Message-ID: <6486eli$9712161637@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: r_rivers@cryogen.com (Rivers) Subject: Story: A Journey to the East (Part 1/7) [M/F,M/f, Japan, horticulture] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: This story contains graphic descriptions of sex and should not be read by anyone under 18, or anyone offended by such material. Blah Blah Blah... The story is divided into seven parts, of which this is the first, describing a week-long stay in Japan. Readers only interested in graphic descriptions of sex acts should probably wait for some of the later parts, or better yet, skip this story entirely. The author does not mind constructive comments. I suppose: "This is a piece of crap!" is constructive on some level, but what I have in mind would be more along the lines of technical pointers or anything that might help future offerings attain a higher level of craft. Of course compliments are always welcome: for some reason my posts never show up on my own server and my stories don't all seem to get reviewed, so it is nice to know if anybody at all reads any of this. Richard Rivers 12/97 A JOURNEY TO THE EAST Day 1, Sunday: Mr Ogawa gave me a pointed look. "The father a great cellist, the son a programmer. How can such a thing come to pass, Mr Sato?" he said. Without waiting for my reply: "Only in America I suppose," he sighed. "Forgive me this harsh assessment of your country Mr Sato, but to me that demonstrates clearly what is wrong with America: you take something of beauty, of spiritual value even, and within a generation you transform it into something eminently practical, utilitarian, but lifeless, spiritually dead. Your values have been turned on their heads." His words stung. My father the well-known cellist emigrated to America before I was born. He devoted himself to the pursuit of beauty in his music and the arts. The contemplation of beauty is what drove him he told me many times as I was growing up, and I had broken his heart by never showing interest in music or any other art form. Secretly, I think he regarded me as his one great failure. Mr Ogawa sensed my discomfort: "Of course you must realize my observations are colored by envy," he added somewhat apologetically. "You Americans have come to dominate the world with those values. Perhaps all this is a waste after all." He waved his arm at the window overlooking his elaborate estate. "My retreat here in the mountains serves me well, spiritually, but it makes no money. In America this would probably be a bed and breakfast hotel." "Mr Ogawa," I said. "I would like to go over some of the details, some of the specifics of my work here..." "Please, Mr Sato," he interrupted. "I know you must have questions about your work, but you have only just arrived from America. Your mind cannot be fresh, and besides, when I am on retreat I try not to involve myself in the day to day workings of my business. You will be working with my personal assistant; she will report your progress to me." As if on cue a light knocking sounded at the door. Mr Ogawa rose to open it. "Mr Sato, I would like you to meet my personal assistant, Megumi Yoshino." "I am honored Miss Yoshino," I said, rising to my feet. "The honor is mine, Mr Sato," she answered, bowing gracefully. Her accent was slightly British: Oxford or Cambridge I thought, the range a mellow reedy contralto, surprisingly full for the delicacy of her tall slender body. Like Mr Ogawa she dressed in a traditional manner, a simple linen robe tied at the waist with a belt. Her long hair hung about her shoulders. She stepped forward and put her soft cool hand in mine and squeezed. "Come with me," she said. "You must be tired from the long trip. I will show you to your room. You should rest now." We took our leave of Mr Ogawa and she led me away, walking before me down a narrow hallway which turned many times. Gathering the robe in front of her with one hand she pulled the fabric tightly around her hips, the outlines of her thighs appearing and disappearing with each step she took. The gentle rhythm of her slippers and the soft rustle of her robe made me think of sleep, how exhausted I was. Yesterday the twelve hour flight from San Francisco, and today five hours in a car driving to the mountain retreat had finally overwhelmed me. When we stopped in front of the final door Megumi put a hand on my shoulder steadying me. "You are tired Mr Sato," she said almost in a whisper. "Go inside. Rest." *** When I awoke late in the afternoon I realized that I had not even said good-bye; I had simply thrown myself down, falling immediately into a deep sleep. Now I made an inspection of my small room. A futon mattress with a low table next to it and a small writing desk were the only furnishings; the floor was covered with tatami mats. Through a door there was a tiny but modern bathroom, and next to it a closet. The room made me think of a monk's cell: a place for meditation or quiet relaxation, not a lot of diversions to trouble the mind here, yet it was cozy and comfortable. I knew my stay here would be relaxing and peaceful. On the writing desk I discovered a note from Megumi written in a beautiful feminine script. She informed me that she would be in the garden that afternoon and would look forward to meeting me. In the closet I would find clothing I could wear during my stay: Mr Ogawa, while not requiring it of guests, chose to dress in a more traditional manner when he was at his estate and it would please him if I did the same. I showered and changed in to the simple black robe. At first it felt silly to put on, as if I were preparing for a costume drama or a martial arts class, but it was so comfortable that I soon felt completely at ease. With some difficulty I retraced my way out of the house and found the garden. The estate of Mr Ogawa lay in a tiny valley high in the mountains surrounded by dense forest. The ingeniously designed garden took advantage of a natural stream and several ponds that collected water in the few flat spots, and lush, fragrant plants filled it; groves of bamboo and ginkgo trees shaded the winding paths which traversed it, crossing stone bridges, leading to hidden alcoves or small wooden pavilions. I set off at random, not sure where I might encounter Megumi. My pace was leisurely. The spring air felt soft and warm on my skin and the swaying plants sent wafts of their fragrance to me. I had soon lost myself deep in the maze of the garden, and as I stopped to get my bearings I noticed a beautiful rose bush by the side of the path. Its single large bloom caught my eye. Kneeling, I brought my face close to inhale its fragrance; the scent brought with it a memory from my childhood. It was the summer after my mother had died; I must have been five or six years old at the time. My father kept a beautiful garden behind our house. During my mother's long illness and after her death he lavished so much of his attention there, pouring out all the love he could no longer give to his wife. Playing alone one day I happened upon his most prized rose bush. Drawn by the beauty of the flowers my young fingers sought out the largest one and plucked it. As I held it to my face, staring into its depths, curiosity overcame me: what lay at the center? From what hidden source could so much beauty spring, I wondered? Probing, my fingers parted the delicate petals, warm and moist with the morning's dew. Deeper and deeper I delved into the heart of the blossom, parting the smaller and smaller petals within. It was then that I became aware of my father standing some distance behind me, watching. My instincts told me to run: he would surely be angry! But something bade me stop, his face bore a look of such sadness. I felt I dare not move; I dare not say a word. I silently stood holding the ruined blossom in my hand as he approached me. "Kenji, no," he said softly, using my Japanese name. Any other time I was simply Ken. When my mother had died he had addressed me as Kenji and I had known right away, before he had said another word, that she had gone. "I'm sorry Papa." I was crying. He squatted next to me and put his arm across my shoulders. "Don't cry, my little Kenji," he said. "I'm sorry Papa," I wailed, "but it was so beautiful, I couldn't help it." "I know." His voice was soft and soothing. "I know it was. Some beauty must not be touched Kenji. Some beautiful things are not for us, not for this world; when we touch them we destroy them. Such objects you must enjoy from afar, hold them in your mind only, not your hands; their beauty is too delicate, too fragile to endure." A shadow fell. Megumi came close and knelt beside me, the perfume of her body mingling with that of the rose. "It is beautiful," she said gently touching the sleeve of my robe. "Yes," I answered in a whisper, still half lost in memory. "Come, let us sit and talk." She guided me to my feet. She had changed into a pink robe made of fine silk that clung to her, sliding over her as she moved, revealing briefly the form of her body beneath, elusive, as the shapes fleetingly seen or imagined in the gently roiling eddies and waves of a river; the soft fullness of her hips; the graceful curve at the small of her back. She lead me deeper into the garden until we reached a small pavilion overlooking one of the ponds. "Since you will be with us for two weeks I thought I should tell you a few things about Mr Ogawa and this estate," she said as we sat down. "He is not your typical businessman as you may have noticed; he is very interested in matters of aesthetics, the arts and culture. To him all his money and power are but means to a higher end. Twice a year he brings his wife and daughter here to the mountains to live for a month in relative isolation. Only a few staff members such as myself accompany him during these times. For him it is not a vacation; he views this time as essential to his physical and spiritual well being. He returns to a simple way of life, dressing in a traditional manner and living according to the ancient ways." She touched the sleeve of her robe. "We don't normally dress this way," she laughed. "Only when we are here." "You are lucky," she went on. "Not many outsiders have come here to stay as you are. It is only the pressing nature of this project that has made him relent. Still, you may not see much of him; he keeps an office in the guest house but he rarely comes there. The ancestral family home is located on the other side of this garden, and he spends most of his time there in meditation and study. You may meet him, or his wife and daughter walking here in the garden from time to time if you come each day." She turned towards me more fully. "Take full advantage of this opportunity, Mr Sato. You have much work to do, but there are many hours in the day. Use the time to your benefit, as I do; I look on this time as very special and use it for my own rejuvenation, in my own way." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, as if lost in thought. "How long have you worked for Mr Ogawa?" I asked. "Four years," she answered. "I know," she laughed at my expression of surprise. "I'm only twenty eight. I was studying economics in Britain when we met at a party thrown by the Japanese ambassador. Mr Ogawa went home and made some very thorough investigations of me, my family, everything, before making a most generous offer of employment. He has taught me many things these past five years, made me very happy." Her eyes fell: she clearly felt embarrassed. I wondered about Megumi and Mr Ogawa: surely there had to be more to it than that. A wealthy man such as he would not simply meet a young student at a party and immediately hire her as his assistant. Even if he wanted her as his mistress he could arrange that in some other way. Yet she was beautiful, I thought, maybe too beautiful for him to resist, and he was a wealthy enough man to have anything, anyone he wanted, any way he wanted it without bowing to the opinions of others. Still, doubts crowded my thoughts. She must surely endure the assumption that her worth to Mr Ogawa was something other than what it seemed. The scorn of those who dismissed her as using sex to achieve her position must have stung her many tomes before. She must know exactly what is going through my mind, I thought. She is blushing because of what she knows I am thinking. I became embarrassed myself: To have condemned so quickly someone who had only shown me kindness made me feel ashamed. We sat in silence for a long time looking out over the pond. "Come," she said, "I will take you to my favorite place," and she lead me along the winding paths until we reached a large pond. Across the center an ancient stone bridge stretched, arcing with perfect symmetry, reflected in the water. Climbing the rough stones we stopped in the center of the span. "Stop here," she whispered. Afternoon was just giving way to evening: the hour when the light begins to soften bringing out the richness and contrast of colors, when all the senses are at their most heightened, the body poised and ready, as in ancient times when the coming of the night meant the arrival of the unknown, the mysterious dark. "This is the center, the heart of garden." Her voice had almost disappeared. "Stand still. Let your senses open, experience the beauty of this place." We stood close, side by side. "Close your eyes," she said. "Breath in deeply, fill yourself." I breathed deeply, eyes open wide trying to fill my senses with the beauty of the place, but mostly with her beauty; as I gazed on Megumi's body an aching desire welled up within me. *** Fin, Part 1of 7 Richard Rivers 12/97 -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |