Tora Pt. 02

From a fold of his robe he drew a small vial and poured a clear oil on the dimples above her ass, and watched the liquid trickle between the cheeks. He held her down by the neck with one hand. A finger teased and probed her, lightly at first, then more insistently. "No!" she breathed. As the finger slowly entered the tightness, she sobbed softly. He stroked her gently, loosening her. When her sobs turn to moaning whimpers, he parted his robes to take her. She tried to escape, but he pulled her firmly back to him and held her hips still. He parted the cheeks and she cried out as he took her, pushing gently, slowly, holding her whole body down with his, her tightness and her cries of pain turning his blood to fire.

Unlike the other habitués of the Tora, he wore robes that were not ornamental but symbolic of raw military and political power. And now they were spread like scarlet wings as he took her in this forbidden way. Her clitoris pressed hard against the tatami as he stroked her. She felt a strange pleasure where he pierced her even as she feared he would tear her apart. He ruthlessly brought her to orgasm, and her cries escaped in all their erotic desperation. She felt her empty heat spasm harder and longer than it ever had. He became violent and then groaned with the pleasure of breaking a taboo and of the sheer power that allowed him to take her where and how he did. He lay still, breathing hard and listening to her soft moans. He carefully withdrew and cleaned her and himself with a handkerchief. He handed her the soiled silk. "A souvenir," he said, laughing as she testily snatched it and glared at him. She almost hated him, yet her skin was moist, and the sobs that filled the hall were doubtless heard outside, and contained pain but also unmistakable ecstasy.

He adjusted his robes. She sorted hers and gathered up the remains of her sash. The guards stood stoically as he strode out, followed by Sayoko, whose black and gray silks floated like mist about her nakedness.

In the restrained luxury of his quarters he ordered her to undress them both and prepare the bath. Their ritual was calm and slow, as if everything taut within them had been replaced with a vast serenity.

5

It was almost midnight when the Tora's Master welcomed DaKar in the courtyard and ushered him into the torch-lit opulence. As they made their way to the Room of Clouds, the door of a banquet hall opened, and a richly dressed, drunken paper merchant stumbled out in front of them, flanked by two disheveled courtesans. The Tora's Master and DaKar caught a glimpse of the raucous party within, where several courtesans were already bare-shouldered and even half naked, drunk, laughing, pouring saké, reciting poetry, playing the samisen, and poking fun at the men. They also saw an unexpected sight: Sayoko standing primly, fully dressed, swaying. Her fluttering fan playfully tapped the heads of three drunken young men, sons of wealthy saké brewers, who were kneeling at her feet. Laughing, she insulted them and tugged her hem and wide sleeves out of their adoring hands. Now that the weather was warming, she was in a sheer, dark-blue kimono embroidered with gold thread, a rose-colored under-robe, and a sash of lighter blue with gold courting cranes.

The Tora's Master hid his mortification. Sayoko had breached protocol and he hoped that DaKar did not recognize the discourtesy. Although the general was a few hours late, Sayoko should have been waiting for him in the Room of Clouds, not flirting at what was turning into an orgy. The Tora's Master managed to catch her eye. Smiling, she joined the waiting men, welcomed the general, and followed them rather too jauntily, humming a drinking song. The Tora's Master grit his teeth.

In the Room of Clouds, DaKar silently placed his sword on a rack while Sayoko cheerfully prepared hot towels, saké, and tiny cups. She knew she had been improper but assumed he was unaware of it since he was, after all, a barbarian. She soon noticed, however, and then pretended not to, that he had the demeanor of a thundercloud. She bowed coquettishly—he was not her first patron to be in a foul mood—and invited him to drink.

As she rose from her bow, he pulled her roughly to her feet. Used to worshipful young men grateful for a touch of her kimono, she was shocked, then furious, and tried to twist away. He dragged her into the pillow room and threw her on her back on the futon. The force of her fall revealed a thigh and a shoulder. Towering over her, he said softly, "Undress. Slowly." She rose on her elbows, glaring up at him. He pushed her back, hard. "Remember," he said gently, "how I opened you at the Castle." He touched the dagger in his sleeve, and she imagined her very chic, obscenely expensive clothes in tatters. She loosened the cords of her sash. He reclined on his side, leaning on an elbow, his face sharp in the candlelight. "Undress and writhe," he said with a slight smile. "And keep your eyes on mine." She froze.

"Shall I help you?" he asked courteously. She arched her back as she unwound her sash. Annoyed, she flung it to the tatami where it lay like a river of damask. She parted the blue and rose-colored robes and slipped her arms out of the sleeves. As required by DaKar, the robe next to her skin was black, barely covering her breasts and slit up to her upper thigh on both sides. She parted the lapels to show her small breasts and hardening nipples.

She slipped her arms out of the sleeves and lay naked on layers of silk, sullen and seething, her thighs closed. He was unaccustomed to such intransigence. In his land, free companions were taken politely, occasionally, on the couch, while slaves were thrown, often, to furs on the floor to be rudely violated. Neither would dare show such petulance. He was frankly amazed at her insolence.

Training, he sighed to himself. Her mind may be fully developed, but she lacks training.

While he appreciated the Shogunate's hospitality and found his military duties in Edo highly exciting and challenging, he sometimes yearned for the customs and certainties of his own land. Stroking his goatee, he contemplated the low table spread with various implements of pleasure and pain. His mood was lighter than it had ever been since he left Gor a season ago.

He secured her slim wrists in front of her in the leather manacles and yanked her to her feet by the chain. She almost stumbled as he pulled her roughly to a post. He secured the chain on one of the higher hooks. On tiptoe, her cheek to the post, she stretched luxuriously, waiting for his touch and tongue. Men, she smiled to herself, are so predictable.

From his sash he pulled out a kurt, stroking its five tails like a pet, and flayed the post above her head. She flinched at the unexpected blur of leather and the crack of it against the wood.

No, she thought, No! The tails cut into her back and she cried out in surprise and anger and fear that her much-admired skin would be welted. Unlike the Castle's walls, however, the Tora's kept all sound within the rooms and she could expect no help. Surely, he has made his point, she thought, and waited to be pleasured.

He paused, drawing the tails lingeringly through his fingers and then across her shoulders. It had been some time since he had given a girl the lesson of the leather. And, he thought, smiling, an initiatory whipping is in order now. He brought the kurt down again, and the sound of her strangled cries filled him with a long-missed joy. Soon, he knew, the screams would start.

She was horrified. The kurt did not break her skin but it stung terribly. He carefully timed the blows to allow her to contemplate her condition. After the fifth lashing, her cries echoed in the pillow room, yet she was filled with a strange languor. Her body moved with the whip, as if it were caressing her and not whistling through the air and slashing her flesh. The bolts of heat and pain aroused an unknown sensation. Impossible! she thought, as he moistened. By the time he delivered the gratis blow, in the jumble of her thoughts she was begging him to continue.

For his next pleasure, DaKar took a coiled whip from the table, remarkably similar to that of Gor. It reminded him of the slave markets of his land where he watched the unsuspecting, naked girls writhe when the slavers forced them to expose their heat to buyers. Administering the whip caress himself was one of his favorite amusements. With a snap of a wrist, he uncoiled the whip between her thighs and drew the braided tail across her hard clitoris and through her damp lips. It was a long whip, and her head fell back as she moaned.

He released her from the post but not from the harsh bracelets. She undressed him, filled with a narcotic softness and warmth she had never felt before. He roughly pushed her to the silk-strewn futon. Their bodies rose and fell, their limbs entwined, they breathed each other's scents, and he violently impaled her. As she rode him, her hands and the chain stroking his chest, she succumbed to an unknown rapture. When the spasms tore her apart, she floated and saw herself as if from above, lightning streaking through her arms and legs, riding her handsome master who held her hips and filled her with his seed, groaning. She fell, her cheek against his neck.

He stroked her hair. He knew that she had never had such an orgasm. She breathed hard, her skin gleaming, adoring his dark eyes.

"Now," he said, softly kissing her eyelids, "you have tasted slavery." But, he thought, this is just the beginning.