The rhythmic grunting picked up in tempo and the motion of their hips became ragged and indistinct.
Yōki was sighing out her passion in great long jets, her face unlined and taut. The heels of her hands jammed against Sato’s powerful muscular buttocks, urging him to thrust himself even deeper into her.
“Going, going going…” Yōki’s voice held the edge of hysteria and something more. Whatever it was, Akiko longed for it just as she longed for the release from the bunched tension ribboning her thighs and stomach. Her muscles were knotted and the pain came roaring at her just as it always did at these sessions. She bit her lower lip in an effort not to cry out. Her heart hammered, threatening to burst its cage of bone and slippery membrane to explode like a sad sun in her constricted throat.
Please, she moaned to herself. Please, please, please. Though initially she had felt more than she ever had before, though she thought she might experience the blessed relief of the clouds and rain, this night was no different from all the rest. She heard Sato’s animal grunting as he shot in rapid fire into Yōki’s spasming depths.
It was too much for Akiko to bear and she fell back, slamming her shoulder against the floor beneath the tatami. Her eyes rolled up in their sockets, she heard the rushing of a sharp wind so briefly she was uncertain of its existence. Pain and a terrible longing transported her to a black plain. She heard Sun Hsiung saying, “There is a way—and if you are patient I will teach it to you—to scrutinize the enemy’s external appearance so that you may be able to discern his inner mind.”
Then unconsciousness took her.
Nicholas rose promptly just before six a.m. , awakened by his own inner clock. He took a quick shower, turning the water on first scaldingly hot, then needle cold. Emerging from the bathroom, his skin glowing from the tough toweling, he folded down into the lotus position, facing the window and Tokyo. He took three long, deep breaths. Then he dissolved into himself. And expanded outward, until his being filled the universe and he was wholly a part of everything.
The discreet knock on the door brought him out of his deep meditation; he had been waiting for it. His eyes focused on the spires of the city and, breathing normally again, he rose. He ate his breakfast of green tea and rice cakes silently. Then, dressed lightly, a small black bag slung over one shoulder, he went out of the hotel. It was just after ten o’clock.
He walked two blocks, east then south, and found himself in Toranomonchō. Past the small, immaculately tended park, on the far side of Sakuradōri he came to sanchōme, the third area designation in Toranomon. There were no exact street addresses in Tokyo, a peculiarity that nonplussed all foreign visitors. Rather, the vast city was divided up into, first, ku or wards; then zones such as the Ginza; finally, into chō. Within chō were numbered chōme and block designations.
On the odd-shaped thirteenth block, Nicholas found what he was searching for. The building overlooked a small ancient temple and, just beyond, Atago Hill.
Inside, he changed out of his street clothes. Reaching into the black bag he toted, he withdrew a pair of white cotton wide-legged pants. These were kept up by a drawstring. Over this he drew on a loose-fitting jacket of the same color and material. This closed by means of a separate belt of black cotton tied low on the hips. Finally, he stepped into the hakama , the traditional black divided skirt worn now only by those who had mastered kendo, kyudo, sumō or held dan —black belt—ranking in aikido. This, too, was tied low on the hips to give a further feeling of centralization, handed down from the time of the samurai.
Thus dressed in his gi , Nicholas went up a flight of perfectly polished wooden stairs. In his mind he heard the click, clack-click of wooden bokken clashing against each other. And it was suddenly last summer. He
Yōki was sighing out her passion in great long jets, her face unlined and taut. The heels of her hands jammed against Sato’s powerful muscular buttocks, urging him to thrust himself even deeper into her.
“Going, going going…” Yōki’s voice held the edge of hysteria and something more. Whatever it was, Akiko longed for it just as she longed for the release from the bunched tension ribboning her thighs and stomach. Her muscles were knotted and the pain came roaring at her just as it always did at these sessions. She bit her lower lip in an effort not to cry out. Her heart hammered, threatening to burst its cage of bone and slippery membrane to explode like a sad sun in her constricted throat.
Please, she moaned to herself. Please, please, please. Though initially she had felt more than she ever had before, though she thought she might experience the blessed relief of the clouds and rain, this night was no different from all the rest. She heard Sato’s animal grunting as he shot in rapid fire into Yōki’s spasming depths.
It was too much for Akiko to bear and she fell back, slamming her shoulder against the floor beneath the tatami. Her eyes rolled up in their sockets, she heard the rushing of a sharp wind so briefly she was uncertain of its existence. Pain and a terrible longing transported her to a black plain. She heard Sun Hsiung saying, “There is a way—and if you are patient I will teach it to you—to scrutinize the enemy’s external appearance so that you may be able to discern his inner mind.”
Then unconsciousness took her.
Nicholas rose promptly just before six a.m. , awakened by his own inner clock. He took a quick shower, turning the water on first scaldingly hot, then needle cold. Emerging from the bathroom, his skin glowing from the tough toweling, he folded down into the lotus position, facing the window and Tokyo. He took three long, deep breaths. Then he dissolved into himself. And expanded outward, until his being filled the universe and he was wholly a part of everything.
The discreet knock on the door brought him out of his deep meditation; he had been waiting for it. His eyes focused on the spires of the city and, breathing normally again, he rose. He ate his breakfast of green tea and rice cakes silently. Then, dressed lightly, a small black bag slung over one shoulder, he went out of the hotel. It was just after ten o’clock.
He walked two blocks, east then south, and found himself in Toranomonchō. Past the small, immaculately tended park, on the far side of Sakuradōri he came to sanchōme, the third area designation in Toranomon. There were no exact street addresses in Tokyo, a peculiarity that nonplussed all foreign visitors. Rather, the vast city was divided up into, first, ku or wards; then zones such as the Ginza; finally, into chō. Within chō were numbered chōme and block designations.
On the odd-shaped thirteenth block, Nicholas found what he was searching for. The building overlooked a small ancient temple and, just beyond, Atago Hill.
Inside, he changed out of his street clothes. Reaching into the black bag he toted, he withdrew a pair of white cotton wide-legged pants. These were kept up by a drawstring. Over this he drew on a loose-fitting jacket of the same color and material. This closed by means of a separate belt of black cotton tied low on the hips. Finally, he stepped into the hakama , the traditional black divided skirt worn now only by those who had mastered kendo, kyudo, sumō or held dan —black belt—ranking in aikido. This, too, was tied low on the hips to give a further feeling of centralization, handed down from the time of the samurai.
Thus dressed in his gi , Nicholas went up a flight of perfectly polished wooden stairs. In his mind he heard the click, clack-click of wooden bokken clashing against each other. And it was suddenly last summer. He
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