The Blonde Samurai. Jina Bacarr
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“Which one?” he dared to ask, making a popping sound as he withdrew his finger from the bottle. He licked his finger clean, his eyes never leaving mine. I couldn’t suppress a shiver at the thought of him probing inside me with his fingers, then licking my juices. I preferred my dildo.
“The girl’s name was Lucie,” I said. “I stopped her from jumping out of the library window on the top floor.”
I remember that afternoon before tea, scrambling as I was to procure a new story to titillate me, when I heard sobbing coming from the library. I opened the door to see the young maid teetering on the window ledge, her cap missing, her apron and shoes tossed onto the floor, her body poised and ready to jump. Only by the grace of God and a quick Hail Mary—and with my promise to find her another position in a Mayfair residence was I able to talk her out of jumping.
“The poor girl was desperate,” I continued, “when Lord Penmore’s housekeeper found out she fell victim to your charms and sacked her.”
“Lucie fancied herself in love with me.” James ran his finger up and down my cheek in an intimate manner, making me squirm. I hated him for it. “It happens with women, you know. I’m powerless to stop it.”
“You can’t have every woman you wish, James.”
“Can’t I?”
“No.”
“You won’t admit it, my dear wife, but you want me to flog you. Yet you’re afraid of what you’ll feel when I do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insisted.
He leaned in closer to me, his voice heavy with anticipation as he whispered, “The ecstasy, the thrill, the joy when my whip finds the curve of your lovely arse, that curious romantic dichotomy of pain and pleasure, the inescapable emotional confusion racing through you that seems at once both wicked and frightening. I guarantee, you’ll beg me for more.”
I tried to turn away but he grabbed my wrist and squeezed it hard, hurting me. “Let me go, James.”
“No, I want to see your legs spread, your buttocks up in the air,” he continued, “your lower lips opening and closing, aching for my cock while I strike your arse with my flogger—”
“You’ll never touch me,” I said, pulling away from him and bolting from the table to rid myself of his reckless threat. Throwing on my wrap, I raced out of the restaurant, not looking, not seeing, my emotions overtaking my reason until I heard the barking of the seals on the rocks below. I stood on the edge of the cliff, my blinding anger making me oblivious to the wet, violent winds tearing at my marron-colored satin cloak, the deep red silk lining becoming soaked and making it difficult for me to walk along the soggy earth on the edge.
As I put one foot in front of the other, I became aware of a simmering fear of this man. It was a revelation that came from my deepest inner self, a cry from my unconscious not to be seduced by his words and threats, to retreat, though I wondered if there was any possibility of escape from my husband’s arrogance and hunger for debauchery.
Fearing he’d find me, I searched the shadows for his distinctive figure, his body sloped to one side, but I saw nothing. Instead, a cold, callous wind slapped me in the face, making its presence known to me. I shivered then turned back toward the sea, dragging the train of my opulent gown in the soggy dirt behind me. Where had the sudden storm come from? The carriage ride along the Point Lomas toll road had been pleasant enough, followed by an early dinner at Cliff House. No clouds in sight. I pulled my cloak around me. The oncoming storm didn’t bode well for our journey to Yokohama. What would happen to me when we arrived? I had been briefed by the Viscount Aubrey and the Foreign Office to be prepared for a society where no one said what they meant, to do anything required of me by the mikado’s government, to keep my opinions to myself (in Japan, James was quick to tell me, a wife could be divorced for talking too much) and not to ask about geisha.
I had to smile at that last request. I already knew about these sensuous women from Lord Penmore’s letters and the floating world of sexual arts where they plied their trade. No, it was more than apprehension about my trip to Japan causing me discomfort. I rubbed my forehead, but to no avail. I couldn’t explain it, but a feeling of anxiety took hold of me and wouldn’t let go. My good humor and impish sense of play had dissipated, something I’d noticed happening more often. My mother would say it was because I was growing up and taking my place in society. I suppose that meant I would turn into a gossipy, sour-faced matron tugging at her corset garters and trying to hide her protruding stomach. Where was the excitement, the thrills, the adventure? Though I was barely twenty years, I had been bestowed the prestige and power of someone far older in experience, someone able to flow with the expansion of their world, knowing they were powerless to stop it but accepting it. I, on the other hand, was sorely lacking in confidence about representing western womanhood in the mikado’s court when I was yet a virgin.
I remained standing along the edge of the cliff, the incessant noise of the seals adding to my throbbing headache, the hinges holding my psyche together lopsided, threatening to come loose and reveal a different reality beneath the surface of my carefully costumed self. I took deep breaths as waves dashed against the rocks below, while howling seals rushed about in a maddening frenzy to escape the wild breakers covering them in spray and foam. I reveled in the rush and excitement, wanting to stay here, live only for this moment with the wind whipping my cloak around me. So intent was I in relishing the solitude, I didn’t hear the sound of familiar footsteps behind me.
“You can never escape me, my dear wife.” James.
“Can’t I?” I refused to turn around and face him, though I’d no doubt my dismissal of him fueled his passion.
“No. You denied me my spousal rights on our wedding night, but I promise you it shan’t happen again. You’re mine.” He enunciated each word, tightly controlling his voice so I could hear him against the pounding surf, his hot breath on my neck, burning my skin with his intent.
“We made a bargain, James, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I can make you change your mind,” he said.
“You can’t bend me to do your bidding.”
He laughed. “Your defiance amuses me since I alone can tame you, pleasure you,” he said, his voice low and hypnotic, believing it would have a charismatic effect on me.
It did not. In a firm voice, I said, “I wish to be left alone. Please.”
He shook his head. “What husband would leave his wife on the edge of a cliff with a storm coming?” He grabbed my arms, pinning them to the sides of my body.
“You’re hurting me.” I shuddered, his possessive grip setting off unwelcome sparks inside me. He hadn’t touched me since our wedding night.
He said, “I’m here to protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection,” I said, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. The wind ceased and all I could hear was the rapidly beating pulse in my ears. “Take your hands off me. I’m your wife and I wish to be treated with respect.”
“Respect?” he mocked. “I’m only taking what’s mine.” His lips brushed my cheek, then he slid his hands up and down my wet cloak, rubbing my shoulders, my arms, as if he engaged in the pleasant task of peeling off my clothes, intensifying his emotional contact with me to get what he wanted.
“I shall never belong to you or any man,” I dared to speak. Brave words. I meant them, but then I had no idea I would fall under the spell of a master with a mystical flair, a sword-wielding samurai who introduced me to the art of lovemaking with an unbearable expectation of pleasure at the sight of his sharp blade. It was I who impaled myself upon his cock, yet it possessed me, sending me into a deep thrusting ecstasy, losing myself in wild, burning sensations, my body closing tight around him, holding him inside me, squeezing him until his hot semen burst into me and he was spent.