room, casting hot brindled shadows, cast from the dappled vines hanging from the window eaves over the river-clay Oni, dazzling the colors in Inari’s psychedelic robe.
For the second time that day the woman left the room, venturing into the hall, opening the door that exited upon the street. She shaded her eyes, gazed across the July dazzle, the shadow of her slack, slim figure was cast into the square of hot sunlight issuing from across the hallway and through the open door.
It had been almost two years since the Siege of Kyoto. The section where her studio stood had been devastated. Now, newer suburbs were being built, but that left her neighborhood’s ruins neglected. It was hard for her to imagine a city as vast as Kyoto containing ghost towns, but wasn’t that what this was? She looked at the barren market-place, surrounded by abandoned buildings. Everything was falling into decay. Beyond those shells she could spy the squat roof of the local Shinto shrine jutting upwards across the scarlet sky. Brown grass grew between broken cobbles. There was not a soul in sight.
Under the rusted iron bell that hung against the door beam to her building hung a basket. Her mysterious patron had been by it seemed. She fished out of it bread, a flask of plum sake, some old vegetables wrapped in a linen cloth. The sculptress took these with her and closed the door upon the outer world.
Carrying her loot back in her arms, she crossed the hallway and came out into the opposite end of the courtyard. The tall red sayuri lilies seemed to be nodding their heads to her, as if the two of them were in on a secret no one else knew. Entering by a door next to the fountain the woman found herself in her workshop once more.
Setting her load down on a corner of her work table, the woman proceeded to prepare her meal. Above the wide tiled hearth hung a metal chain and attached to that was an iron pot. She lit a fire under the pot, filled it with water, then put the vegetables in. Then she took down a heavily bound book from off a shelf. Bending over it, huddled on a stool, she began to read.
It was a book filled with drawings — strange, horrible, erotic artwork — as well as curious stories that had been written in a black-blue scrawl. As the woman read she uncrossed her legs and her face grew hot. She flushed while resting her cheek on one hand, turning pages with the other. The heavy volume felt cumbrous on her knees. Not once did she look up but with parted lips pored over the midnight-blue drawings.
Outside the vines curled against the sun-kissed brick, the empty sky looked down upon the dry fountain, it burned the dead grass, the tall red sayuri lilies. The sun sank on the other side of the building, still the woman read on. The flames leaped on the hearth, the vegetables seethed in the pot unheeded.
All alone the woman leaned back on one elbow looking at the drawings. She reached down with her free hand and raised the hem of her kimono, revealing the cotton thong of a man’s fundoshi that she was in the habit of wearing. She ran one long fingertip along the front of her cunt and moaned. She looked up at the window and then back at the book, an anthology called “Kinoe no Komatsu / Languishing for Love”. She let her knees fall open wider and pulled the crotch of her fundoshi to one side as she turned the page. The glorious mound of her pubic hair was already wet and sticky. She plunged two-fingers inside her girl-lips and began to grind, leaving a wet cum-smear on the stool’s seat.
The woman groaned. There it was, the famous print known as “Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife” a prime example of the “aesthetic of the grotesque” in the erotic age of Hokusai. The body of a woman, head thrown back in either carnal abandonment, or drowned and swaying this way and that in the inky green water, allowing Tako no Kami, the octopus god, access to her cunt. It was a curious new form of 8-tentacle “kun’niringusu,” as the Kyoto poets once called the ancient art of clit licking. Her fingers plunged in-and-out of her soaked pussy.
“I’m going to cum–”
The woman’s eyes were screwed tight, her mind lost in the approaching orgasm. She was finger fucking herself so red-hot and hard that her tiny breasts under her kimono were shaking. She knew exactly how that fisherman’s wife felt; she’d fuck a devil-god if the opportunity presented itself. That need to be filled up with something otherworldly, that need to cum all over something impossibly hard.
“O! O! O!”
She was making soundless noises now, feeling the wave over take her. She slipped a third finger into her cunt as she brought herself to the brink. Closer — harder — closer — faster — clo–
With that, without warning, a heavy clang from her old rusted doorbell broke the spell. The woman dropped the book, sprang to her feet, gazing in horror and bewilderment, one hand still buried between her legs as the long awaited orgasm … faded away.
Again the bell sounded.
She picked up the book, put it back on the shelf, licked her fingers, feeling ambivalent.
For a third time the iron clang, insistent, impatient, breaking her quiet once and for all.
The woman frowned while readjusting her clothes, pushing back her hair from her sweaty forehead, fingered her clit through the fabric of her fundoshi, then went, with cautious steps, across the courtyard once more, back through the dark hall and up to the door. For a second she hesitated — was it really worth it? — then drew back the bolt and threw open the door to world outside.
A woman stood waiting for her.
She was younger than the sculptress, but not greatly, gorgeously attired, a lady no doubt from the emperor’s inner court. A concubine? No, a warrior, even though her carefully pleated and folded dress was stunning. Her coiffure was just as stylized, with not a hair out of place.
“You cannot want me,” the sculptress finally said, surveying the stranger for a couple of moments. “And there is no one else here. Sayonara.”
“If you are Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko,” the splendidly-dressed stranger answered, “then I certainly do want you.”
“Want me?” The sculptress opened the door a little wider. “I am Fuyu Tsukiko, but I do not know you.”
“Perhaps,” the other answered. “But I have questions that only you can answer. I am Lady Leiko of Nagasaki.”
“Leiko of Nagasaki!” repeated Fuyu softly. Then, as if she had come to a conclusion, she stood aside, motioning for the lady to enter. When she had passed into the hallway she carefully bolted the door, then turned to her with a grave expression.
“Will you follow me, my lady?” she said, walking before Leiko to her studio.
The sun had left the room by that time, but the air was still bathed in a reddish warmth. There was a sense of great heat that lay trapped in the ancient bricks and grass.
Fuyu Tsukiko offered a seat to her guest, who accepted in silence.
“You must wait until the supper is prepared,” she said. With that she placed herself on the stool by the pot, stirring its contents with an iron spoon, openly studying the woman.
The material of Leiko’s semitransparent kimono did nothing much to hide her curves, although most were hidden by layers of silk. Her beauty mesmerized Fuyu until she forgot for a moment what she was suppose to do.
Leiko, for her part, returned Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko’s steady gaze.
“You have heard of me?” she said suddenly.
“Yes,” was the instant answer.
“Then you know what I am here for?”
“Perhaps,” said Mistress Fuyu, frowning.
Leiko turned and stared at the half-crimson succubus with great interest, even, Fuyu mused, a little fear.
“My mother is the Lady Miyuki of Nagasaki,” Leiko finally answered in a manner one might have called arrogant. “The Emperor made me a warrior, an Onna bugeisha, when I was fifteen. Now I am tired of Nagasaki life, of castle life, of my mother. So I have taken to the road.”
Mistress Fuyu lifted the iron pot from the fire to the hearth.
“The road to where?” the sculptress asked.
Leiko made a large gesture with her hands.
“To wherever the road leads.”
“As an Onna bugeisha?” asked Mistress Fuyu.
Leiko tossed her fine head.
“As a former Onna bugeisha. Now I have other ambitions.”
Mistress Fuyu smiled, moving about, setting the food ready. She placed the little clay Oni on the window-sill; flung, without any ado, her drawings, paints and brushes onto the floor.
A queer silence fell on the room. The host did not seem to encourage comment. The atmosphere was not conducive to talk. Fuyu opened a cabinet in the wall, took out an elegant cloth that she laid smoothly on the rough table. Then she set on it earthenware dishes, honey in a clay jar, flushed pears cut thin, rice cakes in a plaited basket, steamed cabbage, radishes fragrantly pickled, the bottle of plum sake.
“Does anyone else live here with you?” Leiko asked at one point.
“I live by myself. I have no desire for company. I take pleasure in my work alone. Sometimes people come to buy my art, usually one of my sculptures for their shrines, but of late very few.”
“You are a good artisan, then?” asked Miyuki. “Who taught you?”
“Old Mistress Yoi, born in Higashimurayama village, taught in Edo. When she died she left me this building.”
Again the room sank into silence. Shadows crept about.
Leiko ate everything put in front of her. Fuyu, on the other hand, seated next to the window, rested her chin on her palm, stared out at the bright and fading orange sky, then at the broken windows, then at the sayuri lilies waving about the dry fountain. She ate very little. After a while the lady asked, almost shamelessly, for some of the sake. The sculptress rose and brought a sake cup to her.
“Why have you come here?” Fuyu inquired, placing the bottle before Leiko.
Leiko laughed easily.
“I am married,” she said, as an explanation, lifting her cup to her lips. At that Mistress Fuyu frowned.
“There are a lot of married people in this world.”
Leiko surveyed the mysterious swirling liqueur through half-closed eyes.
“It is about my husband, O my host; that is why I am here.”
Fuyu Tsukiko leaned back in her chair.
“Yes, I have known your husband.”
“Really? Please, tell me about him,” Leiko of Nagasaki requested. “I have come here for that story.”
Fuyu smiled slightly.
“But why would I know anything more about him than his own wife?”
Leiko flushed.
“Perhaps. Perhaps. But never mind, go on, what do you know? Tell me.”
Fuyu’s smile deepened.
“He was the only son of the Lady of Kobayashi, he hid himself at the cloister of the Red Brotherhood in Kyoto to avoid having to marry you.”
“I see you know that,” said Leiko. “What else?”
“Since you wish for me to tell you about your own life, listen to what I have to say, my lady.”
Fuyu spoke with an uninterested tone, staring the entire time out of the window.
“He desired, I think, to become one of the Order of the Red Brotherhood. But when he was fifteen his elder brother died, thus he became your mother-in-law’s only heir. Many families wished to align themselves with her, but in the end they agreed for him to marry you.”
“Without my wish or consent,” Leiko added, refilling her sake cup.
Fuyu simply shrugged.
“The feelings seem to be mutual. Your husband, who wished most passionately, I am told, to become a priest, fell ill with grief. In his despair he confided his misery to a local miko, a temple maiden, who lived in his neighborhood.”
Leiko’s eyes flickered, hardened behind their long lashes.
“Your husband was to be heir to a great fortune,” said Fuyu, “but it was through this miko that he became introduced to the Brothers. In his fear of marriage he promised them all his inheritance if they would save him from his mother’s iron will. So the priests, tempted by greed, spread the rumor that he had died. There was even a fake funeral and he was kept secret in the city’s cloister, dressed as an initiate. All this was put into writing, documented by the priests, so that there would be no doubt when the boy returned from the dead, as it were, looking for his inheritance once his mother had died.”
“Yes. I was glad to hear that he had died, at least at the time,” said Leiko. “For by that time I loved another and there is no honor in behavior like that, husband or no.”
“He lived for a year among the priests,” Fuyu Tsukiko went on. “But his life became bitter. He wanted to escape, I believe, yet he could not make himself known to his mother for then it would become known that not only had he lied about this death but that he had promised the priests everything.”
“Go on.”
“Is there more?”
“You know there is.”
“So, as life became more and more horrible for your husband he found a way to send a letter to his widow.”
“Yes. I have it here.” Leiko touched her breast. “He told me all about his dishonesty, begged forgiveness,” she laughed. “He asked me to come rescue him.”
Fuyu crossed her long hands upon the table. There was still red paint under her nails.
“But you … but you did not rescue him, though. You did not even answer his letter.”
“No, I did not rescue him. His mother had taken another husband, she now had a new son to inherit everything.” Leiko lowered her eyes moodily, “I was occupied, in love with a … dairy fairy. Plus, he had lied, my little foolish husband: to Buddha, to me, to the world. ‘It will be poetic justice,’ I thought. ‘For him to suffer as I once suffered’.”
“He waited for months for your answer,” stated Mistress Fuyu flatly. “Finally he fled from the cloister to here, to this very building. Again he wrote to his wife and again she did not answer. That was two years ago.”
“Did the priests make no attempts to search for him?” asked Leiko.
“By that time they knew that the boy was heir to nothing. They were afraid that the tale might reach the ears of the shogun and there might be … repercussions. But did it matter? Around that time the usurper, Tokugawa, lay Kyoto under siege and everyone suddenly had other things to worry about.”
“Indeed. Had it not been that I was required to help mount a defense of the city I might gotten here sooner,” explained Leiko. “But I was occupied with fighting.”
“The cloister was destroyed, the brothers murdered or fled into exile,” continued Fuyu. “The boy lived here, learning many crafts from Old Mistress Yoi. She had no apprentices but the two of us.”
Leiko leaned back in her chair.
“That much I have learned. That the old woman, dying, left her place to you. What did she leave to my husband?”
Fuyu gave her a long, unblinking stare and then turned back to the window.
“It is not strange that you are here, now? You, Leiko of Nagasaki, after all this time, inquiring about your husband.”
“A woman must know how she is loaded down with other people’s responsibilities. As it turns out only you and I know that he had an existence of any sort after he faked his death. He might be a fool but he is still my husband.”
Dusk — hot, blood-red — had fallen on the chamber. The half-crimsoned succubus gleamed dully, the wet lips of her cunt spread vulgarly before the two women. Lady Leiko of Nagasaki felt a little chill pass through her, despite the heat, a little sullen chill, but she waited to see what the older woman had to say.
The sculptress rested her smooth pale face on her palm, her mahogany eyes were hardly discernible in the twilight, but the shadow of her lips moved when she spoke.
“Shijo died two years ago,” she said. “His grave is in the garden, next to the fountain, where those red sayuri lilies grow.”
25 Friday May 2012
Tags
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.
24 Thursday May 2012
Tags
Amaterasu, Ame No Uzume, Anei, Ankoku, cunnilingus, ghost bazaar, Hokkaido, Japan, kami, lesbians, mythology, Onna bugeisha, Snow woman, story, winter, Yuki-onna
Ankoku had been walking toward home for just over an hour, but already the snow had drifted across the the main road that led out of town to such an extent that it was nearly invisible before her. The wind plucked at her robes, tore at her conical, woven hat, numbed her toes. Starting out from town had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now she had six miles of open hills to go if she wanted to see her hut again.
The afternoon had been cold, exceedingly cold, when Ankoku turned aside from the main Hokkaido trail, climbed the high earth-bank where she paused for breath at the top. There was no sun nor hint of sun when the clouds hung that low over the sky. She tried to remember what she knew of predicting storms and weather lore, but she was woefully ignorant on such matters. There seemed an unidentifiable chill over the face of the earth, an insidious gloom that made the afternoon dark.
Ankoku flung a quick glance back along the strange, weird path she had come. The far northern island of Japan, Hokkaido, lay hidden under three feet of ice. On top of that was half a dozen feet of snow. It was all pure white, rolling in gentle undulations. As far as her eye could see, it was unbroken white.
She watched the first snow flakes float down, little hints of death in that deathly world. Was a storm coming? Yes, a storm was coming. Soon.
She plunged in among the big oak trees. The trail was faint. Ankoku was surprised, however, at the suddenly drop in temperature as she rubbed her nose with her hand. She experienced a vague but forbidding dread that drowned out all the confidence she had in herself about seeing home again. Six miles was nothing, she had told herself. Hadn’t she walked this same path over and over all these years? To teach her students at the village’s dojo required her endless walking. But not in weather like this. With a start she realized that the frozen wetness of her breathing had settled in a fine powder of frost, especially along her lips and nostrils; her eyelashes were whitened by crystallizing moisture.
What were the signs of freezing to death? she wondered. The extremities were the first to feel the absence of blood circulation. Then a sense of warmth. Hallucinations. A howling wind picked up as her exposed fingers began to go numb. Then came the snow. Out of nowhere a storm of titanic proportions crashed down upon her. She stumbled and fell to her knees in drifts three and four feet deep. Her nose and cheeks were already freezing; the skin of all her body chilled as it lost its blood.
How could a sword master, a female samurai no less, an Onna bugeisha no less, die through mere foolishness? When she fell down a second time, the shivering came more quickly upon Ankoku. She was losing in her battle with the storm. A deathly cold was creeping into her body from all sides. The thought of it drove her on, but she was able to move no more than a hundred feet, when she staggered, then pitched headlong into the snow.
It was sometime before Ankoku raised her head. It took all her strength to raise herself to her knees and elbows. When she looked up again out of the blinding snowstorm a figure appeared, moving slowly through the snow. Ankoku had been raised on stories of the Yuki-onna, the Snow woman, who could only be seen in the heart of a snowstorm and used her icy breath to leave stranded travelers as frost-coated corpses. Was this death coming to visit? Did death look this beautiful?
The woman who approached the female samurai was indeed beautiful, with long black hair and blue lips. Her inhumanly pale skin made her blend into the ashy-white landscape and the sky-blue robes that billowed around her only added to her other-worldly appearance. She was a creature that lived only in this frozen world. At first she walked a route that would pass distance away from the fallen Ankoku but upon seeing the stranger on her hands and knees she altered her course and walked directly up to Ankoku.
“Sensei? Is that really you?”
Ankoku blinked, rubbed the ice away from her lashes. The Snow woman still stood in front of her, offering a outstretched hand; yet it was no longer a mountain spirit but a former student, a village girl from her dojo, one who she had been friendly with a couple of years back.
“Anei-chan! Is it you?” Ankoku croaked through cracked lips. “What are you doing out in this hell?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Sensei. Where are you heading?”
“I’m trying to make it home. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Home?” the younger woman said, her lips curving up into a smile. “I think, Sensei, that might be a little ambitious on a day like today. Come with me, my hut is close.”
“O!” Ankoku paused to smile, getting to her feet. “That would be wonderful of you. I’m so glad you found me.”
With that they turned around and began retracing the steps the older woman had taken. Anei had no problem on the snow covered world, though Ankoku found herself slipping often. She finally took Anei’s offered hand to steady her and they walked in silence for some time like that until they reached the outskirts of the village.
“Sensei do you mind if we stop off at the ghost bazaar? I have nothing to feed you just now.”
Despite the storm it was warm inside the little store that served as the village bazaar. Despite the long winter months lining the walls was produce, dried seafood, Chinese spices, Korean curios, Ainu crafts, devil jewelry and ancient hex coins. Ankoku loosened the scarf around her neck and cast an approving eye at her former student. Anei had to be at least twenty-two by now, if that. She found that Anei’s eyes lingered on her breasts, outlined by her tight fitting kimono. She caught her eyes looking at her nipples.
“So, Anei-chan, what do you need?” she asked in a husky voice.
“Something to make Sensei forget the cold.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
Ankoku looked at the younger woman with a smile, watched with delight as Anei’s face lit up a wicked grin. It surprised her but that wonderful warm wet feeling was invading her cunt. She decided to be more daring, said, “Then maybe in the morning you can come with me to my home and I can repay the favor?”
“O, I think we might be snowed in for days.”
Anei placed her hand on Ankoku’s arm, squeezed.
* * *
Anei’s hut was simply one low-ceiling room, but it warm and snug. Before Ankoku could even remove her outer robes Anei reached over, pulling her to her by the scarf around her neck. She kissed her wetly on the lips, forcing them open with her tongue. She let her tongue play in Ankoku’s mouth, taking her breath away like a shot of ice wind. After sucking on her bottom lip, biting it gently, she looked directly into her eyes, said, “I have wanted to do that ever since you agreed to train me as your student. Sensei has the sexiest lips.”
They had too many clothes on to touch each other anywhere they wanted; finally Anei pulled away, leading her guest into the center of her hut.
Anei’s fingers reached for her obi sash on Ankoku’s robe, clumsily getting it open. Her hands immediately found the older woman’s breasts. The Onna bugeisha leaned back against the wall, her eyes were closed, letting Anei squeeze and rub her. All she wanted to do was get her mouth one of Ankoku’s tits, as much she could. Biting, sucking, pulling; Anei sucked so loud, so hard, trying to devour it all that she could feel her teacher shudder through the tip of her own nipple. Gasping for air, Ankoku pulled away, stroking the younger woman’s hair, sending shivers all over her body.
Together they unrolled Anei’s sleeping mats and blankets then she silently began to undress her. First her coat and scarf were tossed aside. Stepping behind her, she pushed her long dark hair to the side, kissing the back of her neck, while her hands slid around to cup her breasts, feeling her nipples harden as she kissed. Her kisses turned to nibbles as her fingers found each nipple, pinching them gently. The moan that escaped from her lips told her that she was getting it right. She turned the older woman around, took her in her arms, kissed her hard on the lips, sliding her tongue deep into her throat, letting her hands slide down her back, scratching her lightly with her blue fingertips.
Stripping off her own clothing without a word, Anei, without breaking eye contact she slowly, seductively dropped to her knees, pressing her face into Ankoku’s curly cunt, inhaling deeply. Ankoku could feel the younger woman’s tongue lapping at her girl lips, tickling her with her light touch. She felt her knees buckle, she was in agony, nearly fell, but Anei grabbed her, helped to lower her to the floor. Kneeling over her, didn’t leave her teacher in agony for long. She lowered herself to her, laying her body on top of her own, breast to breast, nipple to nipple, cunt to cunt, open lips to open lips. Ankoku started to wrap her arms around Anei, but the other simply grabbed her wrists, pinning them over her head. She lowered her face close to Ankoku’s, licked her slowly with her wide, flat tongue, tasting her cheeks, her hair, her forehead, her chin, her neck. Ankoku’s mouth opened wide, hoping to take her in, but Anei simply, teasingly traced her lips ever so lightly, tickling her with the very edge of her wet tongue.
Anei’s hard nipples seemed to burn into Ankoku’s flesh. The mound of her cunt was melting into hers. She lay very still, just feeling her student breathing against her neck. Then Anei’s lips softly touched her skin, nibbled at her ear. Ankoku moaned, whimpered, “O, please, Anei, please.”
“Sensei, I imagined this moment a thousand times as your pupil. I undressed you very day, made love to you in your dojo. Nothing can live up to what I am experiencing right now with you naked, begging to me.”
Without saying another word, Anei kissed her mouth, then started to move down her body. She sucked upon her neck, nibbled at her ears, bit her nipples, licked her belly, kissed the scars that formed a curious cross on her right thing, finally breathed on her cunt; her wet, dripping, aching, throbbing cunt. Ankoku saw Anei’s absurdly tongue move closer to her as she stretched from of her mouth, touching her girl lips, dragging it slowly up from the bottom to her clit. She moaned, squirmed, cried out from the thrill of her touch. Anei did it again, pressing harder, moving just a little bit faster. Ankoku was jerking her hips, trying to grind her open cunt into her face. Anei slid her hands under her ass, pulled Ankoku even tighter to her mouth, pushed her tongue deep into her wet cunt. Now the older woman was moaning like a nine-tailed fox, begging for her touch, needing her to fuck her, to suck her, to do anything she wanted to her.
“Sensei, you have me so wet. I want to be your vixen …”
The rest of her words were drowned out as Ankoku felt Anei grab both of her ass cheeks, drive her demonic tongue deep into her vagina, up against the back wall.
“How?” she gasped while, wiggling around inside of her, she could feel Anei tongue and caress her inner muscles.
“Come on Sensei, pump those hips, force that cunt of yours to cum over my face, over my lips. Fuck me Sensei! Fuck this bad vixen! Fuck me! Fuck me hard!”
She wanted her to crawl inside of her teacher. She was slamming her cunt into her, she responded by thrusting her tongue in hard, faster. All Ankoku could do was moan, whimper. “It is so good, so good. Anei I am so close to cumming!”
“I want you to cum for me, Sensei. I want you to cum for your dirty, little vixen. I want to suck the cum from you cunt.”
Ankoku felt that wonderful slow burn start in her clit, then spread everywhere. It moved end-to-end in her entire cunt, up her arms to her fingers.
“O Anei, don’t stop, please, I am going to cum!”
Ankoku sucked in her cheeks, stopped breathing then it hit her like an earthquake, rocking her cunt, sending aftershocks coursing throughout her entire soul. Anei never let go; her hands were holding on tightly to her ass, her tongue still deep inside of her. Ankoku’s thighs had her head pinned, never wanting her to breath again.
Slowly, her breathless gasps returned to normal, her muscles relaxed.
Laughing Anei said, “Sensei, that was worth the wait!”
“O love, come here, let me hold you.”
They lay in each other’s arms for a long time. Ankoku was experiencing hungers she hadn’t felt in years, food she hadn’t tasted since her love had died. She stroked Anei’s hair, kissed her head. Looking around the room her eyes fell upon a scroll hanging from the wall, the only art in the entire hut.
“What is that?” she asked dreamily.
“That? That is the story of the great goddess Amaterasu who fled with her brother, Susa no O, into a cave, depriving the Earth of sunlight and warmth. In order to cajole Amaterasu from the cave, the deity of naughty girl love, Ame No Uzume, performed an erotic dance that involved flashing her breasts and cunt, inviting Amaterasu to taste them. Legend says that as Amaterasu stepped out of the cave Ame No Uzume held up a mirror; the combination of a going now on a goddess and watching her reflection while doing it got Amaterasu so excited that she took the nasty kami into the sky with her to be her soul mate and restore the sun back to the earth.”
While she was talking Ankoku’s hand slid down her back, enjoying the sensation of her hand on such soft skin. She kissed the younger woman’s neck, lifted her fingers to her lips so she could kiss them. She rolled Anei over onto her back, kissed her sensuous mouth, sucking at her lips.
“Please Sensei, please touch my cunt. Rub my cunt, please!”
Without a word, she quickly slid in between Anei’s legs. She pushed her thighs open wide, pressed her face into her, kissing her wet, swollen cunt lips. Anei gasped as her tongue made contact. She let her tongue explore the soft fold of skin, licking, sucking as her former student squirmed under her.
“Lick me, oh please, lick me. My cunt needs to be licked so bad!”
Splitting open her sticky labia with her tongue Ankoku ended up lingering on her clit. The sounds of her whimpering drove her crazy and Ankoku drove her harder, faster, finishing each stroke lapping at her clit.
“O, Sensei, I have been naughty, seducing my pure teacher like this. Spank me, Sensei, spank your horrible vixen.”
A cock-sure laugh escaped from Ankoku, she caressed the other’s beautiful ass, teasing her wet cunt with her fingertips.
“So you wanted to fuck your teacher, Anei-chan? Let me show you show it is done.”
Ankoku spanked the upturned ass with her open hand, feeling it sting on her palm, watching Anei’s cheek turn red where it was struck. Anei, startled, gasped, then moaned at the touch. Ankoku quickly spanked her again, then again, then again. Anei was whimpering, writhing under her. She could see how wet her cunt had gotten Anei was begging her to stop, long after her cheeks were a painful shade of red. When Ankoku finally did she lowered her head to her redden skin, kissing her bum softly, licking the marks left her her fingers.
“Anei-chan, get up on your hands, knees, darling, I want your ass.”
Holding her by the hips, Ankoku probed her cunt with her tongue and two fingers. Anei pushed back against her, letting her know who was in command. Once a samurai, always a samurai. Holding her tightly, Ankoku drove hard into her cunt with her tongue deep, started finger fucking her slowly, letting the sensation in her cunt build.
“O Sensei, I want to cum for you. I want to be your little nine-tailed shameless woman!”
Hearing Anei talk like that drove Ankoku into another frenzy. She soon had the younger woman bucking hard against her face as she drove her fingers in and out of her, fucking her wildly.
“You taste so good, Anei. Cum for me, baby, cum for me.”
They were both covered with sweat and cum, working hard to push Anei right over the edge. Ankoku’s fingers reached up into her, to that spot, that spot that —
— she let out a sharp gasp as she jacked her fingers deeper inside. Ankoku felt Anei’s muscles start to spasm, knew she was close to cumming. In, out, harder, faster, rubbing her clit, until she felt her tense up, stop moving. The pause, that wonderful pause; Anei screamed just before the big release hit her body, sending her thrashing as the orgasmic wave engulfed her. Her arms, legs would not hold her up, they both collapsed onto the floor. Both of them gasping for air. She crawled up into her arms, lay there completely exhausted, but happy. She kissed her softly, she held her tightly. After several minutes, Anei noticed the smile on her face, asked her what she was thinking.
“Less than three hours ago I was freezing to death in a snowstorm,” Ankoku smiled. “Now here I am, in the arms of my former student, well fucked. I suppose if I believed in ghosts I’d say you had come to rescue me.”
“O? Sensei doesn’t believe in ghosts?”
“Er, no, of course not. Why, do you?”
“I will believe in anything that makes Sensei happy.”
“It’s funny, the first time I saw you walking nearly naked through the snow I immediately thought of that old fairy tale about the Yuki-onna, the Snow woman.”
“O? And why is that funny to Sensei?”
“Because it’s a fairy tale. I thought I was hallucinating.”
“Hmm, Sensei says she doesn’t believe in ghosts but if she woke up tomorrow morning naked in a snow drift where my home now stands, how would she be able to explain that?”
“I don’t know, is that the sort of thing that is likely to happen?”
“Not if you love me.”
“You never explained to me what you were doing out in that blizzard in the first place.”
“You never asked me why I now have blue lips.”
“Does it matter?”
“Not if you love me. Hold onto me, Sensei.”
“Like this?”
“Tighter.”
“Like this?”
“Tighter! Yes, like that. Hold me, please, hold me, sleep in my arms all winter long.”
Then the Onna bugeisha drowsed off into what seemed to Ankoku the most comfortable and satisfying sleep she had ever known and the brief twilight drew to a close into a long, slow night.
27 Friday Apr 2012
Tags
Ankoku, Buddha, fey, fundoshi, Japan, Kenmu Restoration, Manslayer, Memeshi, Oni, Onna bugeisha, story, the blues, Tsumibukaki nuns, woman warrior
A note from the author:
“I don’t like macho, put it away;
doesn’t appeal to me, straight or gay.
But I know a boy who catches my eye;
he don’t act tough, why should he try?”
— Fem in a Black Leather Jacket,
Pansy Division (1993)
What erotica has to offer, be it a single impulse or a life-long fetish, is the desire to go “beyond” what the limits of our culture allows us. In this manner erotica is no different from many other visionary genres (think: science fiction, fantasy, horror, etc) in that all narrative is an attempt to go beyond our immediate boundaries. Be it space operas, fairy tales, ghost stories, magic or cyberpunk, we create metaphors and allegories for the things we hope for, the things we dream about. What I like about erotica is that the things we dream about almost always end in pleasure and pain, cum and kisses, a laugh and a scream. Today I am thinking about the bodies of two people I passed on my way to work. Random strangers, but in that passing, in that eye contact, in that second — whole worlds were born.
In the same way that butch bikers with tattoos who teach community college Women Studies classes have remained a long time fantasy; effeminate and androgynous boys have also been and always will be a big turn on. In Akira Kurosawa’s 1985 samurai-epic Ran, the hottest character out of the whole movie was Kyoami, played by androgynous pop star Shinnosuke Ikehata. It was Ikehata, if memory serves, whom I was thinking about when I passed someone, let’s call him the cutest boy in West Michigan, and so I came up with Memeshi.
The character of Ankoku is an Onna bugeisha, a female samurai, who used a weapon called a naginata; a long pike with a curved blade at the top. It resembles a halberd (think of what the Swiss Guard use while protecting the Pope in Rome). The naginata plays no part in this story other than a passing nod. Still, it’s always good to broaden our vocabulary. There is also mention of Nakano Takeko, who was a historical character, an actual Onna bugeisha and died in battle while leading a charge against troops of the Ogaki Rebellion. About two blocks beyond where I saw the cute fey thing I was almost was run over by a lycra-clad amazon. I am 6 feet tall and she was a good three inches taller, with shoulders that could carry the world and a waterfall of black hair that simply amazed.
Of course, both these individuals came and went in moments, they only existed on an erotic continuum in that when I got home I put them into this story. Still, isn’t this what pushing boundaries is all about? Creating worlds where it isn’t just eye contact for a moment but something else; other genres might have names for it but for me what that impulse to go beyond is called is desire.
* * *
It was dark when Ankoku drew close to the Nioi Swamp; already the white vapors were riding across the sunken wetland like October wraiths in a graveyard. Though her lover’s message had set her out in a mood of sensual delight, she had sobered considerably during the lonely ride across the hills. She was now uneasily alert; and, as her horse jerked down the grassy slope that fell away into the jaws of the fetid bog, she could see thin streams of fog rising slowly above the long rushes. As she watched they turned, gradually become more solid, blowing heavily away across the swamp.
The swamp itself was depressed, like a bowl. The appearance of the place, at this desolate hour, so remote from all proper society, struck her with a certain wonder that he should have chosen this spot for their meeting. Memeshi had been a familiar sight wandering the hills. It was there that she had invariably encountered him, the queer spirit boy with a girl’s name; but it was just like his arrogant nature to, on a whim, test her devotion by deciding upon some dreary meeting place. It’s hard to fuck when quicksand is sucking you down, she glumly reflected. The wide, horrid prospect having to sleep somewhere out there, in all that stench, depressed her beyond reason. Finally, tethering her horse upon the verge of the bog, she soon discovered a path that would allow her to cross it. For a moment she stood quiet on the brink of entering the forbidden world, thinking.
“The things I do for a good orgasm,” she sighed. Then, upon passing over the sacred boundary, she struck out boldly into the dark. The track was little used, obviously, for the reeds, which stood high above the level of her eyes upon either side, straggled everywhere overhead in curious arches, causing her to bow her head at times as she walked. She had left her armor and her naginata back at the inn, entrusting their care to the blind nun Momoku no Tojiru. A full half hour she was wandered alone in that wilderness when, at last, a sound other than her own footsteps broke the silence behind her.
Ankoku was moving very slowly at the time, with a mind half disposed to turn from the melancholy expedition altogether, damn all orgasms. It was then that she paused, for it seemed to her now that Memeshi must surely be playing a cruel joke on her. While some such reluctance held her silent, she was suddenly startled by a horrid, croaking noise, as if from some demonic bull toad, which broke out upon her right, somewhere from within the reeds in the foul mire. Walking a little further on it came again, now much closer at hand. When she had passed on a few more steps in confusion she heard it for the third time; just as horrid as before. She stopped to listen, but the swamp was silent. Taking the noise for, perhaps, a rare breed of spring peepers she resumed on her way. But in a little the croaking was repeated, coming quickly to a point only a hand’s width away. Ankoku pushed the reeds aside, peered into the darkness. She could see nothing, but now she thought she detected the sound of another body behind her, trailing through the rushes. Her distaste for the mystery grew, had it not been for her delirious infatuation with Memeshi she would have turned back, found her horse, and made her way back to the nun; a follower of some sort of distant, peculiar Western religion who only took women as her lovers. Ankoku couldn’t understand a person who clung exclusively to men or women, as if the world was black and white. The world was full of interesting choices and Ankoku wanted to taste them all.
The ghastly sound pursued her, though, at intervals along the path, until at last, irritated by such a rude, persistent, invisible companion, she broke into a run. This, it seemed, the creature could not achieve, for she heard a great splash in the mire and then no more. Finally, chuckling to herself, she continued her way slowly in peace. Her path ran out among the reeds into the smooth bowl that Memeshi had spoken of how to find him. Here her heart quickened, her gloom lifted. At the further end she fancied she could see some kind of hut looming up; but the fog, which had been gathering ever since her entrance into this forbidden world, wafted down upon her at that very moment, hiding all shapes from her eyes. As she stood, waiting for the mist to pass, a voice called to her. A voice she knew as intimately as her own heart. One that made her weak in the knees. She: the Manslayer! She saw him approach with circles of mist swirling about his body, slowly walking to her from out of the darkness.
Memeshi was unlike any male she had ever known; none among the Shogun’s concubine were as willow-like, as soft-spoken, as well-hung, as her lover. He put his long arms about her, drawing her muscular body close. They were polar opposites, physically. Ankoku’s body was scarred and tattooed; a lifetime of war had burned away everything that might once have been called feminine from her. Her short hair, towering physic, her boy-like hips, her muscled arms that, in wrestling, could crush the strongest of men in her grasp. Memeshi did not even come up to her shoulder, though she liked the way he would curl his lithe body around hers, enter her from the side, one of her massive legs thrown around his shoulder. Despite Memeshi’s fey appearance, not only could he easily carry her weight but he was possessed of a libido even the Shinto gods didn’t have a name for.
She looked down into his deep, up turned eyes. Far within them, it seemed to her, she could discern an orphic laughter, an alien god dancing in those wells of light. It was more than just an ecstatic hint — a spirit of fire — it was an otherworldly passion she noticed even at their first contact.
“At last,” he said in his musical voice. “At last, my beloved!”
He wore a furisode, a long sleeved kimono. Ankoku reached inside and caressed him, slipping her hand down into his fundoshi, a thong-like length of cotton passing as underwear, and finding that already his veins were pumping blood into what was his semi-erect nine, soon to be ten inches. He wasn’t surprised by her boldness, let a silvery moan from deep within his throat. She continued working with his monster cock, now fully erect and pulsating, thick as her arm. His breathing became more and more aroused, even for a spirit of the dark he enjoyed both tender and anal destructive fucking. She slowly raised his testicles in the palm of her hand, letting them shiver under her breath, making his cock look enraged and eager for release.
“Don’t hold it back, lover,” Ankoku whispered to him in his ear. “I know you want to cum; go ahead and enjoy this. Shoot everything you had been holding on to while I was away.”
Ankoku increased her pace, using both hands to fondle and stroke and caress; making him moan in his morning glory voice. She could see his chest and legs contracting; he was close.
“I’ve been waiting for th–”
Without warning, he mewed loudly, his hips buckling. The first spray of cum flew fast and furious, hitting her old uwagi jacket. His cock, though, was not done; it continued to explode away, spray after spray of ectoplasmic cum, making a trail that began at the tip of his cock and ended down at in the bog mud. She stroked him over and over until nothing more came out and finally, a beast in submission, his massive cock fell limp.
The world swam in front of her eyes. Even though it had been his orgasm, his cum that was dripping from her page-boy hair cut, when she looked down at him she found that he was crouching in front of her, her kimono suddenly parted at the hips. She wore nothing underneath. The mound of her pubic hair was massive, the pride of the Tsumibukaki nunnery when she last was there. He leaned forward, flicked his tongue quickly over her protruding clit, making a jolt of bliss run through her body.
“Look what you do to me, you gorgeous boy,” she moaned.
She took her fingers, wet them in her own cum and rubbed each all over his soft lips and up turned chin, turning them over and over, trailing her wetness all over his strange face. She could crush his head with her thighs if she wanted, she thought. Thighs that had ridden horses into battle; men and women to the point of orgasm; blocks of granite when she had been enslaved by the Tokugawa shogunate. They called her a freak; taller than most men, unstoppable when the blood-lust took her.
“Find yourself a demon, an Oni; only a creature possessing a supernatural libido can satisfy you,” the old shaman in her village had told her.
Memeshi inhaled, breathing in the sweet scent of her cunt. She stuck two of her cum-coated fingers in his mouth and he sucked each dry as her half hooded eyes stared into his, smoldering with lust. Her other hand was sliding fingers in and out of her ass, her tight, round O, bringing those fingers to his lips as well, letting him taste everything she had to offer.
“Why?” she finally asked, tingling at the nerves while he licked her fingers clean. “Why have you brought me out to this lachrymose location when my bedroom at the inn would have been so much more divine?”
He uttered his silver laugh, nestled against her, slipping his hand into her uwagi jacket. Her very tight jacket. The sort that clung to her small, perky breasts. He traced one of her erect nipples; her gorgeous long, brown nipples.
“Darling,” he answered as she shivered and pressed him closer. “This is my home. I swore to you that I would show you where I lived after you let me cum in you.”
“Yes, let’s do that again,” Ankoku giggled, glancing around herself. It was, perhaps, the first time she had made that noise in the presence of another person in all of her 43 lonely years. “But not here, fuck bunny. I have come and I’ve seen. I know where you live. But this swamp chokes up my lust. I want Buddha’s blessings when you fill me with your cum. Come with me.”
“You are in haste?” he asked. “There is yet much to see. Ah, my lover,” he said, waving at the bog all around, “you know what I am. This is my ancestors, I have inherited the swamp’s traits. Would you take a swamp demon with you as your mate?”
For an answer Ankoku pulled him to her, her warm lips driving out the horrid moods of the night from his cold touch; but suddenly deep within his eyes a flickering scoffing glowed, like clouds over the moon, and an odd worry struck her. She pulled away and the night grew chill again.
“I have the swamp in my veins,” he explained. “You are a fountain of the sun’s light. I am a willow’s shadow in the marsh. You make my shabbiness all silken.”
He was a lithe, lovely creature, she thought, a tangible taste of warm flesh. He lifted his magic face to Ankoku’s own. The dew of nightfall hung in his hair. His otherworldly beauty seemed to plead with her scars and missing finger on her left hand for her forlorn, solitary love.
“I love you!” she cried, “Oni or fey demon of this swamp, I do not care. You shall come with me; I have known you on the hills when you entered me from behind. I love your roving phantasma of male beauty. Nothing more do I know about you, nothing more will I ask. I do not care what your dismal haunt means. You have powers beyond what I can understand, your swamp is as queer and incomprehensible to me as your beauty. But this,” she said, grasping his already hardening cock, “is mine.”
He moved his head nearer to Ankoku with a surprisingly monstrous gesture, his gleaming eyes piercing hers with a sudden flash, the likeness of a winter owl striking prey. Startled, she fell back; as tall and broad shouldered as she was, but at that moment he turned his face toward the fog that came rolling in, a terrible thick bulk spreading itself all over the bowl. Noiselessly the great cloud crept down upon them. She was aware of him watching it progress in sudden silence. It was as if he awaited some omen she could not understand. Despite her years and training, Ankoku too trembled in fear of its coming.
Then suddenly out of the night issued the same hoarse, hideous croaking she had heard before; a noise the sort that Ankoku had only heard before on the battlefield when men made their death rattle. She reached out her arm to take her lover’s hand, but in an instant the mists broke over them like a wave, she was all at once groping about, blind, crying like a child in the emptiness. Something like a panic, a feeling she had only known once before when she had lost her maidenhead, took hold of her. She was the embodiment of the female samurai, a fighting Onna bugeisha by trade; and here she was, rushing over the bog, up to her thighs in ooze, calling upon her elfin love. A little the swirl passed by, like eddies in a river. Then, turning, she perceived him, standing silhouetted in the gray, his arms raised as in imperious command. She ran to him, but stopped, amazed, shaken by a fearful sight. Down by the dripping wet reeds crouched a diminutive, dumpy creature; a sort of monstrous toad. As she stared, the thing rose upon its back legs, disclosing to her view a horrid human ribcage and ghastly face: pasty as the bloated gaijin, Admiral Perry; cadaverous, with stringy black hair; its body gnarled, twisted as with chills and fever. Shaking, it whined in a breathless voice, pointing an emaciated finger at the fey boy by her side.
“Your lust was my guide,” it quavered. “Do you think that after all these years I have no knowledge of your lust? This is the hell that you designed for me. Now, love, would you leave me all by myself?”
The three stared at each other. For a long while no one said anything.
“Hear me out!” it finally cried, turning to Ankoku, panting, leaned upon a bush. “Listen to the tale of this foul Oni so that you may know him as he really is. He is the Bones and Marrow of Nioi Swamp. He is neither human nor devil, but simply the accursed bog brought to life, a spirit that has crept into a dead boy’s body. What you see before you lives, yes; grows more and more beautiful day by day, yes; but only thanks to this swamp. Take him away and who knows what would happen? And I, who was once a man as beautiful as he was, knows only far too well the fate of all the lovers he has cast off over the century. For six hundred years have I lived here. I ask you, whose bones lie deep in this blasted bog? Who can answer that except the one who clutches your arm? O mortal woman, O giant warrior; he has drained the living of their youth and virginity, he has sucked upon the gods and robbed them of their souls. He made me a lesser devil, a root on a decayed stump, he is the cause of this putrid husk you see before you! Lost forever in this hell! Now he would leave me to my lonely anguish. Ha, yes, go off with another victim, you boy toy, you male whore. Victim that you are, woman! I warn you now so that he might not rob you too!” — it hissed through its chattering teeth — “My hell shall be his forever!”
Ankoku’s untroubled eyes finally left the creature’s great repulsive face, turning back to Memeshi who stood by her side. He put out his arms, swaying towards her. So great was the light that glowed in his face that she took him into her embrace, their lips meeting.
“Human or Oni,” Ankoku finally said, after a long, wet pause. “I will go with you. I was once called Hitokiri, the Manslayer. I fear neither man nor demon, woman nor witch. I was Nakano Takeko’s lover; now I shall be yours.”
He laughed, leaning down toward the pathetic, wide-eyed creature flopping around in the muck.
“Dear, dear Fuzen-chan,” he said. “We both know what you just said is not true. You were a little green swamp frog once, one whom I taught the dark arts too so long ago that you have now grown sassy.”
“Really?” Ankoku asked, somewhat amazed at this revelation.
Memeshi grinned and rolled his beautiful eyes. “Believe me, the Kenmu Restoration was really, really boring. I had a lot of time on my hands.”
“But– but,” spluttered the unhappy thing.
“Well then, lover, let us be gone,” Ankoku laughed, spreading out her arms as if she could will the swamp and all its fugly denizens away.
Memeshi laughed again, his silver-ringing voice making a joyful noise inside her. He moved, clinging to her massive arm, as they slowly made their across the bog to where the trail head started.
But at the edge of the bog they were startled by a shrill, hoarse scream. Turning they beheld the pathetic creature rising up, winding its long, bony arms around Memeshi’s body, all the while shrieking out its grief.
“You stupid cock tease! Six hundred years wasted for this? You taught me language and my profit from it is that I’ve read about fellatio but would you ever go down on me? No! What’s the point of keeping naughty parchments under your tatami mat in the hut if you have no intention of getting laid?”
Stooping, Ankoku pushed the regrettable thing the author created out of their path and into a foul smelling quagmire where it quickly sank out of sight with a gurgle. With slip of his hip Memeshi guided Ankoku across the bog and onto Terra firma. Slipping her hand down inside his furisode robe she thought, “ah yes, the firmer the better.” At her touch blood rushed to fill his cock’s girth once more, its head twitching as she stroked it and ran her fingers up and down its length. Of all the ways to reclaim her lover from his swamp, perhaps sucking out the poison that kept him trapped here would work, she pondered.
She adjusted her position, sinking to her knees in the murk so she could lick the side of his cock and his curious balls; by that time she took the head of his straining cock in her mouth and sucked it in. She sucked, slurped and gagged while Memeshi did nothing save give out his odd, little cat moans, twisting her nipple gently between his finger and thumb until he pulled his cock from her mouth, letting her gum his testicles before returning to face fuck her.
“Will you love me, darling mortal?” he asked, looking down at her scars and broad shoulders.
She stopped her assault on his cock long enough to grin up at him, all ten inches still mysteriously hidden down her throat. She made a noise, it could have been yes, it could have been anything, but they both knew that Hitokiri, the Manslayer, was giving herself to her lover.
He cried out in joy, gripping her skull while the swamp faded away and he exploded within her mouth, filling her throat with desire and agony.
memories of my ghost sista 