text: The high sound of the flute played with a manic energy came first to Jiro's consciousness. He slid down a muddy slope, pausing for a second to adjust the strap of a sandal, when he became aware of the deeper beat of the drum. Between the trees he could just about make out the sight of smoke. The wild skirling of the fue flute seemed to make the smoke dance.
  
  The mountain trail was steep, and there were few travellers. He had been told at an earlier stop that the path would shorten his road considerably. In fact, the effort was hardly worth it, though he had enjoyed the quiet of the mountain air.
  
  The village became visible. It was a substantial one, a stopping place for pilgrims on their way to the sites farther south. The drum and flute were both heard clearly now. Perhaps, thought Jiro, he would be able to receive some news here of Satsuki and her captors.
  
  The main street of the town was crowded with merrymakers. The fair booths lined the sides of the main street and spilled over to some of the side alleys. Sellers of children's whirligigs, fried noodles, fish-shaped waffles stuffed with sweet bean jam, and sake competed for attention.
  
  The shrine, where he called first, was decorated with long blue banners which hung limply in the heat. A steady crowd of visitors streamed into the shrine grounds. They rang the bell hanging from the front beam, clapped their hands and bowed to the kami inside, then received a drink from the attendant. Jiro rang the bell and contributed his copper to the offertory box, then prayed for the success of his venture.
  
  The smell from the booths was irresistible. He bought a grilled dried squid, then a bowl of wheat noodles in soup. Most of the townsmen gave the giant samurai a wide berth. Samurai were unpredictable and uncontrollable. For the commoner, it was best to steer clear of strange ones. Later, full and comfortable, he relaxed in the shade of one of the giant cryptomerias that shaded the grounds of the shrine. The wild music continued. The musicians ensconced in a wooden tower in a wide clearing before the shrine continued throughout the afternoon, fortified no doubt by the enormous quantities of rice wine they had been drinking.
  
  The stream of visitors increased as the sun set and people finished their daily chores. A ripple of excitement ran through the crowd. Children and adults lined the entrance to the shrine, packed as close as they could get. The shouting came closer. A tightly packed wild mob of almost naked men came into view. They carried an ornate mikoshi—an elaborately carved wooden shrine, decorated with a towering copper phoenix. The structure swayed and swung on its bearers' shoulders. At times it seemed to go round in circles as men armed with fans tried to control its movement. They were the only sober men of the lot. The porters shouted, "Washoi! Washoi!" as they came, dressed in nothing but loincloths and headbands. The staggering edifice, towering over the heads of its porters, reached the shrine. Above the head of the mob, Jiro could see another coming. He smiled. He liked the sight of the mikoshi. He had helped carry one not many years before.
  
  The second mikoshi was smaller than the first. It was also something of a surprise. In the flickering light of the lanterns that now lit the scene, Jiro could see that some of the porters were women. Unlike the near-naked men, they dressed in tight indigo-dyed pants, aprons, and coats favored by some workmen in winter. But they chanted and drank as lustily as their male counterparts.
  
  The audience greeted the appearance of this mikoshi with cheers. Jiro gathered by eavesdropping that having women carry a mikoshi was a unique local custom. Crowded together under the thick carrying pole, they presented an unusual and piquant view. Jiro laughed with the other spectators. His size allowed him to see over the heads of the crowd, and he could appreciate the sight of young women enjoying heavy labor and drinking. One of them caught his eye. She was smiling like the rest, sweat running down her brow. Her coat was open, displaying the bare tops of heavy breasts. Her body, sandwiched between those of two plumper girls, was full and ripe, and Jiro could imagine the feel of the thighs that now rubbed against heavy blue cloth. Something stirred between his legs as he looked on. The sweat on the high-cheeked faces reminded him of sweat brought on by other circumstances. He shrugged in annoyance. The women he knew were far off, he had not sufficient money to pay for companionship, and in any case, he was busy. The thickening of his prick subsided.
  
  He strolled, vaguely dissatisfied, through the throngs of merrymakers. Lurid green or red glares, the product of small fireworks set off at intervals, lit the scene. Near a small outbuilding by the side of the main shrine building, he saw a laughing group of people. The young men who had carried the larger mikoshi were crouched or sprawled in a circle, drinking from large clay bottles and eating festival fare. Jiro turned away. More movement caught his eye. In the light of several lanterns, the carriers of the other mikoshi sprawled on the ground. Their high voices identified them as women. The one who had grinned earlier at Jiro was among them. He passed between them and the light with a deliberate tread. The shadow of his massive figure and erect topknot caused the girl to look up. Her hair was held by a twisted piece of cloth that fell almost to her eyes and rode high over the long hair she had tied behind. It gave her a rakish, almost piratical appearance. She grinned at him again, and he moved on into the dark.
  
  The girl rose and stretched mightily. "Well, me for a bath and bed."
  
  "So early, Osachi? There's still plenty to drink—and to look at," her companions joshed her.
  
  "Ha! Just like you," one of the men said. "You dance and sing all day, with nothing left for the evening..."
  
  Everyone laughed, and Osachi waved at them and walked off into the dark. She watched dancers around the drum tower, pinched a piece of fried octopus from an acquaintance's booth, and made her way slowly through the crowd. She angled off to one side, casually noting the tall samurai who no doubt had headed in that direction to relieve himself. The passage between some tall cryptomerias was dark, but it was the shortest route to her home.
  
  Suddenly a tall figure loomed out of the dark at her. She squeaked, then covered her mouth with a hand.
  
  "Did I frighten you, miss? I hadn't intended to do so."
  
  The tall samurai stood before her. She looked him up and down carefully. Behind her the light of the fires and lanterns etched his strong face. His hair was curiously soft, even worn in the unshaven pate of a masterless samurai. His hands were large and looked as if he had known physical labor—odd for a samurai.
  
  "What do you intend to do with me?" Since he seemed to be standing there quite harmlessly, the question seemed odd.
  
  He smiled at the meaning behind the words. "There's a small building deeper in the shadows." He turned and moved off into the dark. Slowly she followed him, her heart pounding and her hands clasped before her. He stood before the old shed, used formerly as a minor shrine. He bent and kissed her. For a moment her lips resisted and her body stiffened; then she melted into his arms. He raised her into the air and deposited her on the old soft tatami, then lay down beside her. His hands slipped into her coat and around her to untie the blue apron. Thick strong fingers found first one and then the other of her nipples, and she groaned slightly. Her own hands sought a way into his split hakama trousers, and she mewed her frustration. It was the first time she had tried a samurai, and the intricacies of his dress defeated her. Inside the rough cloth she could feel the iron-hard bar of an enormous cock.
  
  He pushed her hands impatiently aside and rapidly slipped out of his trousers, robe, and loincloth. His cock jutted aggressively forward as he leaned over her to untie her tight pants of rough indigo-dyed cloth. The massive tool swung before her face, and she captured it with her mouth. It was almost too big to fit into her mouth, but he jerked forward, and a length of his shaft scraped past her teeth. The tip tasted salty and musky on her tongue, and she sucked hungrily, her cheeks expanding with the effort. She was conscious of her pants being torn off her and of the samurai's face being thrust between her legs. His unshaven cheeks scraped the insides of her thighs, and she wondered momentarily how he could bear the sweaty smell.
  
  Overtaken by his lust, Jiro sniffed at the rich, sweaty female smell of the girl. He pushed forward, his tongue reaching for the inviting hole. It brought back memories of his first time with Okiku, the first time with a woman. He could not remember who had raped whom, at that time, but the rich, earthy smells of a sweating woman in heat always brought out a slavering beast in him. He lapped at the fleshy lips for a long time. Her hips squirmed incessantly, as if trying coyly to reject his tongue's advances. His hands gripped the woman's buttocks, and he forced his tongue deeply into her. His nose did duty for both of them, rubbing silkily against the oiled pearl of her clitoris and raising a pleasurable haze in his brain as the musky, earthy smell hit his membranes.
  
  Jiro's cock was being sucked inexpertly by the struggling girl, and he restrained himself, knowing that it took much practice to take his entire engine in. At last the needs of the moment overtook him. He withdrew from between her thighs and pulled back from her mouth. Her eyes gleamed in the dark, and he realized that she was as ready as he. He lay flat on her, uncaring of the floor. His cock, wet and hard as a sword from the sword-sharpener's pond, poised for a second before her dripping cunt; then he drove forward.
  
  Osachi met the samurai's stabbing thrust with a clenching of her inner muscles and a shaking of her body. Well before he had sheathed himself fully in her, she had begun a movement of her hips. Her ass came up from the floor to meet the onslaught. The little wooden building creaked as their combined weight came down.
  
  The floorboards were moistened by their juices. She extracted every bit of pleasure she could from the body covering her. He was a stranger, well built, and she would never see him again. She satisfied every curiosity and whim she could in the silent dark, something she could not do with the local lads for fear of being too forward. Her hands roved over his back and down to his ass. She slipped hands between his buns and fingered his hairy asshole. Osachi squeezed his scrotum, feeling the two eggs inside as they slapped against her rump. They were wet with juice, the hair plastered against the silky skin. He slapped her breasts with breathless annoyance when her squeezes became too rough.
  
  She laughed inwardly at men's fragility and continued her explorations, her mind almost detached from the volcano of pleasure that was churning her slit. She tested the length of his shaft as it emerged from her tight hole. The hairs meshed in a sopping mass, and she tightened her cunt once again. There was a tremour from the bag and a rapid contraction that she could feel with the back of her hand. The man's weight descended on her, stuck to the hollow of her thighs like a leech. She felt waves of pressure shoot up the fleshy hose and inundate her insides. Gratefully she surrendered to the sensation.
  
  They writhed for a long moment, their hips joined, his tongue forcing its way into her willing mouth.