Women in Lust (16 page)

My partner had taught me that phrase early on in the trip, after he tired of apologizing on my behalf to all the people I
bumped into. And I bumped into a lot of people as I was constantly staring upward in astonishment at the cherry blossoms that seemed to adorn all of Japan.

Cool hands cupped my cheeks and tilted my head backward. Dark eyes peered into mine, eyes so dark I could not distinguish the pupils from the iris. “Are you hurt?” she asked me. Her voice was typically girlish Japanese, but her accent was pure Queen’s English.

I gaped stupidly at her, a slow blush creeping up my torso and flagging my cheeks. Humiliation burned through me, but so did a peculiar excitement. I lifted my hand off her sandaled foot, the foot clad in those white socks with the split toe that had fascinated me since I’d first spotted them. I’d hoped to get a close-up view one day, but this was hardly what I’d had in mind. I released my hold on her
yukata,
a simple blue-and-white
yukata
similar to the one I was wearing, and with her help, I stood up.

“Are you certain you’re not hurt?” she asked again in her fluent English.

I watched her rosebud mouth shape the words, saw her fine brows knit in that perfect oval face. Her skin was lovely, creamy and golden, like custard. She smelled of flowers and herbs, a concoction that was pungent enough to penetrate my daze. I wanted to gather her up and press my nose to her skin, smelling her everywhere. I was shocked with a fleeting mental image of her splayed on the low table that our
kaiseki
feasts were served on, and then my stomach rumbled, reminding me of why I’d been stumbling out of my room.

Breakfast.

“I’m fine, really. There’s nothing wrong with me that a cup of tea won’t fix. I need some caffeine. Too much sake last night, you know…” I babbled groggily and blushed again. My voice
was so husky that I barely recognized it as my own. Too much sake indeed. The Gion District offered many late-night pleasures in addition to the geisha and their
maiko,
and my lover and I had partaken of them until nearly dawn. Thankfully, our
ryokan
did not have a curfew.

I smoothed my
yukata
over my pajamas and tucked a lock of hair back behind my ear, then smiled hesitantly at the woman I’d unintentionally accosted.

“Thank you for your help. I’m Sophie MacRae.” I bowed slightly and withheld my hand, having noticed that the Japanese had a thing about hands. They washed them compulsively, especially before meals, and rarely touched hands if it could be avoided.

“Miyuki Futohara,” she said, and bowed to me, her eyes downcast.

I was struck again by her beauty, by the music of her voice, the perfection of her skin and the symmetry of her features. I wanted to photograph her. I wanted to kiss her. But most of all I wanted to pull the decorative clips from her hair and run my fingers through it. I understood, with sudden clarity, how a woman’s beauty could inspire poetry, and songs and even wars.

At that moment a young woman shuffled up to us. I recognized her as the innkeeper’s daughter. She was plain compared to the other woman, but she looked serene in her traditional Japanese dress, including a pale pink
obi
that bound her from breasts to hips. She bowed to me and gestured.

“Your breakfast is ready, Miss,” she spoke in halting English.

I blushed again, horrified. I wanted to groan, but I breathed out slowly instead. I was late, and the Japanese were sticklers about being prompt. Tardiness was considered disrespectful, if not rude.

I bowed to the beautiful Miyuki.
“Arigato gozaimasu.”

She bowed in acknowledgment of my gratitude, her poise enviable.

I bowed to the girl.
“Gomen nasai.”

As I followed the innkeeper’s daughter, I wondered if it was wishful thinking on my part that Miyuki’s eyes were following me. I stumbled again, feeling unsettled and breathless. My morning had gotten off to a rough start, but it wasn’t anything that breakfast and a long soak in the
onsen
wouldn’t fix.

My traditional Japanese breakfast was a filling mixture of a half-dozen small dishes that in many ways were indistinguishable from any other Japanese meal: boiled rice, steamed fish, miso soup and
nori
. The difference was mostly in the presentation, I think, with the ceramic dishes being more rustic in appearance. When I finished, I walked across the tatami mats, slipped into my sandals, and did my best to glide gracefully down the cobbled walkway to the bathhouse. I desperately needed a soak, and the
o-furo
tub in my room was a bit small for what I had in mind.

I entered the anteroom to the women’s
onsen
and stripped down, placing my clothing in a basket. There was a woman there with her child, but I scarcely noticed them. In Japan, there is no such thing as body modesty, or at least, not in a form that Westerners would recognize. Entire families bathe together, and businessmen often soak together, enjoying the naked communion, the sense of sharing that comes when there is no possibility of concealment. But as casual as they seem about nudity, the Japanese are sticklers about cleanliness, and those using the communal baths must follow a strict code of hygiene. A Japanese friend of mine made sure to educate me on the bathing customs, so that I would not embarrass the attendants with the need to explain to the
gaikokujin
why she had to leave the
sento.

There is something meditative about the bathing ritual, something as deeply sensuous as it is cleansing. I stepped under a showerhead and soaked myself, then sat on a little stool and slowly scrubbed from head to toe with a brush and soapy fingers. When every inch of me was pink and gleaming, I rinsed off, making sure there was no soap or shampoo residue. My skin tingled from the bristles of the brush, a tingle that bordered on pain but was a precursor of tingling to come. The water in the pool would be very, very warm.

Yukata
wrapped back around me, I stepped into a pair of wooden sandals used exclusively by bathhouse patrons and passed through the doorway to the open-air
onsen,
or hot-spring pool. It was bordered by a high bamboo fence, tightly woven together, and surrounded with plants and stones that formed a garden I had meticulously cataloged in my mind for possible reproduction back home. The petals from the overhanging cherry tree floated on the surface, looking like hot-pink confetti.

I stepped out of my wooden sandals, then removed my
yukata
and folded it neatly, placing it atop them. I stood for a long moment with my face upturned to the sky, enjoying the feel of the sun and the cool April air on my bare skin. And then I stepped into the petal-strewn pool.

I was prepared for the heat and still I gasped. It seemed to sear my skin. A wave of gooseflesh washed over me, making my nipples impossibly hard. Slowly, ever so slowly, I worked my way down into the pool, until water lapped at my collarbones and the bubbles of air trapped around my hair follicles danced toward the surface like hundreds of tiny, teasing fingers. I fantasized about sharing the bath with Miyuki, my mind filled with images of small breasts bobbing in the water and tendrils of damp hair and cherry blossom petals clinging to her slender
neck. I wanted to touch myself, wanted to slide my fingers into the slippery wetness of my pussy, and would have, if I hadn’t known how it would have defiled the water in the eyes of its patrons.

I had the pool to myself and I enjoyed it fully, letting the images and sensations play over me and through me, allowing my imagination free rein with my impossible girl crush. I thought about my boyfriend, too, called back to Tokyo for a couple of days, leaving me without an outlet for my passion at a time when I desperately wanted a hard, fast fuck.

Eventually the hot water sapped my desire from me, and I floated on my back for a long while, watching the petals from the cherry fall willy-nilly and land sometimes on the water, sometimes on my skin. A poor attempt at
ku
drifted into my mind:
The tree’s passion, spent / comes to rest / on my flesh
. The sounds of Kyoto wafted in, but they were pleasant, noninvasive, almost surreal. I knew I should go dress and resume exploring the city, but it wasn’t until I felt light-headed that I moved to leave, and I had to do it by inches. I was so thoroughly relaxed, so limp and languid, that I felt like kelp struggling to crawl up out of the primordial sea.

A brisk shower under cold water soon cleared my head and firmed up my muscles. I put my pajamas back on and the
yukata
over them and was in the anteroom slipping into my sandals when a door opened. The sign on it had
kanji
symbols and the English word MASSAGE. A Japanese woman stepped out, bowed to someone inside, and then left. The door swung completely open and there was Miyuki. Seeing her standing there, my heart tripped over itself and landed at my feet. I had to walk past her in order to leave the bathhouse, and I wasn’t sure my legs were steady enough.

“Would you like a massage, Miss MacRae?” she asked me in
that girlish voice that plucked some invisible strings inside me, making me quiver.

A massage? Dear god. I nearly swooned at the thought of her hands on my bare flesh. My knees forgot to support me for a split second, and I grabbed for the wall.

“Here, let me help you,” she said, and wrapped an arm around my waist. My skin tingled where she touched. “Did you stay too long in the pool?”

I nodded, grateful for the proffered excuse for my weak knees. Her scent wove around me again, that potent herbal and floral blend, and I found it more intoxicating than sake. She guided me through the door and into the room, stopping before a shoji screen.

“Would you like an invigorating massage to give you energy?” she asked.

I struggled to find an excuse that would release me from the exquisite torture I knew I would experience under her hands, but the words did not rise to my lips.

“Um…sure, I guess. Yes.”

Uncertain as to what I should do, I began undressing while she slid the shoji screen aside. Beyond lay a massage table and a window overlooking a lovely little pocket garden. She slipped off her
yukata,
revealing a plain cotton tunic and long expanse of bare legs. I nearly choked on the sudden flood of saliva. I wanted to push her back onto the padded table and feast on her, taste her, put to use those oral skills I’d developed at college. I took a deep breath to steady myself and tried to clear my mind of its inappropriate imagery. Miyuki waited patiently by the table until I approached, naked as the day I was born, and then she guided me to lie on my front.

Warm hands spread even warmer oil over my skin. Wave after wave of gooseflesh followed in the wake of her fingertips.

As her hands slid over my shoulder, I smelled that tantalizing scent and realized it was the oil. Mmmm. I definitely wanted some of that to take back home. Large quantities of oil were poured onto my skin and she spread it around with long, broad strokes of her tiny hands. It felt like she was an artist and the oil was paint and I was her canvas, longing for the brushes of her imagination.

“You have beautiful skin,” she said. “So white, like milk.”

As she leaned into me, pressing her palms along my spine, her upper thigh brushed rhythmically against my fingers, making them tingle. I found that I was holding my breath, wondering if it was intentional or not. Soon her hands glided down my back to my hips, to the largest erogenous zone on my body. She kneaded me there, making me delirious with the pleasure of her fingers sliding along my pelvis, her thumbs pressing deep into the muscles of my ass.

A long, low moan escaped me as her hands lifted and separated my buttocks. Cool air touched my secret parts, making me aware of how aroused I was. I felt a blush creep up my neck, burning my cheeks. I moaned again as she worked my thighs, her fingertips occasionally brushing my outer labia with fleeting touches. I was spared further mortification as her hands worked down my legs, squeezing and pumping my calves.

“Roll over please,” she said, and I did so.

She placed a scented cloth over my eyes and draped another over my hips, and then she began working my feet. It felt wonderful. My poor feet had been pounding the pavement all over Kyoto as I made my way from one shrine to the next, and the feel of her fingers on the pressure points had me moaning and sighing within moments. Eventually her hands slipped up over my ankles, and with a few soothing strokes she soon passed my shins. When her fingers touched my thighs I was torn between
spreading my thighs wide and fleeing the room. To my embarrassment, I was so aroused I could smell myself, even over the potent herbal oil that she dribbled on my skin from her cupped hands. It was exquisite, the hot droplets of oil hitting my skin, as erotic as wax play, and I heard myself moaning involuntarily.

Her hands glided up my quadriceps to my hip, then curved down over my inner and outer thigh on the downstroke. As her fingers fluttered against my outer labia, I gasped and jolted and moaned shamelessly. I was hopelessly, passionately aroused. My body pulsed with lust. I brushed aside the cloth and opened my eyes to see Miyuki looking down at me, a slight smile on her face. Her dark eyes seemed particularly intent. As she met and held my gaze, she slid her fingers deliberately along my labia until she was cupping my mound.

“Do you want a G-spot massage?” she asked me in her Queen’s English accent.

She spoke so primly that it took a moment for what she was saying to sink in, and then I realized what she was asking. I blushed. The telltale redness started at my breasts and crept up my neck to my cheeks. I suddenly felt funny inside, all fluttery and tense. I’d heard about “happy ending” massages, but I’d never gotten one, and it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to me to ask her for one. But since she was offering…
Oh no, I couldn’t… Well, maybe…
My thoughts vacillated wildly, and then it occurred to me that I would always wonder what it would have been like to have this exquisite woman bring me to orgasm in this setting. I knew that I would kick myself for the rest of my life if I said no. So I nodded, not trusting myself to say even the word
yes
with any coherency.