text: The southern entrances to the grand city of Miyako were always busy. People seeing others off, caravans of porters getting organized or arriving. Merchants on their way to Osaka and Sakai. All of these steered well clear of the ragged samurai with the wicked look in his eyes. Sugiyama spotted a tea house. Red felt covered the benches outside, and a young tea-girl called out enticingly to potential customers. But the felt was ragged and the tea-girl, though pretty, was awkward and badly trained.
  
  Sugiyama sat himself down on one of the benches, his long katana between his knees, and gruffly ordered tea and pounded rice cakes. She scurried off to obey and Sugiyama casually observed the traffic passing before him between the tea house and the narrow canal that ran from the river.
  
  He sipped his tea, and Momoe, after ensuring that his cup was full, contemplated him for awhile. He was handsome, not as handsome as others she had had, but definitely pleasing except for the cruel sneering expression he wore so haughtily. While she mechanically tried to entice customers into the tea house, her mind wrestled glumly with her perennial problem: now what? She knew she could not return home, the shame was too deep. And life as a tea-maid was no better than any other of the positions she had tried. Truly, a woman's lot was hard. She stared sadly at the ground before her until, suddenly remembering her duties, she raised her head guiltily to see if any other potential customers were approaching. The samurai was still sipping at his tea and there was a momentary lull in the traffic on the road. From the south a train of merchants was approaching: from the direction of Miyako a few travellers, one of whom was a tall, broad shouldered samurai. She watched the large samurai's advance with some puzzlement. He seemed unable to make up his mind, stopping now and then at one of the inns and tea houses lining the highway. When he got closer, the reason for his hesitation became obvious. He was questioning people along the route. Momoe's heart sank: perhaps he was after her? To question her about the doctor's death? For some unknown sin? But then she noted his unshaven pate: a ronin then. Masterless, and obviously not an official.
  
  Forty feet from the tea house he noted Sugiyama still impassively sipping his tea. A strange light came into his eyes. Momoe cowered back into the shade of the entrance. Sugiyama stared back at the giant ronin with no discernible expression. Jiro slid forward, coiled tension in every step. Sugiyama rose slowly to his feet as the giant stopped ten feet from his seat and bowed slightly.
  
  "You are perhaps Sugiyama Tamasaburo?" Jiro asked politely.
  
  "So?" responded Sugiyama.
  
  "This is yours then?" Jiro extracted the small lacquered medicine box from the bosom of his robe and showed it on his palm.
  
  "It is. I lost it."
  
  "No. It was taken from you. By a friend. She asked me to deal with you."
  
  Sugiyama did not answer. His hands slid to the hilt and sheath of his sword and the blade was extracted smoothly. Jiro followed suit.
  
  They faced one another cautiously, eyes wide-focused. Both held their sword loosely in front of them, jutting out at an angle like two great curved steel cocks. Jiro shifted his balance a bit and the other carefully adjusted his stance.
  
  Jiro stepped forward and to his right, bringing a bright arc of steel down at Sugiyama's left hip. Sugiyama twisted back and then forward, avoiding Jiro's blow and striking for his neck. Jiro's blade came up to vertical guard and both blades shrieked against one another, sparking. The two samurai separated again. Onlookers kept their distance, but continued watching with great curiosity.
  
  The two contestants eyed one another more carefully now. Sugiyama noted his opponent's massive build and huge workman's hands. Jiro overtopped him by more than a head, and was broad to match.
  
  Jiro examined the slimmer man cautiously. He had fine regular features but his thin lips betrayed a vicious sensuality. For perhaps the second time in his life, Jiro felt he was equalled. He did not dare think he was outmatched. He thrust his hips, both hands on hilt towards the other's stomach, then twisted to one side for a reverse kesa giri cut: from hip to opposite shoulder. Sugiyama avoided the attack and attacked in turn with a flurry of forward and side cuts that forced Jiro, step after step, to retreat. His feet stood suddenly at the paved edge of the canal. Sugiyama cut at his stomach with an unavoidable blow that would have cut him in half. The training Okiku had put him through came to his aid. He squatted for a roll. Instinct made him roll backwards where training and reflex would have him roll forward into his opponent's knees. Where he would have arrived a thin kozuka throwing knife, drawn from the notch in Sugiyama's scabbard, sprouted from the ground. Jiro himself was not there. He had disappeared from the face of the earth, and for one panicked moment Sugiyama almost spun around expecting Jiro to drop in magically from heaven. Then his mind processed his eye's images and he laughed, peering down into the canal where a splash marked the giant's whereabouts.
  
  Sugiyama watched the giant being swept downstream, and he laughed loudly and unpleasantly. The onlookers hurriedly scuttled away. Sugiyama turned back to his tea, amazed that one of his victims had actually made it away alive. Unless he drowned of course. His heart was pounding in his chest with pleasure again, as usual. His eye fell on Momoe cowering in the corner. As was always the case with him, violence fanned his lustful nature. He took two quick steps and was up on the platform standing over her. He grasped her lapel and pulled her to her feet. Shaking her slightly he said, "A room?"
  
  She motioned helplessly, and in her confusion, indicated her own sleeping corner in a small hut behind the building rather than one of the public rooms. Sugiyama hastily dragged her in the indicated direction. She tried to scream, to call on the help of the inn owner or the servants, but there was no answer. None of them were foolish enough to interfere in the murderous samurai's activities.
  
  Sugiyama slammed shut the torn shoji of the outhouse and dropped Momoe unceremoniously onto the floor. He loosened his clothes in two rapid movements. She trembled, tried to resist, and was slapped soundly for her efforts. Soon his long erect prick was threatening her face. Automatically she opened her lips and sucked the staff in. Sugiyama's fingers tangled in her hair and he pulled her face to him. Notwithstanding her willingness, Momoe began to choke. The samurai pulled out of her and stripped slowly. There was a glazed look on his face that she did not care for, He pulled open her robe and examined her breasts, tweaking the pink nipples roughly. Then he sank to a seat on her bedding which she had hurriedly pulled out of the small chest on the floor.
  
  "Strip for me girl," he said.
  
  She swallowed convulsively and hurried to obey. Her striped robe slipped to the floor. He held up a hand and she removed her fingers from the ties of her red underskirt. His hands suddenly slashed out in a blur of motion and he slapped both her breasts. She squealed in terror and tried to escape but the look in his eyes rooted her to the spot.
  
  He enjoyed the sight of her. Two red blotches appeared on the outer sides of her breasts. She was quaking with fear, her hands trembling. Her body was slim, hips broad. The eyes were screwed shut, then opened wide in panic.
  
  "Your skirt," Sugiyama said conversationally.
  
  She untied the garment with trembling fingers and the length of cloth fell to the floor. He looked at her mound, topped by fluffy black hair, then ordered her to turn around. She did so with alacrity, fear in every line of her body. His hands parted her buttocks leisurely and he enjoyed the sight of the tiny beard visible between her thighs. She flinched at his touch and immediately felt the slap on her buttocks. She knew better than to run.
  
  He turned her to face him. She was still trembling. He lay back on the futon. "You like using your mouth, is that it? You will use it on me," he commanded. "Lick me."
  
  She fell to her knees and did as he told her. Her generous mouth encompassed his member and sucked it in to the root. He pulled her ass towards him and examined it leisurely. The delicate pink inner lips were shadowed by soft hair. He parted them and examined the tiny hole and the little clitoral nubbin at its bottom. An urge to taste it possessed him and he forced her to straddle his mouth, applying his lips and fingers to her hole. Momoe started to move on the samurai's face and he immediately slapped her to immobility.
  
  "Attend to your business," he said.
  
  She continued lapping his thin long cock with her broad mobile tongue. Soon her moisture was dripping down and he shoved her away. Fearfully she waited for his next move. Sugiyama examined his cock. It was in a fine state of erection, shiny and wet. His eyes lit on the crooked old beam that held up the center of the shack.
  
  "Stand up," he commanded.
  
  She obeyed with alacrity. Sugiyama posed her under the beam and made her raise her hands above her head, then tied them there with his sword cord. The silk bit into her wrists. He stepped back to admire his handiwork.
  
  "Pull yourself up," he commanded. He grasped her hips and forced her high, then let her drop. The head of his cock disappeared into her waiting hole and she rested immobile against his form, her feet not touching the floor, her weight supported only by her bound hands and his cock. Sugiyama grinned at the sight and started flexing the muscles of his thighs. Momoe bobbed up and down on him. The pleasure of his cock, deeper in her than anything except the doctor's harigata, soon overcame the pain at her wrists. She twisted and moaned, tied to the beam, trying to maintain a precarious hold on his cock with her cunt muscles. He started jerking into her, puffing strongly, his hands at her soft breasts, his mouth biting at her neck. She squealed slightly as she felt the gush of sperm shoot into her canal. He pulled Momoe to his chest, squeezing her bum roughly and muttering obscenities.
  
  When his cock wilted and then plopped from her cunt, she felt a stream of his liquids run down her legs. He untied her with a jerk on the cord and she fell, muscles turning to water, onto the old futon the innkeeper had supplied her with. Sugiyama turned indifferently to dress, then noted that dark was covering the sky. He shrugged and looked at her again.
  
  "What's your name?"
  
  "Momoe, sir," she said.
  
  "I'll stay here the night," he said. She bowed, shivering with fear. "Bring some food," he ordered.
  
  Momoe scurried to obey, and the innkeeper laded a tray with a pot of rice, some pickles, a piece of grilled salted fish and a bowl of soup. Sugiyama ate it all unquestioningly, then stripped Momoe once again. She knelt, quivering, on the futon.
  
  "Clean me," he ordered.
  
  She hurriedly leaned forward to comply, licking the drying remains of their mixed juices from his cock and balls. The male cudgel soon came to life, rearing its head, which menaced her like a snake from the stories her grandmother had told her. Sugiyama seized her breasts and squeezed them painfully. She knew better than to protest and he grunted with satisfaction. He brought them together. Momoe's breasts were erect round mounds, and she liked squeezing the pink nipples. But they were by no means large. By forcing them together he managed to make a soft cushion for his erect cock. He started rubbing his cock at them furiously. Momoe rocked back and forth with the power of his movements. His thrust became violent, spasmodic, and suddenly she felt the fluids spurt against her chin and trickle their way down her chest. He released her and she sank gratefully onto the futon. Sugiyama lay himself down beside her. He grinned at her in the dark as she wiped his sticky sperm from between her breasts, then squeezed her breasts again. She wondered for the thousandth time what would become of her. Seeing her abstracted expression Sugiyama grew thoughtful in his turn. He rose suddenly and found the long scarf that she tied underneath her obi. Turning on her, he bore her to the ground. She protested meekly, trying not to arouse his ire, hoping that whatever he did with her body would be over soon. True, when he entered her, she felt her own lust rising, but he was inconsiderate and seemed to take pleasure in her pain rather than in her body.
  
  Sugiyama roped her hands together behind her back, then tied her wrists to her heels. She was now bent backwards like a bow, and he dipped his head at her cunt. It was prominently displayed because of the posture she had been tied in. His tongue whipped in and out of her cunt, driving her to a frenzy of lust she could not fully satisfy. Her desire grew stronger, fanned by the unremitting tongue. She moaned deep in her throat. This violent lingual rape was not something she had experienced before. She longed to grasp his head, to pull at his body, guiding him to the spots he missed in his labors.
  
  An uncontrollable howl burst out of her as her body searched for release. She writhed in her bonds, thrusting her pubis as hard as she could against the stiff tongue. Sweat and female juices poured down her legs in equal proportions and she collapsed unhappily against the futon. He bore her back, her torso arched and his long thin cock plunged into her worn and tired pussy. She closed her eyes as he hammered unmercifully at her cunt, slipping in and out of her helpless body. At last she felt him stiffen, his hands clawing at her ass, and he collapsed by her side.
  
  "Untie me please, Mr. Samurai. This is terribly uncomfortable ..." she whispered timidly.
  
  "You'll stay that way. I do not want to be awoken during the night to attend to you, and in any case," he grinned suddenly in the dark, "I enjoy it this way. I'll have you during the night as you are."
  
  They slept. Momoe, exhausted by the day, was barely conscious as Sugiyama, true to his word, woke her several times during the night by stabbing his prick into her unprotected cunt. In the morning he was gone, with only the marks of the scarves on her wrists and ankles to remind her of the ordeal.