text: Pale white light was washing through the shoji paper when Okiku awoke. The small house was eerily quiet. She felt incredibly horny and wondered if Jiro had returned. He had not been in when she had returned before dawn. She called for him, then when there was no response, called for Otsu, her plump maid, to no avail. Finally in exasperation she rose. Her hand was no good outlet for her current needs. Dressed in a casually tied yukata robe she wandered out to the back, hoping to find Jiro at his practice in the small clearing among the bamboos. What she saw there sent her hurrying desperately to the grove.
  
  Jiro was seated on his knees in seiza on the small platform in the clearing that was used occasionally for tea. His robe was about his waist, sleeves tucked under his knees. The blade of his short sword, wrapped in a single sheet of plain white paper, was lying before him. Three inches of steel protruded from the paper. As Okiku rushed towards him he reached for the blade and poised it before his stomach.
  
  Okiku knew it was futile to, argue with him. She knew her mate was as stubborn as a mule once his mind was made up. Something terrible must have caused him to want to die thus, in privacy, without even proper ceremony or a helping second. She bent as she ran, then swiftly cast with all the skill learned and practiced in her twenty years as the descendant of shinobi family: experts in trickery and camouflage, ambush and murder. The short wood post, one of those used to line the path between the bamboos, ran true as a javelin: it thudded heavily into Jiro's fist, twisting the blade from his grasp. The giant leaped to his feet, reaching in berserk rage for the great katana that rested by his seat. Okiku rose in one desperate leap. The side of her foot connected squarely with Jiro's neck and he collapsed as if poleaxed.
  
  Okiku stood over her man. Tears welled from her eyes. This was the first time she had ever cried in her memory. Even when she had found her entire family murdered in the mountains, she had not let tears drop. That time she had only sworn revenge and laid plans to kill the perpetrators. Now there was no one to kill. She dropped to her knees beside the man who had completed her revenge and then her life and wondered what she was to do. Jiro would recover soon, and stubborn as he was, he would try seppuku again. She buried her face in her hands, then scratched her naked breasts in frustration. Finally a possible, almost incredible solution occurred to her.
  
  Jiro returned to consciousness with a pain in his head and a dark sense of defeat in his mind. He realized now that he was not a man. Even the honorable way of atoning for his failure was not available to him. Without opening his eyes he wondered drearily what it would have been like to be dead. He had a confused image of Okiku running towards him, then everything was a blank. He thought of his stomach, it was not painful, then noted that another organ, somewhat below it, was. The powerful sensations of his erect prick suddenly flooded his brain and surprised, he opened his eyes.
  
  Okiku was staring down at him fiercely. "You tried to kill yourself and leave me!" she said accusingly. "That is unforgivable." She squeezed his silky column with all her might. He was conscious that she had tied his sword cord around the base of the column. His erection was violent and painful.
  
  "I failed," he said dully. "Sugiyama beat me in a duel."
  
  "You're still alive!" she said.
  
  "I shouldn't be!" he shouted back. "A samurai should emerge victorious or not at all from a battle."
  
  "Stupid!" she screamed back. "Stupid, stupid. Do you really believe that? Do you think people are like that? They merely pick up the pieces and start again. Until they succeed. I did that."
  
  "You're a heimin, a commoner. What would you know of samurai dignity?"
  
  "And you're a half-caste barbarian. What would you?" Okiku emphasized her words by squeezing his pulsing hot column of flesh.
  
  "I was raised a samurai!"
  
  "So then kill me too!" she said in a quiet voice. "I would not live without you, and it is my shame too." Involuntarily he searched for his sword, then realized that the platform was bare. Not only that, but both he and Okiku were bare as well.
  
  "Kill me with this," she urged, tugging at his inflamed fleshy sword and kneeling passively before him.
  
  He tried to resist, but she pulled harder. "Come on samurai. Do it. Strike! Kill with one cut."
  
  He rose behind her angrily and stabbed at her waiting cunt with a stiff finger. It was dry and his insertion obviously painful, but she endured it without a murmur. He wanted to humiliate her, to hit back for the hurt he had endured. His big hands slapped at her smooth golden buttocks viciously. Okiku still crouched there like an obedient mistress, no emotion showing in her body or her face. He poked his finger out again, and she did not respond, except for opening her legs to facilitate entry. A second finger joined the first, stabbing into the tight tiny ring of her anus. He knew she liked being fucked there, but her own sexual demands needed to be met usually. This time she was entirely passive, allowing him to satisfy himself without any attempt to demand her own pleasure.
  
  Jiro's humiliation and pain were not assuaged by her surrender. He rose over her, cresting like a giant wave. The head of his giant cock swayed before him, aimed unerringly at her waiting cunt, then tore through her dry channel until it was buried to the root. She cried out uncharacteristically in pain and shock, but even the full weight of his body failed to buckle her legs. Jiro rammed into her, not caring of her comfort, intent only on rending and stabbing, the thought of his humiliation at the hands of the small quick Sugiyama upmost in his mind. As he fucked Okiku brutally some of the tension left him and he found himself detached, examining the fight with great deliberation, seeking for Sugiyama's flaws. He found none, instead he found a flaw in himself. Not having known defeat for many years, he had become overconfident. Okiku had taught him that defeat had its own virtues. If one survived it, one came out strengthened. She was a good teacher, as good as ... reality crashed into him. Okiku was there below him, suffering his thoughtless use of her body. A great wave of tenderness swelled in him. He almost pulled out of her, then realized that was not the way to thank her for what she had done,
  
  Okiku felt the change in Jiro. His thrusts became slower, less brutal, more loving. She allowed herself a small ray of hope which grew as he began touching her body in the ways he knew she liked. She sighed lightly and allowed her own moistures to descend, easing the passage of his prick. His timing of movements into her cunt lengthened and he paused at the entrance to her vagina, twiddling the head of his cock against her small delicate nether lips before thrusting home again. She smiled shyly and looked over her shoulder. His eyes were closed and tears were running down his cheeks. She held her breath and prayed.
  
  Jiro pulled out of Okiku's slim sweet body and rolled her over on her back gently. His lips came down on her moistened cunt. Using plenty of his own saliva he began licking and sucking the delicate flower between her legs. He stabbed his tongue several times into her honey pot, then slipped his lips the length of her own slick ones. He found the tiny pearl at the upper entrance and nibbled at it with his lips. She responded by raising her hips and clutching happily at his head, drawing him with growing force into herself.
  
  She urged him up. His salty-sour-tasting lips clenched at her mouth, his tongue slipped in to join with her own. She guided his rampant cock into her waiting sopping cunt and they moved together to a delicious orgasm, their juices mixing, the fragrance carried about the grove by the slight breeze.
  
  Jiro rolled off Okiku and lay panting by her side. He was utterly drained. She stroked his heaving chest, wincing slightly as she moved: his last lunges had been brutal, though she had enjoyed them. She hid the motion from him.
  
  The passion that had driven him to attempt suicide seemed washed away. Jiro even found he could secretly laugh at himself. Far away in the back of his mind Jiro heard a voice say in English, "Commit suicide because you lost boy? Fookin' stupid! Yer alive boy, go back and kill the bastards!" In his imagination he conjured up the ghost of his father. The old English sea-rover seemed to grimace in approval as Jiro mentally abandoned the idea of suicide.
  
  "Now what?" he asked Okiku lazily, stroking his wife's slick sweat-streaked skin.
  
  "Sharpen your sword and try again. And again, if necessary."
  
  "Sounds like something my old man would have said."
  
  "Smart man, the old barbarian," she grinned.
  
  "And what about this sword?" he joked, pointing to his limp, glistening cock. It lay on his thigh, as exhausted as himself.
  
  "It too can be sharpened," she laughed.
  
  "Not right now it can't," he teased her.
  
  "Would you like to bet? A new obi for me?"
  
  "All right," he agreed, curious to see what she would do.
  
  "Get up and come with me. We'll find Otsu."
  
  "Hey, not fair ..."
  
  "You haven't had her plump ass in some time. I bet that would do you a world of good."
  
  Holding their clothes and his swords, they walked back to the house.