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Archive for September, 2010

Backstory:

When Lady Carlton–Katie–wrote her memoir, The Blonde Samurai, she inscribed it in first person. But for her own pleasure, she was curious about what Shintaro thought about her, a Western woman who had come to Japan as a virgin bride in 1873.

She decided to find out.

By asking him.

During the late afternoons when a titillating breeze cooled the day and the passing of time stopped for the drinking of tea, Katie and Shintaro sat under the flowering cherry blossoms and warmed their hands around tiny tea cups and talked about their first encounter at the Imperial Palace.

What follows next is the second of three episodes of “Tea with My Samurai,” depicting this scene that appears in Katie’s memoir but instead told from Shintaro’s point of view as he related it to her during their teatime conversations.

Lord Shintaro speaks of the first time he saw Katie outside the emperor’s Imperial Palace in Tokyo (spelled Tokio at that time).

(Katie’s POV of the same scene appears in “The Blonde Samurai” on pages 154-156.)

To read Part 1, click here.

 

PART 2:

    How dare the woman defy him.
    Didn’t she know he was samurai?
    That he followed a moral path of chivalry carved on the scarred flesh of the warrior class? Unwritten but stronger than words printed upon parchment.
    And as a great warrior, he could claim the head of his enemy with a single stroke of his sword. Her head, if he so desired.
    A sword he must keep sheathed, he thought. A sword drawn would find its mark, as would his cock if he seduced her with his wit and charm.
    Then she would know who was master.
    He looked her up and down, thinking.
    She also interested him in a manner not ruled by his cock. Bending like bamboo but not breaking. She stood strong like a samurai woman.
    And that intrigued him more.
    He could see by the look in her light-colored eyes that she was not as frivolous as the wives of the Englishmen he met at court. Fanning themselves and tittering about like noisy crickets. Insipid creatures who were frightened of him and lowered their gaze when he, a proud samurai warrior, walked by them. 
    This brazen Englishwoman had dared to look directly at him when she encountered him racing through the tall great gate. A gate leading to the pavilion on the grounds of the Imperial Palace.  
    And she kept looking at him.
    He retained his silence in spite of her. As samurai, saying nothing meant more than words. Such was the power of Bushido, he knew, the way of the warrior. A discipline in self-control that was forged since childhood. His deeds of courage–and love-making, if he dared to so acknowledge–were forged from this credo. He was master of his own fate and hers, and would speak when it damn well pleased him.   
    Still, he was excited by their chance meeting, though he chose to disguise it. He made no move to disengage the lacquered scabbard of his long sword poking what he’d heard called a bustle. He was tempted to rip off the strange silken tail bobbing up and down on her rear end.
    It was her pussy he wanted.
    “Who do you think you are?” she yelled at him in English, picking up her long skirts and facing him.
    By the gods, she was magnificent.
    As was the way of his countrymen, he merely smiled. He did not give her any indication he was familiar with her language.
    Why spoil the game?
    “Not looking where you’re going,” she continued. “Like a chicken hawk in search of his prey.”
    He grunted loudly, his forehead beaded with sweat, his hand still on his sword, but it remained sheathed.
    His anger did not. He yelled words at her in his native language never uttered outside the walls of Yoshiwara. Words meant to frighten her by the sheer timber of his voice.
    They did not.
    She kept her composure, though he noted a slight twitching around her lower lip. He grinned. Her defenses were weakening.
    He breathed out, a familiar urge eating at him. The gods would surely condemn him if he proceeded with mindless lust.
    That didn’t stop him.
    He moved toward her.
    I will have her.
    And the gods be damned.

  

To be continued…
  
  
The Blonde Samurai: She embraced the way of the samurai.
Two swords. Two loves.
 
“Told from the heroine’s first-person point of view, this memoir-style novel is a witty and wonderful story, full of strongly defined characters.”
                                        –Romantic Times Book Reviews 4½ stars Top Pick!
 
A Fresh Pick of the Day from FreshFiction.com

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I had no idea what I’d find when I went through an old chest belonging to Lady Carlton, the heroine in my Spice novel, The Blonde Samurai.” A chest decorated in makie or sprinkled pictures, a process using gold and silver flakes and powder captured in lacquer to present narrative imagery.

Inside its velvet depths I discovered tortoise shell combs, a folded up obi or sash embroidered with golden threads, silken red cords and scrolls of rice paper glistening with the dew of times past.

 As if the words were written yesterday instead of the late 1870s.

Flowing, cursive handwriting graced the thin paper woven with serpentine tails and tells the story of the fiery first meeting between Lady Carlton and her adored samurai, Lord Shintaro.
 
(As for their sensual encounters, you’ll find plenty of lovemaking and exotic sexual acts in “The Blonde Samurai,” e.g. wakame sake, drinking sake from between the thighs of the beautiful heroine.)
When Lady Carlton–Katie–wrote her memoir, The Blonde Samurai, she inscribed it in first person. But for her own pleasure, she was curious about what Shintaro thought about her, a Western woman who had come to Japan as a virgin bride in 1873.

She decided to find out.

By asking him.

During the late afternoons when a titillating breeze cooled the day and the passing of time stopped for the drinking of tea, Katie and Shintaro sat under the flowering cherry blossoms and warmed their hands around tiny tea cups and talked about their first encounter at the Imperial Palace.

What follows over the next three posts are episodes of “Tea with My Samurai,” depicting this scene that appears in Katie’s memoir, but told here from Shintaro’s point of view as he related it to her during their teatime conversations.

They’re straightforward, interesting and quite naughty. 

Sip your tea slowly.

You’re in for a treat.

 
Best,
Jina
The Blonde Samurai: She embraced the way of the samurai.

Two swords. Two loves.
 
“Told from the heroine’s first-person point of view, this memoir-style novel is a witty and wonderful story, full of strongly defined characters.”
                                –Romantic Times Book Reviews 4½ stars Top Pick!
 
A Fresh Pick of the Day from FreshFiction.com

Lord Shintaro speaks of the first time he saw Katie outside the emperor’s Imperial Palace in Tokyo (spelled Tokio at that time).
 
(Katie’s POV of the same scene appears in “The Blonde Samurai” on pages 154-156.) 

Part 1:

He was a man condemned.

Not by the barbarians from faraway lands trying to influence his beloved emperor, a boy not yet a man, to outlaw the way of the samurai, but by a woman.

An Englishwoman, no less.

In a red hat. With a long black ribbon tied in a big bow under her chin. A chin raised in defiance of him, a samurai lord and the master of his clan. Racing past him as if she couldn’t wait to meet her lover.

There, look at her. She was as wanton as the tayû, the highest paid courtesan, to a daimyo, lord, from times past who could turn away a customer if it so pleased her.

He envied the man meeting her, whoever he was, for her great beauty reminded him of the perfect cherry blossom. Always stunning, always elusive. Fleeing on the wind before he could capture it in his palm.

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Shintaro barely contained himself from grabbing her and holding her close to him. Smelling her strange scent that reminded him of cut lavender. Fresh and laden with a sweet fragrance, yet spiced with the perfume of her desire.

Aroused by her, he breathed in deeply. A raging burn erupted in his groin, disturbing his harmony. Something he never allowed to invade his mind. He could do nothing but look at her. Want her. Think of spreading her thighs and setting his mouth upon the moist folds of her lower lips, nibbling on her, imagining her taste upon his tongue.

He also enjoyed the custom of sampling a woman’s elixir as it dripped from between her bare thighs and into a sake cup he held in one hand, while fingering her with the other. A custom he enjoyed often with the courtesans in the Green Houses of Yoshiwara.

He grunted. This woman possessed the same tempting lure as the courtesan and must be put in her proper place.

He yearned to strip off her petticoats and whatever godless garments she wore underneath and let her passion rule her. He’d find her nude and wanting as he pressed his lips against the swell of her breasts.

He cocked an eyebrow. An interesting idea, though another problem faced him. He had never undressed a gaijin, foreigner. It presented a challenge to him. His usual move was to slip his hand under the kimono of a beautiful courtesan to fondle her bare breasts. A favor he enjoyed when the woman bade him sit on her right side. A way of showing her interest without words, since her kimono crossed left over right.

This Englishwoman gave him no such invitation. It only made him want her more. He sneered at her. He knew of but one way to bare her flesh to him.

Slice off her clothing. With his sword.

Piece by piece.

He reached for his weapon.

To be continued…

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