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Introduction to a Lady, part 2
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
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Intro to a Lady, Part 2
Before the boys found him on the waterfront, he hadn't
had any one name. His mother had sold him as a young
child to an embroidery firm, and he escaped when he was
eight. He had small, clever hands -- one of his
greatest assets even now, almost a decade later. In his
previous life, he had been called Rat, Boy, Rascal. In
the lady's household, he was known as Lark, a compliment
to the grace of his now very well trained hands.
In this day, his hands knew many of the finer arts. He
was literate, and a calligrapher. His poetry was not as
graceful as his brushwork, but his running script was
beautiful, and his bamboo and chrysanthemum work were
praised by persons of rank who would have been shocked
to know it was the work of a boy of this household. In
addition, his hands were healing, studied in massage and
the meridians, studied in the arts of love -- yet
studied in the arts of the iron hand. He was best
trained to be attached to a grand lady's household.
It grieved him to think he had reached the age where he
would have to find another place.
Lark felt this sharply, as a pain in his heart, as he
applied the ylang ylang scented oil to his lady's
shoulders, as she inclined in the cedar bath. Oddly, he
felt large and awkward in the company of the younger
boys. Still, he was chosen to coax the knots from her
shoulders.
Ah, the lady's shoulders were like the finest unbleached
silk -- surprisingly but sleekly muscled. His belly
trembled with the memories of those shoulders, laid bare
in other circumstances, instruments of pleasure and
pain, of themselves, or by extension -- the braided
whip, the lacquer rod, the intricate ivory harigata.
With her fine senses -- did she catch the change in his
breathing? -- she arched her neck, crane-like, and
casually turned to face Lark. "You do so well, my
little bird," she sighed. "You will leave tomorrow, you
know. I have arranged a place for you in Kyoto. Your
skills have won you a great mistress." Lark was
speechless, only bowing awkwardly from his perch above
the bath. His heart dropped. His breath, which had
been pleasantly excited, stopped.
The lady allowed herself the mildest, private smile --
only Lark could see. "Tonight, therefore, you will
spend with me, being instructed on the expectations of
your new place. Go ready yourself, and await me with
sake in my rooms."
For the barest second, Lark was unable to move -- but
ten years of training was too much to be lost in such a
moment, and he found himself up, bowing, and withdrawing
without undue haste from the bathhouse.
Outside, the sun had disappeared behind the mountains,
and the evening breeze whispered secrets in the black
bamboo. Lark's heart pounded, and once beyond the
doors, his feet pounded harder, heading for the big
house. Pounding on the garden path, more silent than
the breeze.
....to be continued...
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