I am lying as I have been trained. On my back, perfectly still. My knees are bent, my legs open and rotated out to the sides by 180 degrees. My feet are pressed together, sole to sole. Red silk ropes bind my ankles and wind gracefully around my knees to where they are fastened underneath the table, keeping me open, exposed. My arms are crossed in the small of my back
and bound beneath me. The position forces my back to arch, pushing my chest up and out. I feel like a butterfly, pinned and displayed for a discriminating collector. A connoisseur. They have given us all Japanese flower names and I am secretly pleased with mine: Oniyuri. It’s the word for tiger lily, my favorite flower. They said it matched my flame-colored hair, my simmering passion.
The table beneath me is warm, but the food presented on my naked skin is not. A rainbow of sashimi is fanned across my belly: salmon, tuna, mackerel and yellowtail. Across my ribs is an array of sushi. Between my breasts are cuts of eel, drizzled with rich teriyaki sauce. And carefully arranged around my nipples are clutches of salmon roe, the eggs vibrant and bursting. Soft purple orchids frame my sex, and in the diamond formed by my spread and angled legs is a painted flask of warm sake.
I breathe slowly, shallowly, so as not to disturb the presentation of food. The smell is intoxicating and I long for a bite of fish, the tingle of ginger and wasabi on my tongue. But for now I am merely a decoration, an attractive display for the artfully arranged delicacies. In other rooms, other girls are bound as I am, their bodies serving the same erotic aesthetic. From somewhere I can hear the melancholy notes of a shamisen being played by one of the hostesses.
I feel the cool touch of Ayame’s fingers as she gently lifts the flask from between my legs. My body heat has warmed the sweet wine and I close my eyes, listening to the soft splash as she fills each guest’s cup. The sleeve of her silk kimono brushes my skin as she moves past me. When she is done she replaces the flask, pressing it firmly up against my sex. I imagine her playful smile as I resist the temptation to squirm against it. "Kanpai!" say the two couples seated around me. They drink deeply after the toast and I listen for the clatter of chopsticks as their eyes roam over the food on offer.
My senses are highly attuned to the slightest sound, the slightest scent. The lady to my right is wearing a beautiful fragrance that has something of jasmine in it. It mingles with the salty fish, creating a strange perfume of its own. I think of serene Japanese gardens and koi ponds.
She is the first to select a bite. I lie motionless as her chopsticks skillfully lift a slice of fish from my belly and she sighs with pleasure at its taste. My chest barely rises as I breathe.
"Delicious," she says, her voice low and husky.
The man across from her at my left shoulder must be her husband. He goes next, choosing one of the sushi rolls farther up my body. He prods my ribs with his chopsticks, deliberately I suspect. But I am too well trained to react. There is as much an art to eating from a woman’s body as from being the platter that presents the food. My mouth waters and my sex moistens but those are the only responses I am allowed.
The pair sitting on either side of my lower half discusses where to begin. They have soft American accents and I add blue California skies to the images in my head. They choose together, symmetrically, snatching up two pieces of dragon roll from opposite sides and exclaiming over the taste.
Ayame refills their sake cups, this time grinding the flask a little harder against me as she replaces it. I smile inwardly at her challenge, enjoying the tingle it sends up through my body. I already have gooseflesh from the cold food arrayed on my skin and my nipples have puckered beneath the salmon roe.
One by one the sashimi slices and maki rolls and nigiri rolls disappear from my flesh. The American lady comments that it’s like uncovering a hidden treasure.
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The jasmine lady’s husband chuckles at that. "And such a treasure," he says. He gently removes a single salmon egg the size of a pea from the clutch with his chopsticks and lifts it to my mouth. I imagine he is keen to make me react in some inappropriate manner. Perhaps he wants to see me punished. My pulse quickens at the thought.
My eyes convey nothing but gratitude for his offering as he places the tiny soft egg against my lips. With only the slightest movement I part them just enough to taste the salty juice with the tip of my tongue. It is heavenly. I close my eyes as I slowly draw the egg inside my mouth, bursting it between my teeth. It’s only one little taste, one tiny bit of flavor, but it makes me sigh with pleasure. It mingles with the delicious scents all around me. The fish, the ginger, wasabi and soy sauce, his wife’s perfume… I feel myself growing even damper against the flask of sake, and I clench my inner muscles to intensify the sensation.
I hear Ayame’s soft laugh. I might conceal my secret maneuvers from the guests, but I can never hide anything from her. My eyes meet hers and she smiles. Her face is slightly flushed, and I
imagine I can smell her own desire beneath the silken kimono.
"Drink with us," the American man says.
He holds out his sake cup but Ayame shakes her head demurely and produces one of her own, murmuring her gratitude as she sits at the end of the table. I can’t help imagining how
much more exposed I would feel with my feet separated, my legs splayed and tied together beneath the table, my dampening sex on shameless display.
Looking down the length of my body I can just make out the top of her head, her glossy black hair swept into an elaborate geisha style. She is the only Japanese girl in the restaurant, a fact
that lends her both mystery and playful authority. She allows her fingers to brush against my nether lips as she takes the flask to fill her cup. This time she doesn’t put it back. This time she leaves me wholly on display and my heart starts to beat a little faster.
The jasmine lady scoops up some salmon roe with her chopsticks and her husband immediately does the same. Slowly, slowly they pluck the eggs from me, a few at a time, until they are almost gone. My breasts are smeared with the oily residue and my nipples tighten even more as their movements send cool air over the dampness. I suppress a little shiver.
Only a few pieces of fish and rice remain. If the guests want more the chef will oblige, bringing it out on a wooden platter and carefully placing each specially crafted piece on my body, arranging everything as before. Then the process will begin again. I hope they’re still hungry.
But the American couple seems satisfied. They dab their lips with their napkins and express their appreciation for the food - and its display. I feel their cool fingers on my skin as they stroke
me like a pet.
"What a good girl," the American lady says.
Her husband corrects her. "Good little dish."
They laugh softly.
Her long red nails travel over my belly to my pelvis, then down my inner thighs. A slight gasp escapes my throat, but I remain absolutely still. Only my skin betrays the excitement of
"Sayonara," she whispers. "Until next time." Then they slip away, padding silently out of the room.
Lady Jasmine and her husband aren’t ready to leave yet and I’m filled with excitement. I sense they want more than just the decadent meal. The man gently gathers the last of the salmon roe
from my left breast and holds it up. For a moment I think he’s going to offer it to me. Then he asks Ayame if she’d like a bite.
She smiles. "Yes, please."
There is the rustle of silk as she leans forward to accept his offering. A soft, warm weight rests against my belly and I have to work to maintain my calm breathing. Her kimono is not at all
traditional, and it is tied very loosely. A glance down shows me her beautiful pale breasts resting against my skin. They glisten with oil when she resumes her seat.
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Lady Jasmine carefully plucks the last eggs from my right side, collecting them one by one and eating them with little sighs of pleasure. Each time her chopsticks come teasingly close to my
nipples I hold my breath, longing to feel the touch of the cool, lacquered wood. But she manages to avoid even brushing me.
Her control is maddening. My breasts are bare now. Only a thin
sheen of salmon oil remains.
"Shall we start again?" her husband asks, circling his chopsticks
over my flesh. An empty dish.
"We haven’t finished the ginger," Lady Jasmine says, and something in her voice sends a little thrill of anticipation through me. The ginger is merely a condiment. I suspect she has something
else in mind.
Ayame carries the little dish over to them. She gently lifts out one thumb-sized piece with a clean pair of chopsticks. For a moment I think she is going to feed it to our guests, but then she lays the thin slice over my left nipple. I almost gasp at the unexpected cold shock of it, but I manage to keep silent and still. A minute shudder is all the reaction I allow myself to the intense
stimulation. She places a slice on my right nipple, and again I resist the urge to respond.
I lie still and obedient, a good little platter, while they admire the way the ginger clings to the hard buds of my nipples like sheer, wet silk. But Ayame isn’t finished. My heart pounds in my
ears as she moves down to my splayed and bound legs.
"Perhaps a little wasabi as well," she says. She meets my eyes as she says it, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. Then she dabs a larger slice of ginger into the little ball of green wasabi.
Immediately I imagine the taste of the hot green mustard and the tang of pickled ginger. But Ayame doesn’t intend for anyone to eat the combination. Carefully she maneuvers the spicy morsel between my open legs, drawing it gently up the dewy crease of my lips before pressing it firmly against me. She pats it into place with her chopsticks, sending little electric jolts through my body.
Then she steps back and waits.
For a moment I feel nothing. I know how both would taste in my mouth, and I try not to imagine the same burn in such a tender area. Before long I don’t have to imagine it. It begins as a soft, warm tingle, almost a vibration, then builds slowly to a steady burn. My sex clenches in response, but this only intensifies the prickly heat. It’s all I can do not to squirm and roll my hips.
"She’s very good, isn’t she?" the man says admiringly. "Very
I close my eyes, taking pride in his words as I try to focus on anything but the building heat in my sex.
"Oniyuri is one of our best girls," Ayame says, playing her chopsticks up and down along my inner thighs, teasing me.
Lady Jasmine follows her lead, circling my right nipple with her chopsticks. After several agonizing seconds she captures the slice of ginger and lifts it to her mouth. Her husband follows suit and my nipples ache from the peppery feel of the ginger, the teasing and denial. My skin has never felt so alive, and my composure has never been so challenged.
The tingling warmth between my legs is building to a powerful burn I’m trying desperately not to respond to. I press my toes together, using muscles the guests can’t see to distract me from
what is fast becoming very intense. The man gazes down at my breasts. Then he lowers his
chopsticks to my nipple, pinching it like a bite of salmon roe. He manipulates the chopsticks gently, rolling the sensitive skin between them and exerting pressure. When Lady Jasmine does
the same I have to bite back a little whimper. The sensation is almost too much. My skin tingles all over with the stimulation, raising gooseflesh and making me tremble.
And when Ayame presses her chopsticks against the last piece of ginger, intensifying the contact with my delicate sex, I can’t help it. I cry out.
Immediately the room is silent, heavy with disapproval. I choke back a sob, along with the urge to beg forgiveness, to ask for another chance to prove my complete obedience, my training
and my ability to endure. But I know it is too late.
"Oh dear," Ayame says softly, and the subtle reproach from her is the worst torment of all.
She plucks the ginger from my nether lips, but the sting is not lessened by its removal. If anything the sudden current of air heightens it. I moan softly, my control already lost.
Lady Jasmine shakes her head sadly. "And she was doing so well."
"Yes," her husband says with a sigh, and I know exactly what he’s going to say next. "She will have to be punished."
A hot blush floods my face at his words, and my sex pulses in response. He stands over me, his chopsticks in one hand. He holds them loosely at the widest end while with his other hand he pulls the tips slowly back as though drawing a bow and arrow. The suspense is its own special torment as I hold my breath, waiting. At last he lets go and the tips flick down across my breast, striking the sensitive nipple with perfect aim. I yelp at the sudden sharp pain, all pretence of silence and serenity abandoned.
He leans forward and repeats the treatment on my right breast, making me hiss with pain. I barely have time to process it before he returns to the other side to deliver another stinging
stroke. I writhe on the table, but the ropes hold me firmly in position. All I can do is whimper and grit my teeth as the makeshift implement whips my tender breasts again and again, striking
like a snake. And even as each stroke elicits cries and vain struggling from me, I find myself admiring his precision and my sex throbs with the excitement of his absolute control. I have no
idea how many times the slender little chopsticks deliver their sharp bite but my nipples are sore and inflamed when he finally moves away.
But he isn’t finished with me.
He gazes down at my sex, presented like an offering in its frame of orchids. And when he aims the chopsticks again I gasp and yank at the ropes binding my legs. There is no escape, however, and I am helpless as he aims a cruel stroke down across the swollen knot of my clit. My sex explodes with sensation, every nerve ending wildly alive and burning with wanton excitement,
the pleasure all the more stimulating for the pain. Lady Jasmine and Ayame watch, their eyes glittering with pleasure at my situation.
I close my eyes, feeling each sharp stroke more intensely than the last. Exhilarated, I writhe helplessly in my red silk bonds, gasping and crying out with complete abandon. Before long I
feel myself climbing, my sex throbbing with desire so intense it soon becomes unbearable. I barely realize it when the punishment ends. My body resonates for long moments after the last
stroke, savoring the echo of the torment. Lady Jasmine presses her cool fingers against my burning nipples the climax breaks over me like a wave and I throw back my head with a wild
Sharp, hot little pulses surge through my body, swelling and receding, making me dizzy. There is the sensation of floating, of flying, of falling. I feel both detached and profoundly connected
to my body and all its tumultuous sensations. I can hear voices, the rush of blood in my ears, the distant shamisen. The taste of salmon is still rich in my mouth, the scent of jasmine and ginger
in my nose. All my senses are on fire.
"Well, well," someone says, the smile evident in his or her voice.
Is it my tormenter? His wife? I’m so lost in bliss I can’t tell.
But I recognize Ayame’s touch as she strokes me softly, as though waking me from a dream.
"Oniyuri," she whispers, bending down to kiss me. "It’s time for dessert now."
I open my eyes and am a little surprised to see that the guests have resumed their seats. They are watching Ayame expectantly. With a soft wet cloth she cleans me, wiping away every trace
of fish oil, teriyaki and soy sauce. I sigh with pleasure at her cool, gentle touch. My skin tingles with the memory of pain even as it savors this new pleasure. When she is done she dips her fingers into a little bowl and sprinkles my body with powdered sugar. It falls like a light dusting of snow.
Onto the newly prepared surface Ayame arranges little scoops of green tea ice cream. My body is so warm it begins to melt almost at once but I still strive not to shiver at the cold. And as the guests enjoy their dessert I think of winter, of white-capped mountains and icy lakes and a single brazen tiger lily pushing up through the snow, heralding the return of spring.
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