their back to him.
He took alternate sips of coffee and iced water and then after finishing about half his cup Watanabe stood up briskly and left the shop. The briefcase he had been carrying remained on the seat.
The other arrival, on seeing Watanabe leave, then changed seat to the table that Watanabe had just vacated, apologising to the waitress for any inconvenience. They then proceeded to drink their own coffee, accompanied by a hot pancake with whipped cream. Ten minutes later they too left the coffee shop with the leather briefcase securely tucked under their arm.
A transfer of money had just taken place or more succinctly put – a pay-off.
13 - In which a prostitute recalls her inner strength, considers her position and then acts with the precision of a samurai swordsman
Friday 31st December 12:15pm
A mere thirty minutes had passed since Fujiwara’s sadistic violation of Rumi Park and yet, as we know, he remained utterly unsatisfied. Everyday life, each new day, each simple half hour no longer bristled with opportunity and challenge but was now a hideous, tormenting trap. His emotions were the hardest to overcome. He’d never realised that he was capable of such tortuous feelings and in turn he had become drawn to their comforting allies - drugs, alcohol...
And an alarming, out-of-control, libido!
There seemed to be no escape from the chattering, thumping, insistent noises from within his head.
‘Rumi!’ Fujiwara yelled angrily.
No-one answered or came to his call.
‘Rumi!’ he yelled again easing himself out of his chair with some difficulty and discovering, not surprisingly, that he was extremely unsteady on his feet. He exited his office and swayed once again down the corridor maintaining his balance only by gratis of the side wall and barged ungainly into Rumi’s room.
‘Get the fuck out!’ he ordered to the man lying prostrate on the futon who, startled at the interruption to his personal and private service, thought for a second, and only a second, about challenging this unwelcome rescheduling. The look on Fujiwara’s face warned him against such a foolish course of action so he quickly jumped up mumbling unnecessary apologies, he’d done nothing wrong after all, picked up his shirt, and with rather too much grovelling and scraping gathered up the rest of his clothes which were scattered around the room and hurried quickly to the door.
‘Go to Yuki,’ advised Rumi whispering in his ear as she gently pushed him into the corridor and closed the door behind him. She then turned to face Fujiwara, biting her lip knowing full-well what was coming next.
Fujiwara pushed her back onto the futon and then ripped open her masseuse’s white dress revealing her pale yellow underclothes beneath. He then grabbed her roughly by the face, kissing her strongly on the lips and then forced his tongue into her mouth.
Rumi waited submissively for the next stage of the assault. She didn’t have long to wait as he pushed her legs apart and then moved between them. He grabbed her right breast with his left hand in what he mistakenly thought would be interpreted as passionate fondling. With his right hand he grasped her throat pushing her head back. She felt nothing but pain and experienced nothing but aggression. But then, just at the point where she expected him to reach down and tear off her knickers he rolled off her and slipped onto the floor in a fit of uncontrollable howling.
She lay on the futon not daring to move, listening only to her own heavy breathing and his endless, pitiless crying and wondered what had tipped him over the edge. What act had he committed that had reduced him to this?
There were relatively few times in Rumi Park’s life when she’d not had occasion to bitterly evaluate the way in which her life had unfolded. Given who she was, where she was and what she was this was not surprising. Suffice it to say that at an
He took alternate sips of coffee and iced water and then after finishing about half his cup Watanabe stood up briskly and left the shop. The briefcase he had been carrying remained on the seat.
The other arrival, on seeing Watanabe leave, then changed seat to the table that Watanabe had just vacated, apologising to the waitress for any inconvenience. They then proceeded to drink their own coffee, accompanied by a hot pancake with whipped cream. Ten minutes later they too left the coffee shop with the leather briefcase securely tucked under their arm.
A transfer of money had just taken place or more succinctly put – a pay-off.
13 - In which a prostitute recalls her inner strength, considers her position and then acts with the precision of a samurai swordsman
Friday 31st December 12:15pm
A mere thirty minutes had passed since Fujiwara’s sadistic violation of Rumi Park and yet, as we know, he remained utterly unsatisfied. Everyday life, each new day, each simple half hour no longer bristled with opportunity and challenge but was now a hideous, tormenting trap. His emotions were the hardest to overcome. He’d never realised that he was capable of such tortuous feelings and in turn he had become drawn to their comforting allies - drugs, alcohol...
And an alarming, out-of-control, libido!
There seemed to be no escape from the chattering, thumping, insistent noises from within his head.
‘Rumi!’ Fujiwara yelled angrily.
No-one answered or came to his call.
‘Rumi!’ he yelled again easing himself out of his chair with some difficulty and discovering, not surprisingly, that he was extremely unsteady on his feet. He exited his office and swayed once again down the corridor maintaining his balance only by gratis of the side wall and barged ungainly into Rumi’s room.
‘Get the fuck out!’ he ordered to the man lying prostrate on the futon who, startled at the interruption to his personal and private service, thought for a second, and only a second, about challenging this unwelcome rescheduling. The look on Fujiwara’s face warned him against such a foolish course of action so he quickly jumped up mumbling unnecessary apologies, he’d done nothing wrong after all, picked up his shirt, and with rather too much grovelling and scraping gathered up the rest of his clothes which were scattered around the room and hurried quickly to the door.
‘Go to Yuki,’ advised Rumi whispering in his ear as she gently pushed him into the corridor and closed the door behind him. She then turned to face Fujiwara, biting her lip knowing full-well what was coming next.
Fujiwara pushed her back onto the futon and then ripped open her masseuse’s white dress revealing her pale yellow underclothes beneath. He then grabbed her roughly by the face, kissing her strongly on the lips and then forced his tongue into her mouth.
Rumi waited submissively for the next stage of the assault. She didn’t have long to wait as he pushed her legs apart and then moved between them. He grabbed her right breast with his left hand in what he mistakenly thought would be interpreted as passionate fondling. With his right hand he grasped her throat pushing her head back. She felt nothing but pain and experienced nothing but aggression. But then, just at the point where she expected him to reach down and tear off her knickers he rolled off her and slipped onto the floor in a fit of uncontrollable howling.
She lay on the futon not daring to move, listening only to her own heavy breathing and his endless, pitiless crying and wondered what had tipped him over the edge. What act had he committed that had reduced him to this?
There were relatively few times in Rumi Park’s life when she’d not had occasion to bitterly evaluate the way in which her life had unfolded. Given who she was, where she was and what she was this was not surprising. Suffice it to say that at an
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