text: The boat they had hired at Wakayama was provided with a small cabin furnished with a single tatami-floored room and a clay-lined hearth. During the day the paper shoji windows and wooden shutters were removed, providing a view of the magnificent shores of the Seto inland sea. When they anchored for the night the shutters were raised and the six, tired by the excitement of travel, composed themselves for sleep.
  
  They were rowing slowly down the coast, when their attention was drawn to the sound of fireworks announcing a festival.
  
  "Do let us put in there," asked Satsuki prettily.
  
  "Oh, yes," seconded Rosamund.
  
  The two men, in nominal control of the party, looked at one another and smiled ruefully. The boatman was given his orders, and soon they found themselves on a small beach. Crowds of villagers of all ages were rushing about. Gay banners fluttered in the air. The village's newly painted fishing vessels, high prowed and low sterned, rested in a row while a formally clad priest in white robes and black gauze hat blessed them with an evergreen branch dipped in water. Children ran about everywhere. There were booths selling delicacies and small gewgaws for housewives and the young. A barrel of sake had been broached, and the liquor was being offered to all and sundry.
  
  The headman approached the boat. He was responsible for order in the village, and strangers were his concern. When he saw the odd composition of the party—a masterless samurai and his youthful page, the latter's face heavily made up as if going to war, a wandering doctor, a cowled nun, and a respectable-looking city matron—his suspicions were aroused. He was quelled, however, by the writ of passage signed by the lord of Wakayama himself, allowing these strange visitors free movement through the domain. Goemon, knowing the need for papers, had thoughtfully prevailed on the Wakayama lord, a distant cousin, to provide them. Like any true bureaucrat, the Wakayama lord was careful not to be too interested in the disguised activities of the Miyako governor.
  
  They wandered about the village, admiring the festival decorations. A drumbeat started near one of the larger houses. A procession emerged, headed by several youths holding the flags of the village shrine. They were followed by men bearing offerings of rice, fruit, and wine. A young man, his face as heavily made up as Okiku's though in white rather than pink, and dressed in woman's clothing, followed. Behind him came a crowd of people: older men in formal garb, near naked younger ones carrying two objects on carrying poles. More people marched behind, some practising dance steps, others carrying boxes of beans and persimmons.
  
  The procession reached the party of visitors from Miyako. Okiku, in her disguise as a young man, looked at the female impersonator. Under his guise and mincing walk she could see a handsome youth. He glanced casually in her direction, and their looks crossed. He seemed to smile, and she thought he had penetrated her guise.
  
  When the carrying pole party reached their vantage point, Rosamund found it hard not to laugh. One of the objects being carried was a large, straw-stuffed fish. Though dried, its smell seemed to reach out and grab her by the nose, and its hollow eyes stared at her accusingly. To stifle her laughter she looked over the crop of young men. They reminded her of a different crop of porters she had met soon after arrival in the Japans. That band had raped her and then had the image of a red rose tattooed inside her thigh. The sight of these happy young men, and the memories they raised, brought a curious warmth to the juncture of her legs, and she watched their cadenced walk appreciatively.
  
  The procession reached the gateless square arch of the torii that marked the entrance to the shrine precincts. It seemed that an altercation was developing. Some of the barrel guardians wanted to proceed directly through the arch, the porters were trying to bolt. The pushing and shoving developed apace. Men cried out, and bodies sweated with effort. The parties charged at one another, grabbing at opponents and the objects of their desire impartially. Occasionally one of the combatants would break off to drink sake out of one of the open barrels that had been left thoughtlessly by the roadside. Refreshed, he would plunge into the melee with a yell of delight. Onlookers—the elders, women, and children of the community—cheered both parties on impartially. Faces reddened. An occasional ear was mashed or eye was blackened as the struggle continued.
  
  "What is going on? What are they fighting about?" Rosamund nudged Jiro, who was standing at her side. He repeated her question aloud to a village elder who was standing and chuckling at their side.
  
  The man bowed respectfully. "It is our custom, Mr. Samurai. The young men try to prolong the festival and are reluctant to enter the shrine where their wildness will be tamed. Other men try to force them to enter. Eventually they will, but a long struggle indicates a good year, and so we prolong it."
  
  "So it's just a fake battle then?" asked Jiro, vaguely disappointed.
  
  The old man cackled again. "Not likely. There are bets riding on the outcome, and since this is an affair of the gods, everyone takes it seriously."
  
  "May anyone join in?" There was a strange light in Jiro's eyes as he regarded the screaming, scuffling mob.
  
  "Of course, of course. Sometimes strangers to the village get carried away and join in. The gods are quite happy with the arrangement. Naturally, since they have no friends to help them, they tend to be more battered, but since this is a god affair, that is not too bad." He was talking to an inattentive audience. Jiro looked long and hard at the scramble of naked bodies before him. It was obvious, an amused Okiku noted, that there was a struggle going on in his mind between the gravity of his position as a samurai and his youthful exuberance. Youthfulness won out. He handed his swords to Okiku and stripped to his loincloth in a trice. Midori giggled, bowed, and offered him a large earthenware bottle of sake someone had just handed her. He took a giant drink appropriate to his massive frame, shook his head, and plunged joyfully into the fray. He emerged a few seconds later, one hand pushing at a stocky fisher-boy, the other clutching a sake bottle. "Goemon!" he called, then again, "Goemon, come on!"
  
  It took Goemon longer to shed his dignity, but soon he too was stripped to his loincloth, aiding one of the two groups.
  
  The struggle lasted for several hours until darkness fell. The fish was almost torn to pieces, and the barrel had been rolled in the mud but miraculously had not been broken. The fight had taken the combatants, most of whom changed sides several times during the day, down to the beach, where both fish and barrel were washed in the brine. At length the village officials managed to restore order, and the two sacred objects were brought to the shrine and offered before the kami.
  
  Jiro and Goemon returned after dark to the boat. They were greeted with derision by Rosamund and Okiku, and respectful bows from Satsuki and Midori.
  
  "Go and wash in the sea!" commanded Okiku.
  
  "You both stink of sake and puke!" said Rosamund, turning up her nose.
  
  Abashed, both men turned to do as they were bidden.
  
  "Oh Master Jiro, please allow me to offer you a towel." Osatsuki hurried after them. "And Master Goemon, please let me tend to your wound." Goemon bore a large purple bruise on one shoulder, but he was well content to have it called a wound. They laughed uproariously, splashing water in all directions as they bathed. They returned to the boat, and Rosamund looked at them critically.
  
  "Both drunk as the poet Li Po. I don't think I will be able to stand it." Rosamund rose to her feet.
  
  Okiku rose too. "I think we shall go for a long walk. Drunkenness in gentlemen is not to be tolerated."
  
  Osatsuki bowed at them. "Pray allow me to stay and care for the poor gentlemen. Their hurts need attention."
  
  "My dear, you need not attend to these drunken sots," Okiku answered. "They'll soon sleep it off."
  
  "No, please allow me..."
  
  They bowed to one another, though Rosamund could not forbear a slight chuckle as she and Okiku made their way off the boat. "Shall we sneak back and watch?" she asked Okiku.
  
  "Don't be silly," her dark friend answered. "I think it was very clever of you to suggest this way of allowing Satsuki to thank Jiro, but don't be too obtuse. I've something in mind too. Lets go along the shore for a while." She set off, a definite objective in mind.
  
  Back on the boat, with Midori in attendance, Osatsuki set about her work. She and Midori gently tended to the men's cuts and bruises. She then suggested a rub, which was accepted gratefully by both men. Her hands softened the tense muscles one by one. Only one stubborn part remained hard, and she took care not discourage the tendency, while affecting to ignore it. Midori helped as much as she could, observing her elder sister's actions with wide eyes.
  
  They served dinner. Globefish soup, prepared expertly by Satsuki's own hands, was followed by slices of raw globefish, abalone, and vinegared seaweed. Tiny shrimp and large crayfish competed for the men's attention and their palates. They finished with freshly harvested rice, over which Osatsuki had poured tea spiced with pickled plums and sesame seeds: a specific against overindulgence in sake.
  
  Later she danced, while Midori, who had practised several simple tunes on a flute, accompanied her. Jiro and Goemon were both entranced by the performance and by Satsuki's elegance. They made no effort to enjoy either of the women, knowing by now that Satsuki would lead up to that at the right time and fashion. She did so in the most unexpected fashion, by blowing out the candles that illuminated the cabin.
  
  Ghostly touches were soon felt on both men's skins—the faintest touches of lips, hands, nipples, thighs on the most unexpected places. Their cocks unfurled and rose proudly erect, and the caresses did not ignore the noble members. There was a slither of cloth in the dark, and both men knew that the women had slipped out of their sashes. The touches continued unabated. Now their own robes were loosened. They sat perfectly still. A hungrily sucking mouth was suddenly applied to Goemon's turgid prick. The feeling was in such intense contrast to the previous light touches that he jumped. The mouth—Satsuki's or Midori's, he could not tell—warmed his cock to a pulsating readiness. Smooth, slim buttocks slid against his chest, then moved downwards towards his belly. He sat perfectly stlll, knowing that Satsuki could be counted on to orchestrate the matter to perfection.
  
  Gentle hands stroked his shoulders, his belly, grasped his cock. The smooth, full ass before him continued to descend until it was poised directly over his waiting pole. Sure hands guided the tip until it poised at the dry, tight entrance to the nether hole. The woman before him continued her descent. The firm, tight muscular ring parted before his penetration. A feeling of pleasurable pressure surrounded his cock. The muscles reluctantly parted before his insertion. He stroked smooth breasts and two erect, rubbery nipples and was rewarded by the feel of two female hands covering his and urging him on. He squeezed the breasts roughly and buried his lips in the soft nape before him.
  
  The mounds nestled comfortably on his thighs. His hairs tickled her ass, and she luxuriated in the feeling for a while. Then, using only the power of her thighs, she began riding up and down the long shaft. The pain of the insertion rapidly gave way to pleasure, and she barely managed to restrain herself from vocally noting her enjoyment. She leaned backwards, and Goemon relaxed back to the mat, supported by her helper. He played with the now flattened breasts and stroked the damp and ready lips of the pussy, while she squeezed her ass to increase his pleasure.
  
  The touches of Jiro's skin soon gave way to the power of a single sensation. An expert mouth was applied to his cock and began sucking greedily. His magnificent prick expanded even more than it had before, and he helplessly thrust forward with his hips. After a while the mouth was withdrawn and a new one took its place, laving the length of his shaft, kissing the single eye at its head and sipping at the transparent fluid that gathered there. That sucking too came to an end. He was urged to his feet and knelt between outstretched legs.
  
  The woman was ready, her cunt wet... and occupied by Goemon's fingers. Jiro explored some more and found Goemon's long, slim prick stabbing into her ass. He knew what was to be done. Aiming higher than usual, he inserted his shaft slowly into the waiting cunt.
  
  The soft, slick lips parted quickly before his entry. He moved forward until her hairs mingled in a wet mass. Carefully he began a back-and-forth motion. His head lowered to suck at an available nipple, then sought the woman's demanding mouth.
  
  Satsuki listened to the growing sounds of pleasure as both men fucked her apprentice. Midori was rather louder than she should be, she considered critically, but many men, she had noticed, rather enjoyed the sounds of a woman's pleasure. She stopped the action momentarily. Without allowing them to separate, she raised both men to their feet. The difference in sizes had been anticipated, and Goemon's feet rested on a pile of seating cushions.
  
  Satsuki relit a candle. The sight was charmingly vulgar. Midori's slim, wide-hipped figure was suspended between the brawny figures of both men. Her legs were twined around Jiro's hips, her ass exposed to Goemon's ministrations. She sucked desperately at Jiro's lips, while Goemon bit and nibbled at her shoulders. Both pricks were inserted well into Midori's body. Their balls stuck together. The long shafts, shiny with her juices, appeared and disappeared as Midori climbed up and down using Jiro's hips as a fulcrum. Satsuki looked on. There was much to criticize in Midori's performance, but for now it was satisfactory. There was much yet to be done this evening. She stepped forth with alacrity, dropping her robe.