Sexy Excerpt: 'Nyotaimori' by Rose de Fer
This short story comes from the collection "Best Women's Erotica 2014," edited by Violet Blue. It is reprinted here with permission from Cleis Press. This excerpt is sponsored by LELO.
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.
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 her touch.
"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.
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 well trained."
I close my eyes, taking pride in his words as I try to focus on anything but the building heat in my sex.