Rinka has lived in this old building for many months, already, but she always noted with a little curiosity how the sounds that travel through the gaudy and cold hallways were insulated. As she is perched on the railings, looking down on the movement of clients arriving and leaving the business, there is silence. Yet, a few steps back from where she came from, and there would be heavy laughter rumbling through, almost in a never-ending stream.
The night was busy. There were groups drinking with the girls, and a few clients alone with their company. Many men came, and she was the only girl available. She waits for someone, but she cannot help but fear that the next figure to walk through the door will require her services.
A hand brushes past hers, drawing the girl from her thoughts, and she cannot force down a smile when she sees who it is.
Everyone in the house knows of him, or at least has heard and feared his last name. Natsuku Shikishima, the only son of the local kazuku. A golden-haired boy of a prince, wearing his regular brown hakama, that he often said it kept him warm and dry in the rainy season, and his white scarf, expensively imported by the British from India. His yellow eyes shine with glee and mischief and merriment, as they so often do when he is not around his family and the sycophants that usually surround wealth.
Every time Rinka would glance at him, she thinks to herself, It's too good to be true. The heir of Shikishima, in love with a common yūjo.
"Shikishima." She greets politely, bowing as deeply as she could, with as much posture as she was taught.
He laughs at that, though not at her. It might be amusing for him to have a yūjo bow to him, but then again, he is not one for public displays of his status. So, it becomes more of a nervous laughter.
"Good evening." He greets, a drop of that chuckle still gracing his lips. "How are you faring, Sunflower?"
"Well." She responds, simple. "As well as any prostitute can be."
His face saddens a little. "How many times do I have to ask you to stop calling yourself that? Yes, you are here, at your... Job, I suppose, but you are not a prostitute. Not to me. You know that."
"And how many times do I have to ask you…" She giggles, pointing accusingly at him. "To stop with the sentimental talk? At least while we're here."
"Ah…" The young artist whispers, leaning in close so that no one else but her can hear. "That is not something I am willing to do, Sunflower."
His eyes widen suddenly, and he grins. She can see the gears turning in his head. He has gotten an idea.
Oh, spare me this mischief! Rinka thinks on the private recesses of her mind.
Shikishima, in turn, giggles, almost as if keeping his thoughts inside is too much for his childish mind to handle.
"Come on." He whispers excitedly. "Follow me."
Following the sounds of laughter and the moans of delight, he navigates the hallways of the house. As he stops by a silent corner of the establishment, he backs both himself and her into a vacant room and shuts the door. He does not lock it.
There was a zabuton in the middle of the room, next to a table and across a large futon, and he sits down on it.
He looks at her expectantly. "Well? Are you coming?"
She blinks, and he playfully rolls his eyes when he gets no response.
"Just rest with me for a moment." He pleads. "Come on, Sunflower. If the matron has any problem with it, I shall pay her for the trouble."
The phrase I don't want you to have to do that dies on her throat.
Rinka relents to the temptation and loosen the hairclips on her head, so she can be more comfortable. The hair falls in a smooth tress braid to the middle of her back. She then walks over him, and he wraps his arms around her, one around her back and the other on her thigh, exploring down her lower back.
If there is one thing she that likes about having private company with Shikishima, it is that his hands are smooth. It was telling that they knew no work in their lives: the fingers were nimble and the skin was soft, unlike her battered ones, from a lifetime of laundry work. He is also certainly an artist, as his delicate touch was inconstant and light, as the kiss of a butterfly.
When she brings her lips to his, it is like a switch has been flipped. Shikishima suddenly becomes protective, drawing her closer to him, which probably could not be done, but he tries his best anyways.
He breaks away to smile at she again. This time, it's full and brilliantly white.
"Let's make love." He says.
"Excuse me?" The prostitute splutters. "Here? Now? Today?"
The young man chuckles. "Yes, of course. I don't want to wait anymore. I can't wait anymore."
In the many times that he had come to the house and offered his patronage, and there had been many times since before she left her village, she knows that he had never requested this sort of service before. Not of her, not of anyone else in their house. It was always a spot of tea, conversation, some art appreciation, some music, and away he went as a satisfied customer.
Shikishima had never had a favourite amongst the girls, enjoying their services in a rotation. When Rinka arrived, trapped in a long contract with the madam of this house, her first customer was the blond himself. She had something he appreciated, even if she could not say what it could be. Slowly and gradually, he stopped asking for other girls and began placing requests for her company and hers alone. Meanwhile, though, many other clients came and went from her chambers, and not all of them were as gracious as her newly-found patron. She has seen and done things that would be frowned by all of polite society.
She does not feel nervous about that. She is a bitch, a cheap slut. She is Shikishima's lover and he is asking to make love to her. What baffled her is not the act in on itself, but the fact that this man would want to lay with her.
What would happen if others caught wind of this? Would they all snicker and throw her out onto the streets if they found out? Is Shikishima himself playing a game with her? Or would they be conformed and simply say, "Oh, he is a man of status, he can have as many lovers as he wants"?
Rinka shifts nervously, looking back at the closed door. "The girls think this room is empty. I don't know if or when someone will come. "
He shushes she gently. "Shh, I know. Do not worry about any of it. Do not think of them. Do not pay attention to them."
He senses her discomfort and brings his warm and soft hand up to gently bring her chin down, so that their eyes are locked.
He smiles. "Do not worry. Look at me. Just look at me, my Sunflower. I will not let anything happen to you. I swear it."
He has been keeping her back to the door. He does not even bother to properly undress her, or even himself. He brings his cock out of his hakama, hikes her kimono up and her undergarments to the side, and sinks her down onto his cock ever so slowly.
Neither of them hides their moans, there is no need to. It would only blend into the other expletives of pleasure that multiply along the populated chambers in this neighbourhood.
"Ride me." He whispers breathlessly. "Please. I know you have not done this before. Just go up and down, whatever feels best. God above, just looking at you would be enough for me. You are ethereal. God's greatest achievement."
Her eyes well up with tears, happy ones, at his words. To think that there is even the possibility of God being proud of his work on her... She cannot help but doubt very strongly that anyone would ever be tolerant of her, let alone proud, but it strikes a chord in her heart.
"Thank you." Rinka whispers. "Thank you, Natsu."
He sighs as she, rather clumsily, begin to move. His doe eyes remain on her, wide and stunned, transfixed. His pale cheeks have become pink with blush.
A man who normally seems to overflow with words has become mostly wordless, and can only offer the natural sighs and moans of one that is in sheer bliss. She smiles back at him, kissing the top of his head tenderly.
His praise is tender, and soft and gentle, and nothing at all what she has become used to, and she welcomes it. When have she ever been called beautiful or lovely or sweetheart in bed? Never. Those words are scarce, said only by drunk men who do not know what they are saying, who thinks that she must be someone else.
Shikishima, Natsuku Shikishima, her dear Shikishima... He is completely sober, and head over heels in love with her. Just as she is for him.
A couple of minutes more of this slow, sensual pace, and Rinka is not even worried if a drunk patron could burst in, joyously singing some nonsense song and collapse, in a drunken haze, onto the futon beside her.
If they did come in, she thinks, they probably would not even notice.
It is normal how long it takes the both of them to reach their ends, but when they do, their releases are extremely strong. She comes shuddering on him, and he moans and grits his teeth at the feeling.
He comes inside of her, and then they rest. His come trails down her thighs and onto his own hakama, but he does not seem to notice or care. The faint sounds of laughter have not subsided. It is as if nothing has happened.
When he finally musters the courage to leave, he places Rinka into the futon and a kiss to the top of her head.
"Sleep, Sunflower." He says softly. "I will be back."
Shikishima dress himself with care, and, if not for the stain on his hakama, imperceptible if one does not look very closely, it is as if that night has never happened at all.
He walks down the stairs and is intercepted by the matron on his way out.
"Good evening, Shikishima-sama." Greets the older woman, her face was neutral, proper of the administrators in this sort of business, as she bows deeply at her customer. "Leaving so soon? Is everything to your taste?"
He nods, stiffly. "Yes, I must take my leave early tonight. Be warned, madam, that you and I have business to conduct tomorrow."
"Is that so? May I enquire what is the purpose of it?" She asks, in actual surprise of what would this young man has to say to be any concern of hers.
"Yes. I intend to purchase the contract of one of your employees. I shall come prepared as the sun sets, and then we shall discuss the subject." He looks over upstairs, but continue speaking to the woman quietly. "Tell the others with a quiet tongue: treat her with respect, and love and caring. Have no other man enjoy her company while I am out, and have her washed and clothed when I arrive."
She nodded. "Very well, Shikishima-sama. May your path be peaceful on your way home."
Shikishima left the house with tranquillity and happiness filling his heart. He had enough money to buy out the entire quarter. His mother would not be able to impede him to make such a purchase, regardless of whatever she might think about it. His father has passed a long time ago. There was no impediment to his desires.
If he had one wish, if he had just one more day left to live in his life, then he would like to spend it on her. Yet, he is well-aware that she is uncomfortable there. He can feel it whenever she is with him, and nor he is glad to have to share her company with the filthy men of this city. She would be much better in a private bedchamber with him, for she is for his eyes only now, and he is likewise for her eyes only.
Shikishima knows he will never be able to bring her to his home, to make her his wife in a love match resembling the French bourgeoisie that he reads about in books and novels that trickle down from Europe on the basement of the trading ships. Rinka is no lady, not for the tastes of Japanese aristocracy or for any other place, but she is one to him, and he would like to treat her as such.
It disgusted him to know that his land would not receive her well, and his own would step over her. No matter, he will provide her a home, away from those walls, for her to call her own. They would live happily together, as much as they could, and if they were ever to have a son, then he would make him his heir.
It all would be alright.
In the morning, as lunch approaches for the labourers in the factories, a dark cloud starts to blow over from the north. A strong smell of smoke began to be felt in the city.
As Shikishima departs for the bank, he hears a pair of men conversing in the streetcar. They spoke about a great fire in the north, about the destruction and death that was certain to have taken place. The young aristocrat paid no mind to the conversation until the word "Yoshiwara" falls from their lips.
He jumps to his feet and forces the man to say what he knows. Then, he jumps out from the streetcar and hails a cab to take him as quickly as possible to the neighbourhood.
He raced as fast as he could, but when he finally reaches the house where Rinka lived, he found nothing but ashes. He refused to give up hope and ran around the standing buildings and servicemen at work there, looking for her amongst the survivors.
Shikishima found nothing. The coroner said she had probably burnt down with the house, as it was much too close to the origin of the fire.
His legs grew weak and he fell into his knees to the hard pavement below. He bowed his head and cried conspicuously, with no regard for whom might see or what they might say.
Ash and filthy water stain his clothes. His hair is unkempt. All he can do is pray, pray for mercy on her soul.
Rinka is more than what she seems. More than what she has been taught. More than her occupation. He hopes that her death had been peaceful, and that she encounters rest in the afterlife.
More so, Shikishima hopes, be his life long or short, to be allowed to be with her when he passes on. Hell would be bearable with her, and no paradise would be worth its name if he is alone.
He should know. There was no one else that could comprehend him now.