The Blonde Samurai (21 page)

“You are my prisoner,” he said, his other hand gently cupping my breast.

“I desire to be more than your captive,” I whispered. “Teach me to be samurai.”

His eyes narrowed, questioning. “The way of the warrior demands strict obedience to your lord, whatever he asks of you.”

“I am yours—” I began, then before I could say anything
he gagged me with a silken tie, his lips brushing my forehead as he tied it behind my head, not too tight, just enough to make me helpless as he tied my bound wrists to a low hanging beam, my bare feet touching the matting. Listening intently to the building rhythm inside me, I relished the risk of being strained to a bursting point, my cheeks burning like fire, my pussy throbbing with anticipation at what naughty games he proposed to inflict upon his willing captive. I was not disappointed. Using the utensils from the tea ceremony, he teased my nipples with the eagle feather until they peaked, then swept it down my rib cage, my navel, my pussy, making me burn, while Akira struck my bare buttocks with the bamboo whisk over and over again…delighting me, pleasuring me into an act of surrender, allowing me to relinquish control of my body to them because I desired it, not because my husband wished to punish me.

Shintaro continued stroking the soft feather across my breasts and belly, his touch sensual, teasing. I groaned as my nipples responded, tightening as Akira’s fingers slid inside me, finding then circling with a familiarity the hard ridge of my clit, while another eased into my anal hole, making me wiggle with delight and suffering with so much pleasure I believed I could bear no more. But their game wasn’t over. I feigned distress, trying to pull away from them, but the way of the warrior was not to retreat but to advance as a hungry mouth closed over my breast, biting and sucking my nipple. Before I could catch my breath, another mouth started partaking of
his
pleasure, sucking noisily on my other breast. I let go with muffled cries, gasping when my samurai parted my thighs and I was caught between them, two pairs of hands having their way with me from the front and so very happily from the rear. Delirious, gasping, the scent of rose oil finding
its way to my nostrils then into my bottom. I pushed out my arse, waiting for the cock of the younger samurai to embed itself into my tight dark passage, his lord following inside my cunt, a heady mixture of incense and male sweat wafting around me like a spiritual halo as both samurai moved in me, pumping, grinding, fucking me with urgency…their fever to possess me leaving me breathless…each grunting loudly, their bodies shuddering when their moment of release came and I felt their hot semen spurt deep inside me. I rolled my head back, my arms pulling hard at the silken restraints, moaning again as both men stretched me, filled me and loved me.

Silk, touch, penetration.
Each time Shintaro performed the tea ceremony was a unique moment. The art of tea could never be repeated in exactly the same manner, so each time must be as meaningful as possible. I shall explain in detail: I would be on top of Shintaro, lying on silken pillows with his cock in me, Akira entering me from behind; or we’d be standing in the fields of blueberries with Akira fucking me in my anal hole and Shintaro taking him in the same manner. Or I would be lying beside the stream with yellow daisies as my futon, Shintaro’s cock inside me while I sucked on Akira’s as he knelt behind me. Always our bodies moving as one, thrusting, undulating, Akira plunging into me with a rhythm equaling his lord’s, sending waves of pleasure through me, drawing back when Shintaro released his semen into him, then bucking and riding me with wild abandon until I collapsed, exhausted.

I shall conclude this chapter with a special moment, dear lady reader, when Akira brought me to release with his tongue on my burning clit then put his lips to mine, eager as he was to probe my mouth after I had received his lord’s salty semen
and also allowing me to taste my honeyed juices. It was akin to the tea ritual of tasting the bitter with the sweet. Then Shintaro kissed me with such tenderness, making me smile as if
he
tasted me on his tongue when our lips met, knowing he was sharing in the pleasure bestowed upon me by the younger samurai.

And knowing you share in my pleasure of
both
samurai is the perfect way to end this tea ceremony, is it not?

T
he autumn of 1874 was the time that I became, as the title of my memoir suggests, the blonde samurai. Be assured, what you will read here is not a rearrangement of scenarios of swordplay and grunting, as you may have been led to believe by my male counterparts who endeavor to explain the samurai culture in overblown tales. It is based on a code of personal honor. Loyalty, courage, self-sacrifice, frugality, rigorous physical and mental discipline and total allegiance to my lord, Shintaro. Though I relished my time in the futon with both samurai (be patient…more to come), I will also impart to you my lessons in
Bushido-,
the way of the warrior. To begin, samurai women are schooled in the use of weapons to defend themselves—as was Nami—and control the household and govern the clan when their men are away. They educate the children and defend their homes. (Samurai women have long fought alongside their men and only six years ago in Aizu Province, they defended their lord’s castle against invaders
when their men were away.) I daresay these are forbidden subjects in your realm, dear lady reader, allocating as you do the care and education of your offspring to others and your home to tight-lipped housekeepers.

I find great satisfaction bringing to memory my samurai training. It sharpens my mind as it did then when I took brush and ink and penned calligraphy, the art of writing native characters. I found a strength in doing so, as if each stroke of the brush helped me with each stroke of the sword. The samurai take great pride in having good chirography since their language is expressed in pictograms and considered indicative of one’s character. I took great pride that as my brushstrokes became bolder, so did my strikes with the long sword. I learned to eliminate everything in my mind but that moment when I used the
naginata,
the traditional spear of a samurai woman, a long pole with a curved single-edge blade at one end.

But I imagine your interest has been most piqued by the idea of a woman using a sword, so I shall delve deeper into this curious phenomenon that no doubt has you fanning yourself with a disdainful sense of propriety. Be assured, dear lady reader, ’tis not my inclination to set myself up as a true samurai, though the publication of my memoir will have several among you eager to confute anything I write and that is your privilege. But to rip apart the valor of samurai women is
not
your right and so I hope to counsel you with my personal mission to honor them by entreating you to endure with me what they have endured.

The way of the warrior is not about the sword,
Shintaro taught me,
but about the woman holding the sword, her mental strength, discipline, compassion.

I shan’t forget the first time I tried its sharp, razorlike edge
on wood, then stone, the possession of the sword giving me a sense of responsibility and self-respect, as well as the loyalty and honor I carried in my heart and mind. The sword of the samurai is his soul…never would I draw my sword unless I intended to use it, but it was many months before I experienced that moment. Shintaro was the master and I his student. Hence I shall re-create for you through the voice of my narrative the steps so vital to your understanding the way of the warrior through swordplay.

You have to use your body,
Shintaro said, noting my breasts high and firm pointing through the thin cotton of my kimono.

The sword is an extension of your body,
he continued, sparring with me with a practice sword made of bamboo. Flexible and bendable. My sword broke in two numerous times, the pressure upon it manyfold more than what it could endure, but the end result after weeks of practice was I gained a feeling of effortlessness. It was no easy feat swinging a sword for hours, first bamboo then forged steel, my arms so sore at night I could do nothing but lie in my futon, blissfully helpless to resist when Shintaro entered me, his dark eyes seething with pleasure and need, gently lifting my legs over his shoulders, allowing him to thrust deeper into me.

After months of consistent training, I began to experience the wielding of the sword as meditation in motion. Elegant, graceful, empowering my aptitude as a samurai
and
as a woman. Wielding my sword with its whiplike motion made me feel strong and powerful and respectful of myself and my opponent.

Remember, your opponent is a better swordsman than you, a superior fighter,
Shintaro said, his tall, muscular body bared to his waist, arousing me,
but,
he added,
you have the advantage of being quick, so you can outmaneuver your opponent.

When we sparred, I no longer saw his nakedness, his chest,
arm muscles bulging, his presence representing itself to me as an oracle to be worshipped, but as my opponent, judging a safe distance to stay out of his attack range while being able to fight back.

For practice, I engaged in cutting rolled straw targets with my long sword, while also learning the art of drawing the sword, unsheathing it with speed and striking with accuracy, as well as how to disarm an opponent, how to run, jump and roll with my weapon unsheathed, and fighting from horseback.

You have learned how to fight and defend your life and now have the choice
not
to fight,
Shintaro said to me, bowing to show me respect.
If you never learned the way of the warrior, you would never have that choice.

By writing this, am I suggesting that you take up fencing or the use of firearms? That depends, dear lady reader, if you are wont to find yourself in the seedier parts of London or have ever been accosted by a pickpocket or a jealous lover. Imagine being able to defend yourself. ’Tis a noble idea, is it not?

As a samurai woman, it was expected I would be my own bodyguard and therefore I, like Nami, carried a small dirk in my obi should it be necessary to defend myself or commit
seppuku,
ritual suicide, by cutting my throat. I have decided not to expend energy nor ink to take you through the baser aspects of battlefield maneuvers since the ostensible subject of my memoir is my love affair with the inimitable samurai. Because my intention is to give you pleasure on every page, dear lady reader, I shall aspire to concentrate on the sexual overtones of my training where I also learned the way of rope with Shintaro, a master of the art.

’Tis a conflict between beauty and fear, pain and lust, an intriguing art that involves a delicate balance between the
physical, mental and spiritual. Confused? You shan’t be. I shall give you a lesson in this chapter as to its artistic beauty of ornate knots wound under my breasts, between my breasts, each successive coil outside the one previous, my samurai always mindful of my breathing, my comfort, my pleasure tantamount in his eyes as he pulled on the rope to stimulate my breasts.

Take pen and ink in hand, dear lady reader. No, not to practice calligraphy, but you may wish to draw on paper for yourself what I am about to show you.

Long, long rope…damp hemp…double it up…make a simple knot in the middle…your partner pulling each end over your shoulders, knot against the nape of your neck (the most erogenous part of your body)…another knot tied below your rib cage and above your navel…third knot about two hand lengths above your clitoris, another below that…then pass the rope through your legs, ignoring the moistness from your pussy wetting the rope…drawing the rope halfway up your back and tying another knot…

Did I see you put down your pen? Is that sweat dripping from your brow and perspiration from the heat rising up in you? I see you don’t have the patience for the way of the rope, so I shall dispense with the intricate tying lesson. Do you wish to try self-bondage? Secure a hand, a foot? That way you shall always have a hand free for self-pleasure. I
do
wish to impart to you that getting into these sensuous knots does not impede blood flow, so I was able to wear Shintaro’s erotic rope design under my kimono should I desire, a much more pleasurable bondage than wearing a corset, I can assure you.

Since my experiment in the tying of knots bored you, I shall instead delve into a more titillating aspect of this art, though I wish to remind you bondage is also a way to train the body and the mind, something I found most enjoyable
when Shintaro labored for hours to turn my body into a work of art in every detail. I must also remind you that my samurai had a sense of humor and showed me woodblock prints of nude courtesans tied up in provocative positions and maintained I could not become samurai until I had tried each one of them. That was when Akira suddenly came from behind the screen where he was watching us and insisted he help since the art of tying up and transporting prisoners was a part of his training.

I most willingly allowed my samurai to use my body for practice in binding a prisoner, whether I alone was bound or Akira and I were tied together, my lower lip trembling, waiting my turn as Shintaro took the younger samurai first, grinding his hips roughly, pumping, his need feeding my hunger, making me feel more aroused. I arched my body upward, offering him the gift of my rear passage, but he denied me, taking his pleasure first with Akira, thrusting into him at a frantic pace while I watched. I groaned, jealous of these two strong, muscular bodies moving in tandem and I was restrained from participating. I moaned as his lord reached his climax, Akira straining against the rope binding him, his handsome face dripping with sweat, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that didn’t cease when Shintaro pulled out of him, his seed spilling onto the younger samurai’s arse. Then he turned to me, panting heavily, smiling, his desire not waning. He pulled on the rope binding my breasts and turned me over, stroking the backs of my thighs, tiny shivers running up and down my legs. I groaned again when he spread my buttocks, then slid two fingers inside my pussy, feeling, exploring for my wetness. I moved against him, wanting him to feed on me from behind, rolling my head back when he spread my legs wider apart and put his tongue to my pussy lips, touching me, using his thumbs to hold me open, then
sliding his tongue in and out of me, probing me, delving inside me, making my juices flow even more…lapping at my pussy lips, then pinching them together with his two fingers and sending me to the edge of madness.

I shall write no more today of my samurai and his beguiling tongue, for I heard you gossiping about me to Baroness——, as you often do about such things as your friends’ jewels (something you know more about than your own children, or so I’ve heard), whispering that I serve you falsehoods about my training as samurai. ’Tis true in olden days, Shintaro would never have allowed me to reside in his village and train to become samurai. But these times are different and a lord such as Shintaro not only found a place for me in his soul, but he knew I needed such skills to protect myself against the wrath of my husband, James. In years to come, I’ve no doubt novels will fancy the telling of such tales, never knowing that such a story
did
take place in this year of 1874.

I must therefore ask you to show respect, something I give to you in spite of your rudeness and audacity toward me at the Viscount Aubrey’s soiree. Sneering, whispering about me sleeping with a man of a different race. Calling me base, vile. I shall not toss similar vulgarities at you. I mention the incident again to ask you to show compassion and respect toward everyone, even your enemies, as is the way of the samurai. Without it, you shall become embittered, restless, dispassionate in the ways of love and cast off to a solitary place of your own making, living your life with a haunted, grim demeanor. I’d not wish that on you, dear lady reader, for I believe you
can
change. ’Tis my hope when you finish reading this chapter, you take the lessons of the way of the warrior with you.

As I have.

I also embraced the wisdom Nami passed on to me, her charm and practicality guiding me through the nuances of this seductive and duty-bound culture. I found her advice fascinating (“If you wash your face with water that is too hot,” she said, “wrinkles will appear,” adding the importance of smoothing out wet towels hanging on the rack to also avoid face wrinkles). Humorous (“If your ears are ticklish, ’tis a sign you will soon have a lucky event”). And, I hoped, practical (“To hasten the onset of your menses, stick a needle with red thread onto the wall of the necessary place”).

Worrying about the monthlies would be the grief of me as the crimson foliage made its autumnal appearance in our valley. They did not come, sending me to search for red thread among scraps of cloth and needles. I found none. Don’t look at me, dear lady reader, with that hard and calculating stare as my blessed mother used to do when she caught me reading novels. I’m not ashamed of
anything
I did, but I beg your patience, for the scenes about to play out are not only of a sensitive nature, but a turning point in my life.

Nami and I spent several days bleaching then fulling newly woven cloth, pounding it with wooden mallets, dipping, wringing the heavy cotton, then spreading it out on the banks of the stream. I was at peace here in the early morning with the gurgling water and the mist glistening on the ferns and slick, mossy rocks, the fresh air intoxicating. Sleeves tied back, my blond hair covered by a white-and-blue scarf, I labored over the work with an Irish ditty upon my lips, humming a tune. By late afternoon, that peace dissipated as the grueling work took its toll on me, nausea rising within me, and I could no longer work on my knees. Feeling as if
the gods willed me to slumber, I lay down by the stream on the soft grass, my back aching, so tired was I, which surprised me. I rarely felt the strain of hard work and prided myself on my endurance both with the sword and in the futon with Shintaro. And Akira. I had to smile. The young samurai often confided in me how he prayed to the gods he’d find a woman like me someday. I’d laugh and tell him then I would be jealous…yet as I said the words, I wondered how long I could remain with Shintaro as his…consort. Nami was still his wife, though divorce was not uncommon among samurai if a woman did not bear him a son that lived. Nami insisted I must take her place with Shintaro, but the lord himself had made no such request of me.