White Tiger

CHAPTER 4

Tokyo, Japan

The sun was low on the horizon when Manning returned to his apartment in Tokyo’s Minato-ku ward. He had taken a circuitous route home, making several switchbacks and conducting the usual surveillance detection routines he employed out of habit, though he had no indication that the Fujianese had tailed him. And as Minato-ku was full of foreigners like himself, there was little chance they could find him near his home. As most Asians looked alike to Westerners, the reverse was true, though getting an Asian to admit such usually involved nail-pulling and teeth-breaking.

Halfway home, his DoCoMo cell phone chirped; he had received an SMS message. Manning checked the mailbox, and was heartened to see one word: Airborne. Chen Gui and his narcissistic nephew had left Haneda, and were bound for Osaka’s Kansai International. Excellent-step one complete.

Manning’s apartment was in a newer building in Roppongi Heights. His two-bedroom unit was on the 19th floor, which afforded him a grand view of the hellacious Tokyo Tower and all of Minato-ku, something he rarely tired of. It also had an alarm system, which was something he prized.

As always, the apartment was vacant when he entered. Shucking his shoes, he stepped across the ceramic-tiled entry foyer and crossed over into the kitchen, where he acceded to his customary ritual of opening the refrigerator and peering inside. He wanted a beer, but didn’t dare, not if there would be an op later in the night. So he chose a chocolate-flavored soy drink. The cherry wood floors in the living room gleamed as if they were glazed with glass, and his socks made for an uneven gait as he half-walked and half-skated to the leather chair that faced the windows. He lowered himself into it with a sigh, and sipped some of the sweet soy. He checked his watch; Chen Gui would be in Osaka in less than an hour, and his connection would depart 40 minutes after that. So for the moment, Manning was content to sip some soy and look out the windows at the growing night.

He must have dozed off, for the trilling of the cell phone brought him back to a much darker room than the one he thought he’d just entered a short while ago. He checked his watch groggily; hell, it was no doze, it was a full-out power nap. He’d been out for over two hours!

He rose from the chair, kicking over the empty glass, sending it rolling across the throw rug. Manning stooped to pick it up, then headed into the kitchen. He placed the glass in the stainless steel sink and picked up the phone from where he’d left it on the marble countertop.

To Dalian. Call LF. Msg Me Aft 12

Manning pursed his lips and cleared the message. Apparently, Chen Gui was quite worried about the future disposition of his rival, for which Manning couldn’t blame him.

He made the requisite telephone call to Chen Gui’s man in Shanghai, Lin Feng. Their conversation was brief, a verbal shorthand. Lin Feng confirmed he understood what was required of him, and that he would initiate the lengthy process of contacting Boss Tao in Dalian. The call completed, Manning pulled the card Chen Gui had given him from his back pocket, and wondered for a moment just what a young girl was doing handing out business cards to middle-aged Chinese gangsters who couldn’t even help her with her homework.

Chen Gui’s contact to the Fujianese gangland world was a young but world-weary fifteen-year-old girl named Chisako Noguchi. She had her own cell phone and answered almost immediately when Manning called. She was thrilled and delighted to speak with a foreigner, and she was greatly interested to learn how old he was. When he told her he was forty years old, she turned positively gooey with delight.

“I’ve never been with a foreigner before,” she cooed. “A white foreigner-”

“I’m sorry, but Chen Gui would never allow that.”

“Mmm.” There was a pause, and Manning was sure he could hear a television in the background. “Why should you care if he wouldn’t like it? He’s gone, isn’t he?”

“Giri,” Manning answered, using the Japanese word for honor.

She giggled. “You think Chen Gui understands giri? You’re more foreign than he is!”

“Chen Gui tells me you know the movements of the Fujianese snake head.”

“Yes…I’ll be with him at nine tonight.”

“Nine? Aren’t your parents going to be concerned?”

“It’s Friday, and I can stay out until midnight on Friday and Saturday. He’ll be taking me to Lychee tonight…you know it?”

“A karaoke club in Roppongi.” Manning knew it, though he’d never been inside. It wasn’t far from his apartment.

“Yes,” Chisako murmured. “We always leave through the side exit. I’ll send you his picture…” An instant later, Manning’s cell phone trilled.

“Just a moment.” Manning thumbed the menu buttons on his phone, and was rewarded with a photo of a very thin Chinese dressed in an expensive business suit. He had lank hair and oversized glasses which were held in place by an unusually broad nose. Even over the telephone’s small screen, Manning could make out the acne scars. He put the phone back to his ear.

“Got it, thanks.”

“We don’t have sex or anything,” Chisako said quietly on the other side. “Nothing like that. He just holds my hand and likes it when I wear short skirts. Do you like short skirts?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“Would you like to see a picture of me?”

“That’s not nec-” His phone trilled again, and Manning stifled a sigh. “Just a moment.”

He thumbed through the menu again. Chisako was a young, fresh-faced girl with eyes that were as empty and devoid of warmth as a hungry shark’s. Surprisingly straight teeth that were white, hair dyed to a glossy light brown, and smooth skin. A touch of eye makeup heightened the sense of budding exoticness she emanated even from a digital photograph. Manning put the phone back to his ear.

“You’re very lovely. Chen Gui is smitten with you, and I can see why.”

“But I want a white foreigner…” she pouted.

“How many men travel with your-with the Fujianese?”

“Usually only three. Sometimes four. They take two cars…Audi A8s. Black. Very kako ii,” she said, using the Japanese word for “cool.”

“How are they armed?”

“Two of them usually carry guns. They all carry knives, though. Do you like women with hair, or do you prefer them shaved?”

I prefer them legal, Manning didn’t say. He ignored the question and stuck to business.

“You’ll have to find an excuse to leave him. As they’re walking out to the cars. It’s very, very important that you’re not there.”

“I want to see it.” Chisako’s voice was small and suddenly dreamy, and Manning had no trouble picking out the sheer lust riding her voice like a carrier wave. “I’ve never seen men die before… I want to see it. I want to know what it’s like.”

“That’s not at all wise. You could be injured, or even killed yourself.”

“You would shoot me? To get to your target, would you shoot me?” she whispered.

“No. But one of his men might, and that would be a bad thing.”

Chisako sighed. “I’m so wet now,” she murmured.

Manning put his head in his free hand and sighed. “Chen Gui would be very upset with me if you were to be hurt. That can’t happen.”

“Then don’t shoot me,” Chisako said coyly. “The man who opens the car door for him is armed. The one behind us will be armed. Mister Yang is always between them. One tall and thin, the other short and fat. The fat man wants to fuck me, but he’s disgusting and has bad teeth. Do you have good teeth? White teeth?”

“I’ll want you to send me a text message when you’re leaving the club. And you’ll have to get down as quickly as you can,” Manning advised her, knowing in his mind that she wouldn’t. “I’ll need a clear shot at him, but he won’t be the first. The others go first, then him.”

“If he tries to run, I’ll hold onto him.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

“If you get some of his blood on me, I’ll come. Right there. I won’t wear any panties, and I’ll spread my legs for you so you can see. My manko is lovely, you’ll see for yourself, it’s like a small peach-”

“Noguchi Chisako! Do as I tell you!” Manning snapped in Japanese. “Do as I tell you, and Chen Gui will reward you with anything you desire. Anything. Do you understand me?”

“Hai, wakarimasu,” the girl on the other end of the phone responded. “Will he give you to me, if I ask? Will he reward me that way?”

“Remember what I told you, and do nothing out of the ordinary this evening. If you wish to remain the recipient of Chen Gui’s favoritism, this is a non-negotiable requirement.” Manning disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto the coffee table. He stretched out on the leather couch and regarded the winking lights of Minato-ku outside. He couldn’t believe the conversation he had just had with a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl, of all people.

“My God, Japan is one fucked up place,” he told himself.

Despite the fact that it was a Friday night and the Lychee Karaoke Club was both a new and a happening place, it was situated on the corner of Kaigaken-mae street, which meant Manning could prowl the area without much trouble from the countless bar hostesses and streetwalkers who preyed on gaijin like himself. He found the door that Chisako had told him about, and saw the short alleyway it led into was only tepidly lit. While it would afford him some anonymity, it would also reduce his ability to carry out the act as quickly as he had hoped. He decided it was a fair tradeoff; he’d rather get it over with and risk having to take the time for a few more shots as opposed to standing out in bright light with a gun. Even though he was fast, there was a wealth of pedestrian and vehicular traffic in the area.

There was a Starbucks three doors down. Manning went inside and ordered a tall latte, and then sat in one of two available chairs. He sipped the latte and waited.

At just a few minutes before midnight, his phone trilled. Manning read the display; in hiragana was the message:

coming out now make me wet

Manning pocketed the phone and hurried outside. He entered the alley just as the first man, the fat one Chisako had told him about, stepped out. Loud, raucous music followed him, echoing in the alleyway. Their eyes met, and Manning was overtaken by a sinking feeling.

It was the Fujianese he’d taken out in the men’s room earlier in the day.

He heard Chen Gui’s voice in his head: “Why didn’t you kill him?”

Because my dream of becoming a wealthy fortune teller is officially on the rocks, he thought as the Fujianese facing him drew short. Recognition flashed across his face.

Manning went on automatic. He whipped the suppressed Ruger KMKIII pistol from its shoulder holster. Thumbed off the safety and fired two rounds-clack-clack! — into the man’s face. He collapsed into the arms of the man behind him, who hadn’t seen Manning yet. It wasn’t the mark, Yang; even though Chisako had said he would be between the first and third man, they hadn’t synchronized their formation yet. Manning fired another two shots, and charged toward the door as the two bodies collapsed.

Manning stepped into the doorway and came face-to-face with Chisako, her eyes wide and bright, her face flushing with unmistakable ardor at what she had just witnessed. Behind her, the older Fujianese, Yang, backpedaled right into his third and last remaining bodyguard.

Manning fired right over Chisako’s head. She squealed in delight as the.22 clicked and spat its small gout of fire from the end of the suppressor. Yang took both rounds in the right eye, and he crumpled against the man behind him. Manning glimpsed a stainless steel-plated Browning Pro-9 as the guard frantically tried to shrug off his boss’s body, now concerned only for his own safety. It was too late for him. Manning advanced and snapped off another two rounds. One bullet caught the man in the left eye, while second plowed through the bridge of his nose.

There was more movement behind the last man, and Manning caught a glimpse of bright, shiny blond hair. One of the club’s hostesses stared at Manning through the pale light of the hallway. Light that was too bright for him to trust his identity was known only to the dead.

“Gomen nasai,” he said, his voice barely audible above the karaoke music. The hostess started to scream, but had barely drawn enough air into her lungs when Manning’s last two rounds penetrated her skull and broke apart, turning her brain into something more akin to lifeless oatmeal than a sophisticated bundle of nerves, neurons, chemicals, and pathways that together served as the human brain.

“Oh yes,” Chisako murmured from behind him. “Oh, so unexpected, so beautiful!”

Manning turned and headed for the door behind her. “Get out of here,” he hissed.

Chisako grabbed his hand and shoved it between her legs. He momentarily felt the wet heat of her sex, his fingertips grazing her swollen vaginal lips, the palm of his hand brushing the silkiness of her shaven mound.

“I’m so wet, look what you’ve done to me!” she gasped. “Take me with you-take me with you and fuck me!”

“Get the hell out of here!” Manning snatched his hand out from between her thighs and shoved her against the wall. “Go on!”

Chisako only smiled slavishly, head lolling, eyes on the corpse of her Fujianese benefactor, blood pooling on the rubber matting on the floor, leaking from the wounds in his head. Her right hand darted between her thighs, raising her plaid skirt; she cried out as she immediately broke out in a shuddering climax.

Manning fled, replacing his gun in its holster. So far, his actions had attracted no interest; no one even turned toward the alleyway. Keeping his head down, Manning stepped out into the pedestrian traffic. After a block, he hailed a taxi and gave him the address of a small coffee shop on a narrow street a mile away. From there, he would walk a circuitous route to the parking garage in Shibuya where he had left the Friendee.

Chen Gui had his revenge, and his territory returned to him.

Jerome Manning would soon have two hundred thousand dollars to play with.

But it would be years until he forgot the hostess. If ever.

“Moshi-moshi.” Ryoko’s voice was smoky and subdued, even though Manning knew she hadn’t gotten out of bed until at least three o’clock that afternoon. She hadn’t even been awake for ten hours.

“Ryoko-chan. Are you alone?”

“Hai. I didn’t go out tonight. Where are you?”

“Downstairs.”

“A few moments, please.”

The line went dead. Manning flipped his phone closed and plugged it into the charger in the Friendee’s console. He sat in the idling van and listened to Kaori Natori’s KaoRhythmixx program on 76.1 FM. Overhead, the night skies grew cloudy; rain was in forecast, and the clouds consumed the stars before Manning’s eyes. It was fitting, a perfect mirror of his mood. Both the night and his frame of mind were one: dark, brooding, relentless, and seething.

A car trundled past, rap music blaring-Japanese rap music, which almost always made Manning crack up. Tonight it did nothing for him, couldn’t even begin to chip away at the mantle of depression and self-loathing that encased his soul. For the thousandth time, he wondered how he had wound up so far off course, his morality compass spinning like a runaway gyro. He feared for his humanity; at times like this, the reasons he did what he did seemed distant and cold and small, like the love of the dispassionate God he had once prayed to. If there was a road to salvation, he was certain he would be forbidden to travel it. It did not sadden him, but knowing this was what was allotted for him occasionally made him angry. And as time wore on, he found he merely existed on two emotions: anger and depression. No, that wasn’t entirely right; most of the time he was just as hollow as an empty bottle of beer forgotten on a shelf, doing nothing more than gathering dust.

The dome lights snapped on as the passenger door opened, and Manning stirred from his dark reverie, watching as Ryoko Mitake climbed into the Friendee, her face composed, her lovely features accentuated by only the slightest touches of makeup. She was dressed in a black skirt, broad white belt, and a black sweater over a thin white T-shirt that exposed her taut midriff. She took Manning’s hand as she claimed the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. She smiled at him wanly, and it was a beautiful sight. The dome lights dimmed out, leaving them in darkness save for the glow of the dashboard lights and the actinic glare of the nearby streetlight.

“You look stressed,” she said in her near-perfect English. “You were working tonight, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“The karaoke club? It’s on the news.”

Manning hesitated. “Yes.”

Ryoko nodded after a moment and looked out the windshield. Her profile was visible in the soft green light coming from the Friendee’s dash.

“I’ll make you whole again,” she said.

Their relationship was both simple and complex. Simple in that Ryoko was a girl Manning had met in Shibuya almost two years ago while shopping for a new laptop. She had been working in the store in which he was shopping, and her excellent English trumped his then-faltering Japanese, and a sale was made. While no stranger to Japan even then, Manning had very few personal contacts; he had managed to capture her interest, even though she was a kogaryu, or kogal, that particular subculture in Japan consisting of young women who are predisposed to incessant consumerism. Manning nevertheless found her to be fetching enough to ask her to join him for a cup of coffee. So they met the next day at the famed Hachiko statue in Shibuya, and had a coffee at the Starbucks near the Shibuya train station. They discussed the various facets of American and Japanese lifestyles while watching the sukuranburu kMsaten, or “pedestrian scramble” play out across the intersection below, long regarded as the world’s busiest. Counter to kogal stereotype, Manning found that Ryoko was well-educated and quite intelligent, and had no problems working for her money. But she sensed the loneliness in Manning; while she wasn’t averse to working, nor was she averse to accepting handouts. Manning obliged, and he found he had inadvertently stepped into a grown-up version of enjo kMsai, the only exception being that Ryoko was already 22 years old. He made it plain to her that he would consider the arrangement on a trial basis, and provided her with a little over $1,000 in spending money.

It was, after all, one way to get laid in Japan. And in a nation where a small cup of coffee cost ten dollars, no method for generating revenue was unthinkable.

But as there was more to his story, there was more to hers as well, which made it all very complex. Not long before meeting Manning, she had been “scouted” by a “movie producer” who was interested in Ryoko’s natural good looks…and trim, breasty body, of which she was rightfully proud. The “movie producer” was of course a pornographer who promised her fame and riches. At the time, Ryoko was intensely interested in both, especially since most of her friends were content to spend their time shopping while sponging off their parents. Ryoko’s family had raised her with an understanding of personal accountability, and while they would most certainly have disagreed with her potential career choice, they would have no problems with her making her own money.

Ryoko took the job, and was reborn in Japan’s adult video industry as Sugimoto Ai. She had finished her first production the day before meeting Manning, and while aspects of it disgusted her, there was a part of the process which interested her deeply-namely, the production and distribution of filmed entertainment. And the?550,000 she made for seven hours work was something she deemed worthwhile, as well.

She kept this secret from Manning for two weeks, though as a healthy gaijin with a stronger-than-average sex drive and a genuine curiosity about all things Japanese, it would be only a matter of time until he found out. Thinking he was truly the consultant he claimed to be, Ryoko agonized over how to break the news to him. When she finally did tell him, he laughed after a moment.

“Believe me, you could be doing a lot worse,” he had told her. Ryoko was happy to discover how open-minded he was. And was even more thrilled when he continued the financial end of their arrangement; apparently, he was happy with her as well.

But she had known there was more to him than he was admitting to her. Patience was one of her better virtues, so she merely waited. And continued to work. And continued to see him.

He finally confessed his other life to her when he returned from a week at his home in San Francisco. But it actually hadn’t been San Francisco at all; it had been first Taiwan, and then Xiamen, across the strait in China. He had been given a contract by his employers, and that meant four men died. They were criminals one and all, foul, dirty men who robbed and cheated and lied and had done killing of their own. It was then that he told her he was a repairman, someone who “fixed” problems for which there was no legal recourse. And his method of fixing required that blood be spilled.

This revelation had, of course, terrified her. She fled, and did not speak to him again for six months.

Over the course of this time, however, two things became very apparent to her. As a girl with no real job skills and currently employed in an industry where she was the merchandise, there was very little chance of her altering the current status quo. As long as she kept her looks and her body and showed up for work, she would be paid well-the DVDs she starred in and the picture books she posed for were becoming famous in Japan and even abroad, and she had something of a growing fan base. She toured various nightclubs in Japan and other parts of Asia, and had even been to the UK and Los Angeles and Rome once for a photo shoot. But her attempts to get into more legitimate productions and artistic endeavors continued to fail; she was known as an AV actress, and was considered dirty in Japanese society. The fact of the matter was, she was a lousy performer when it came to acting with her clothes on. That coupled with the expected stigmas rampant in Japanese society meant that more doors would forever remain closed to her than those that would be open, and those open doors merely led to more opportunities to “merchandise” herself.

The worst part was, of course, when her family found out. She was shamed when her father, of all people, brought a contingent of overseas foreign executives working for Matsushita to one of the clubs where she was performing. While he said nothing to her about that night, she could only imagine the blackness that settled around his heart when he watched his daughter perform and expose herself for men. It had hurt her terribly, as she knew it had hurt him. When she was a child, her father had doted on her, but at the same time had done everything he could to raise her up to be a respectable woman, a woman of means. His expectations for her were dated and unexciting, but they were the things most fathers wished for their daughters, and on that night, he knew that they would never be hers.

The despondence he felt only exacerbated the problems between him and Ryoko’s mother, problems they had taken great pains to hide from her. They were beginning the formal process of divorce, and in the end, it proved to be too much for Ryoko’s father. Apparently unable to bear the weight of these things, he committed suicide by walking out in front of a bus. He was killed instantly, his body dragged for dozens of yards before the horrified bus driver could stop.

For Ryoko, those were the blackest of days. She discovered she had endless tolerance for abuse, and could absorb the ravages of alcohol, of drugs, of rough-handed men who only wanted to use her, from low-level Yakuza henchmen to the captains of Japanese industry for whom she prostituted herself at the rate of?1,000,000 per night. She descended into a spiritual darkness she had never before known, never taking pleasure from the couplings, never able to maintain any kind of relationship, not able to buy enough things with all her money to fulfill her. But her fate was firmly established; no matter how bleak things got, no matter how utterly decimated she was on the inside, she was unable to summon the courage her father had. Where he had the steel in him to know what to do when life’s punishments far exceeded its rewards, she lacked that strength. So while she was sexing and drinking and drugging, she was also slowly going insane. Trapped in a life where there was no way out.

Until the day she called Manning. She was intending to hire him-after all, he was a killer, right? — her only sole desire at that point was to beg him to make the pain stop. To end her miserable existence, and take from her the shame that always threatened to drown her, but never quite did.

“I need to talk with you,” she had said when she called him. Hot tears burned down her lovely face, leaving trails of fire, her misery a black hole that threatened to consume every last bit of sanity, leaving behind only a mindless animal cowering in a beautiful package.

“Please let me come see you,” she had begged.

And of course, he did.

At first, she found him to be cruel, refusing to honor her pleas, even though she had promised him every penny of her $250,000 net worth. He instead gave her $1,000, then took her north, to the island of Hokkaido, where he rented a house in the colorful, rustic wilderness outside of Sapporo. He denied her drugs, denied her alcohol, but provided her with companionship, understanding, and kinship. He never touched her sexually, never abused her, but forced her to confront her shame, as he had done so many years ago. She found strength in discovering his own pain, the pain borne from lost love and betrayals and fallen comrades on distant battlefields when he still considered himself a man of honor.

She was not alone, and that gave her the boost she needed. While she didn’t hold any allusions that she and Manning were kindred spirits, as she groped her way back to reality she could understand they were more alike than not. He could never heal her, nor did he promise to do so; but he did make life bearable for her again, made her strong enough that she could awaken and face each new day without feeling the need to start it off with a scream…or a shot of whiskey or the pinch of the hypodermic.

There were only two spots of trouble. One was when her employers found out where she was and sent a legal representative to order Ryoko to return to work, as she was still under contract. Manning rebuffed him, and the next day two yakuza showed up. Manning almost killed one but left the other functioning well enough to take his wounded compatriot to a doctor who would treat their kind without asking too many questions…or notifying the police. After that, other men with faces as hard as the yakuza’s would come, but they spoke mostly Chinese and referred to him in only the most respectful of ways. Ryoko came to know that the Chinese addressed him with a special name: Bai Hu, the White Tiger.

The second spot of trouble were the phone calls, those terse conversations he tried to keep hidden from her, when he spoke mostly Chinese. It was during these calls that his black times would return, and while he did all he could to shield her from them, she perceived them as easily if they were bright sunlight shining against her closed eyelids. They were there, they would never go away, and they would both have to face them. For without him, she could likely not go on.

And that was how the hit man and the porn star developed their relationship.

After three months, Ryoko was well enough to return to her work. And Manning’s employers were anxious that he return as well. But no matter how far away from each other they were, they had forged a bond between them; they were forever connected by a silver thread of pain.

Manning’s apartment was the same as he had left it. He had forgotten to run the dishwasher after dinner, but that was the only thing he could hold against himself insofar as his home went. He shrugged out of his jacket, not having to worry about the pistol as he had already disposed of it. She walked into the living room and slid onto the couch, waiting for him. Manning hung up his jacket in the hall closet and removed his shoes, then padded after her.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Thirsty?”

She smiled up at him, and behind the beauty of the action, he saw the sadness she still carried with her. He touched her face, his fingertips tracing the outline of one alabaster cheek. She reached up and took his hand in her own. Brushed her lips across his fingers, something she always did that both thrilled him and made him uncomfortable. Manning knew he was the truly filthy one-compared to him she was practically an angel. And her work gave joy to her audience; Manning’s audience knew only fear and regret.

“Will you stay here tonight?” he asked.

“Please,” she replied quickly, then added: “If you wish it.”

“I wish it.”

She smiled and drew him toward her, her mouth opening beneath his like a butterfly spreading its wings. His hands stroked her face, hands that dealt the harshest of punishments to all but her, hands whose very touch thrilled and warmed her in a way she had never felt with any other. He was foot taller than she was, and weighed more than twice as much; she had no hope of defending herself if he wished her harm, but the connection between them was too strong for that. A connection that could never be rightfully defined as love, but one that served the same purpose.

She serviced him artfully, willingly, taking her time and using every ounce of skill she had. He deserved no less, for he treated her with respect and kindness, and she was duty-bound to return it in full. She removed his clothes and stroked the expanse of his body, her fingers roaming over corded muscle and the occasional rippling of scar tissue. He was in excellent physical condition, with a lean, taut body that possessed a natural physique honed by years of martial arts and a proper exercise regimen; she marveled inwardly at his condition, for it should have belonged to a man more than ten years his junior. She felt the tension slowly ebb from his muscles as he reacted to her soothing touch, and she was gratified by that.

He was much better endowed than most of the men she worked with, and she viewed the size of his penis with both awe and anticipation. It surged beneath her hand when she touched it, and she gently stroked its hard length as her own body reacted to the sight and feel of it. Slowly, she ran her hand up and down its span, feeling the shape of its contours, the throbbing veins beneath the soft flesh covering what felt like polished glass. It was perfectly shaped, circumcised, something she rarely saw in the course of her work but something she appreciated from an aesthetic point of view. She knew many, many of the finely-coiffed and manicured beauties which populated Roppongi and Shibuya and Ginza would find equal joy in touching such a member, but she knew that she alone was able to feel the thrill of it. His testes had drawn tight against his body.

Ryoko lowered her head and kissed the head gently, and the sensation her lips evoked made him gasp and shudder. She was finely attuned to his rhythms, and she fully understood that he needed release as quickly as she could grant it. His needs weren’t created from selfishness, but from actual necessity, as his life and work were replete with stresses that could not only physically cripple a man, but leave him psychologically devastated as well. To this end, she served as a therapist of sorts; she tended to the needs and desires of his body, placating them so that his mind and heart could work together to overcome the deeper strains she could not reach. Over the course of the past year, Ryoko had come to understand this duty, and had eagerly accepted it, for he also fed her body and spirit and mind with what she required. It was true two-way street.

As she kissed his member again, and allowed her tongue to slowly stroke the head, he moaned and reached for her, but she gently pushed his hands away. As she did so, she began to work on him more earnestly, taking him in her mouth more fully. Her line of work had allowed her to refine her skills, and she fellated him not just expertly, but artfully. As always, she granted him access to her skills not because she was required to, but because she hungered for it as much, if not more, than he did.

“Ryoko,” he moaned, his hips thrusting upward of their own accord. She accepted him as deeply as she could, his size filling her completely as her lips and tongue and teeth and hand worked on him, pistoning up and down his length with as much speed and finesse as she could muster. Already, she tasted the precursor emanating from him. He was on the verge of release, his breath quickening, his moans growing louder, his head thrown back against the softness of the leather couch. Ryoko redoubled her efforts, hungry for him now, moaning in her throat. The core of her own sex was flaming like a small star.

“Ryoko!” Manning gasped, and he shuddered as his orgasm crested like a wave rising over a rocky beach. He grunted as he shot and shot and shot, and she moaned as his essence filled her mouth, greedily drinking it down, something she did for no other man. Manning continued to tremble even after the tide of pleasure began to recede; Ryoko slowed her actions, become less direct, more gentle, realizing that his nerve endings were now hyper-aware, overly responsive to even the simplest stimulation. She kissed the head of his penis lovingly; the fury of his erection was merely blunted, not defeated.

For a few minutes, he was content to lie on the couch. Then he reacted then with quick urgency. He swept Ryoko up in his arms and lowered her to the couch as he hovered above her. His fingers roamed over her clothing, unbuckling, unfastening, unbuttoning; within moments, she was completely naked, and he luxuriated in the sight of her: dark brown hair, skin the color of alabaster, firm and completely natural breasts, a narrow waist which served as the gateway to the gentle fluting of her hips and her slender legs. At their apex was the patch of crisp pubic hair, as dark as night, neatly-trimmed in contravention of her industry, in which most men preferred it to be wild and untamed. She did this for him, because it inflamed his desire even more. Ryoko parted her willowy thighs, and he could glimpse the sheen of moisture on her lips reflecting the wan light. Manning looked into her lovely eyes, and found them heavy-lidded in lust, her sensuous lips slightly parted, her white teeth gleaming. Manning lowered himself toward her, kissing her face, her lips, and her neck gently, lovingly now that the tide of his passion had been momentarily deflected. He kneaded her breasts for a time before favoring each peach-colored nipple with attention, making them rise and stand erect like small cherries. Ryoko quivered beneath him, writhing slightly, her small hands wrapped around the back of his head, allowing the pleasure to wash over her like a warm spring’s rain, surrendering to it. He displayed artistry of his own, fueling the raging fires that burned so insistently between her legs. As he trailed kisses down her flat, taut belly, she arched her hips toward him; he responded as she wished, the silky heat of her sex beckoning to him like a siren’s call to a sailor in the midst of a dark, foggy night at sea.

Ryoko gasped deeply when his lips finally brushed against her, and she clenched her fingers into balled fists. As Manning fed on her fire, the radiant heat coursed through her body like electricity through a wire; within seconds, her muscles rippled of their own volition, completely uncontrollable by her for as long as his lips and tongue continued their ministrations against the core of her sex. Her moans grew in accordance with the heat, and soon she was almost screaming as a fireball consumed her, racing outward from her hips to streak throughout her body, faster than a supersonic fighter jet. Ryoko shuddered spasmodically once, then twice as she suffered through another salvo, then yet again, her breath coming from her in great, ragged gasps.

Finally, she had to push him away from her, gasping for air.

“Enough,” she panted. “Enough. Kuso, you’re good!”

Manning kissed her wet nub, and the action elicited another cry from her.

“Glad you like it,” he murmured, and kissed her there again. Her hips jerked in response.

“Fuck me, Jerry,” she whispered in English, her chosen language for love. “Fuck me!” she ordered.

Manning swept her small frame up into his arms and lifted her from the couch. Ryoko wrapped her legs around his waist, her wet mount pressed against his thick tumescence, the contact transferring each throb from him to her. She seized his head in both hands and kissed him, her tongue like a hot poker. Manning held her in midair by grasping her behind the knees, spreading her thighs wide as he lowered her onto him. Ryoko cried out, still tonguing him, as the head of his thick phallus pierced her. He then impelled himself inside of her until he was hilted. Ryoko trembled and broke off the kiss.

“Ikasete!” she gasped in Japanese, her English forgotten for the moment. “Ikasete! Sugu ikasete!” she commanded, directing him to make her come now. Manning thrust into her as she grabbed his shoulders and lifted herself up and threw herself down upon his shaft with as much strength and vigor as she could muster. Manning increased his tempo, his hips slamming into her again and again until his breath grew ragged and his arms burned. Ryoko shuddered spasmodically once again, head thrown back, mouth wide, eyelids clenched shut as she rode the tsunami of heat once again.

“Ah…ah! Yes!”

When her tremors subsided, Manning pulled out of her. She made a disappointed sound, and looked up at him when he slowly lowered her to the carpeted floor, her eyes searching his face. Manning kissed her gently then guided her toward the window, where the lights of Minato-ku still burned even though it was almost 4:00am. She smiled suddenly, knowing what he had in mind.

“You say you always like the view from up here,” he said, and she reached out and grabbed the windowsill. The large panes of glass revealed all to her, and she bent at the waist. She needn’t have bothered; Manning grabbed her hips and lifted her in midair, so she was balancing on her hands like an acrobat in the middle of a performance.

“Yate! Fuck me!”

She cried out as Manning obeyed and his shaft split her once again. She braced herself against the windowsill as well as she was able while her lover worked in earnest, driving himself deeply inside her like a powerful machine, what the Japanese called piston undu, hard fucking. He kept up the pace, slamming into her again and again, and the night lights of Minato-ku swam in and out of focus as she erupted with her sixth orgasm, fueled by the heavy throbbing of Manning as he gasped himself and filled her with his seed, his spurts entering her like a heavy tide.