His eyes covet her, and a grind of flint sparks. The flame dances to the tune of Yumi’s gait.

Shadows cloak the corners, dark as a widow’s grief, yet she commands them like forbidden fruit. Yumi turns with poise, a siren’s vow to the night and a whispered promise to its guests. In a sleek latex catsuit, she sways to the noodling jazz as a sculptor’s muse. Its pink latex flows like a molten river under the neon’s worship. It claims her curves as their phantom lover, luring eyes towards her like moths to her flames.

Wandering saxophone fuses with the soft lilt of conversation. The pinprick of tobacco glows bright red, and another flares alongside it. They blaze from the shadows, the nightmarish eyes that force her to wake.

She is awake, and the shadows close in, darker... silent. The gloom chills her bones, freezing supple muscles into icy stone.

In tight-lipped panic, their eyes meet. Mama-san sits perched on a high stool against a backdrop of glowing liquor shelves. Beautiful yet frigid, a queen forged from the ashes of her youth, she rules this neon-drenched world. Her black silk dress extinguishes all light, and a thick strand of silver hair swirls into an austere tight bun, shimmering in the ultraviolet.

The stench of rot rises, and the frigid mist licks her warm skin. The bar eases backwards, threatening to abandon her here. Mama-san’s eyes are as sharp as glass splinters, softened only by her striking, ageless face. They call to her, and the compulsion to run does not reach her feet. Her stare is a heavy burden and tallies Yumi’s meagre earnings this evening. All night, commission bleeds away like ink in water.

Reality snaps back with the click of her fingers. “Yumi! Earn your pay. Stand tall and smile.” Mama-san hisses.

Bolt upright, her poise called to attention, Yumi smiles brightly.

“Better,” she replies with muted approval.

Her fragrance intoxicates, and Yumi is not made that way. She embraces the frisson of attraction, and it soothes the fading dread. Fortified by a deep breath, she takes the tray with steady hands and ventures towards the tobacco’s glare. Wary of those curls of smoke, they rise and intertwine, mimicking her dark hair, which sways in loose waves. It frames a face forced to captivate with the lilt of her lips and wide, coquettish eyes.

The cigarette is stubbed out. He is entranced and admires her forbidden body. Devoured as a sexual object, the creak of the latex bodice announces her presence at a table of salarymen, their ties askew, faces flushed and slick under the glow of gold light.

“Another round, gentlemen?” Yumi purrs, her voice a coy melody fighting the knot in her throat.

Her new admirer grins; his nod promises profit. She sits amongst them, his breath a sour cloud of Shochu. Yumi is consolation, welcoming company, and the balm to relieve their stress. In her presence, they will forget this frenetic world. She pours as her mind churns - rent, debts, and a clawing hunger. The oppressive air, heavy with smoke and sweat, weighs on her heart. The neon pulses like its palpitating beat.

An unwanted hand rests on her naked thigh, hidden in the shadows, prohibited by the rules of this game. It squeezes, and she slams the glass onto the table like a gunshot. Mama-san’s head jerks, her lips thinning to a razor’s edge. Failure here means humiliation; this is her last chance, her last refuge... her last hope. The hand rests warm and clammy, challenging Yumi’s resolve.

Patiently, the men wait until the twelve glasses are recharged.

“And one for you, pretty lady.”

“Of course,” Yumi obliges.

The bottle is drained, and commission is earned.

The ritual begins. “Otsukaresama!”

The boss lifts his glass, arm rigid, in salute to his office warriors.

“Otsukaresama!” they reply, puncturing the hazy music.

The Shochu is gone, and Yumi does not reel from its fiery, sweet taste. Instead, she honours the boss with delicate fingertip applause and a subservient lilt of her head. As the owner of the hand, he grins, rictus, possessive, and gestures to the bar.

“Another.”

She rises gracefully, free from his clutches and bends forward to collect the glasses. This posture is deliberate, tightening her curves and revealing more of her fulsome breasts. Her fingers graze the cold, slick surface of the bottleneck. Its caress as an innuendo to loosen their wallets. Placing it on the tray, Yumi journeys to the bar. Loosened by the Shochu, her hips sway, and she knows her ass is appraised with each sensual stride.

Yumi waits at the bar, and crimson light reflects from the bottles directly into her eyes. The bar melts, and the crimson bleeds out into bloody shadows. The deep dread boils over when the walls close in, and the air thickens with rot and mould.

Something stirs, obsidian and furnace red flexing in the shadows, and those glowing eyes peer from the void. A pair of feminine voices twist into muffled despair. Raw terror grips her, a dagger of something she cannot name, and the overwhelming claustrophobia chokes her breath.

“Yumi!” Mama-san looms near, her beauty a cold menace.

The vision shatters. Relieved to be amongst the smoke, laughter and frivolity, Yumi’s tray quivers, her heart pounding.

“Focus,” Mama-san’s voice cuts like steel.

She nods, and the dread fades, swallowed as a bitter lump down her throat.

-=-=-=-

Everything has its place, and Yumi tucks the last bar stool away. Her hands clutch the upholstered back in the eerie silence. These cold fluorescent lights always unsettle her; impersonal, suited to an abattoir, she prefers the warm neon. She stares at her bag; the latex is retired, and a shapeless cotton dress disguises the provocateur.

“Here.”

The surgical light reflects in Mama-San’s deadpan eyes; she gestures to the small brown envelope.

“You are improving with much to learn.”

Yumi does not need to pick it up to know it is light, but its contents are essential.

“Thank you.”

“Thank those drunk salarymen. You will need to find new victims tomorrow.”

Yumi’s lips curl in a plea for a crumb of human comfort; she will not find any here.

Mama-san turns, and her measured footsteps fade. “Close the door on your way out.”

The lights flicker, irritating tired eyes and forcing them to blink. At shutter speed, a naked woman stands under a pink sky. With her saviour arms outstretched and feet planted in a shimmering, millpond sea, she welcomes the rising sun.

Familiar and comforting, the harsh lighting returns, snatching the sensation of tranquillity away.

“Kampo,” she mutters under her breath.

A squirt of hunger rolls through her barren stomach.

Humid, dank and wet, she fights with her flimsy umbrella. The first step dashes the reflection of the gaudy sign. A few souls flee like scattered ants in the distance. Doused by the relentless rain, Kabukicho’s fiery heartbeat fades. Stragglers lurk, and restless spirits loom in the shadows. The umbrella is a flimsy shield against the downpour, forcing a hurried pace on aching feet. Her dress clings to her thighs, blood-warm and wet.

Towards Okubo, her heels click out an urgent rhythm past the Ebisu Tower, its twisted metal dark and foreboding. Dread rises in her stomach like a snake poised to strike. Ghosts peel away from Hanazono’s Shrine, the air thick with the musk of sodden concrete and cigarette ends. The rain washes the stench of beer from the pavement near the overpass.

Yumi skirts Yasukuni-dori and its love hotels; the tired pink facades pass judgment on their sated customers tonight. She crosses near the Shinjuku Toho building, splashing more black mirrors under Godzilla’s silhouette. He peers down upon her as an omen, her senses tight as piano wires.

A cackled laugh rings out. Too geriatric to care, with nothing to lose, it cuts through the drizzle. Yumi’s pulse hammers at her brittle soul. Shadows move and twist, black as the void, shiny as her soaked dress. Silent, with stealth, she will not see them coming. Shivering with fear, she stands under a streetlight’s glare, an angel’s halo to ward off evil spirits.

Then - a voice, low and guttural, calls from the dark: “Kamuy waits.”

Quickened blood panics; the spirit of the wild hunter is on her trail. She grips her bag, and skittish eyes dart for the source. She trots at a canter, crossing the street into the light, that voice echoing in her skull.

A Korean fast-food joint glows in the distance in a side street off Okubo-dori. Still open, a sanctuary, and she ducks inside. Closing her umbrella, it drips on the tiled floor, the steamy air thick with sesame and seaweed.

“Gimbap, to go,” she whispers with a frayed, timid voice.

The pot-bellied man peers up, “Pork, Beef, Tuna?”

“Beef.”

The man nods and slices a roll.

Her hands shake while she fumbles for some Yen. The distraction is a lifeline as he wraps them in foil. Clutching it, she bolts back into the rain under the shield of her tiny umbrella, the perfume of sweet soy cutting through the rot.

His eyes bore through the back of her skull as the shadows encroach. She can lose him in Okubo’s maze, with its narrow streets and sagging laundry lines. Yumi has no time to curse the slate grey shutters and his Kampo medicine. For a week, those illicit mushrooms and a moment of weakness brought these nightmares. Real or imaginary, she cannot afford to determine which now.

A drunk muses with garbled words, and his sudden retching rockets through her tense body. Whooshing blood rings in her ears, and terror propels her legs. She runs as the rain thickens, blurring her vision, and a shadow lurches - too tall, too near.

“Kamuy sees,” it growls again, closer.

Her breath hitches, her legs pump, and urgent feet splash through inky water. The flickering light is her salvation; she must endure the gloom and two flights of stairs. Yumi fumbles with the key, tears streaming down her face, and slips into her apartment. Closing the door, she flicks its bolts closed. Leaning against it, she sobs, trembling, her feet sodden. Shivering, she flicks her shoes against the Genkan wall. Her dress slaps the faded linoleum, and the gimbap parcel drops onto the tiny table.

Hunting for air, she sits in her underwear, and the rain lashes at the little porthole to the world outside.

Those damn mushrooms, when will these dark emotions fade? A sip of cool water soothes, nibbling her food. Yumi hates the dark, and drinking Shochu on an empty stomach is a recipe for disaster. She detests that bar, too, but what choice does she have?

Finishing her glass, she screws the foil into a ball. In a few hours, daylight and safety beckons. It was a bad trip, nothing more, and peers at the row of books on a solitary shelf. She needs to hang her latex catsuit back onto the clothes rack.

Overwhelmed by fatigue, Yumi looks to the opposing corner and her bed.

She will sleep under a solitary lightbulb and a single cotton sheet.

-=-=-=-

Yumi slinks through a fog of cigarette smoke and Sake in the neon-drenched hostess bar. The promise of fulfilment hangs heavy in the air. She is sex and moves with that need for total gratification. Mischievous jazz sets the tempo to fuck; rhythm, then contempt for melody, just how she likes it. From her reflection in a mirror, thick leather ribbons constrain her craven body. The chrome rings that circle her hardened nipples shine as beacons for their attention.

Her lower half is naked, pristine and smooth. Thigh-high boots hug her slender legs like a lover’s greedy hands. There is no mystique; she is not demure as the leather collar and its gleaming chromed studs define her status. A flint grinds, sparking the flame that writhes within her. A shimmy of her hips, the sway of her curves, this is primal, dancing towards the cherry-red ember of tobacco. Yumi is a sexual feast under the kaleidoscope of neon colours.

Shadows cling to the corners, dark and slick as her tied-back hair, the air throbbing with soft whispers and jagged laughs, heavy with the musk of sweat and unspoken lust. Her lips tilt as a coy tease, hiding the ache that twists her guts. Pouring drinks for the voracious salarymen, her thighs open. Their lustful eyes grip her tighter than their wallets. Tighter than her dripping sex, as his fingers slide inside her.

Mama-san looms at the bar’s edge, a regal dominatrix framed by glowing liquor shelves. Her deep-purple dress swallows light, silver hair coiled tight, glinting under the ultraviolet like a whip’s gleam. Those sharp, splintered eyes rake over Yumi, a predator’s stare softened only by ageless allure. Tallying her earnings, she rules with an iron touch and a mesmerising beauty forged from years of experience. Yumi’s purr of arousal slithers through the noise, a seductive trill clashing with her desperation. She craves total abandon, and a bold hand claims her heaving breast, forbidden and electric. The shot glass crashes down, a jolt in the haze, her pulse pounds under Mama-san’s approving gaze.

Amid the growled “Otsukaresama” toast, Yumi’s lingering grin and submissive pose strokes the men’s egos. Her release is postponed as she sways to the bar, her pert jewelled ass a taunting prize. Crimson light floods her eyes, and the bar melts - light bleeds into shadows, and feminine gasps twist into climatic moans.

On her back, she fights the rope bonds that tie her wrists, trying to squirm free. The air chokes, thick with rot and heat. Faceless in the pitch black, his obsidian and furnace-red eyes narrow when he seizes her ankles and opens her legs wide. Adrenaline spices her gushing arousal. Yumi yelps as he penetrates her, testing her sodden muscles. Filled by a solitary, skilful thrust, his smooth girth melts away all resistance. Snatched breaths ease to whimpered moans as his brutish body lunges. Taken to the hilt, smooth and snug against her sensitive walls, nothing else will quell the furnace within.

The presence of another provokes her deepest secret. Watched as she is taken, Yumi petitions loudly for more. Unshackled, it is no reprieve. Firm hands pull her arms down, gripping her wrists as his relentless strength shakes her captured body. Electricity flows freely, muscles tighten and ease, flooding her with rapturous acquiescence. A feminine caress meanders over her shoulders, down her front, clasping her quivering breasts. She is not made that way, yet her curiosity must be appeased. Fingers scissor at her nipples, goading her to climax. Her sweet, scented breath tickles her neck, and the tip of her tongue flicks at her earlobe.

“Cum for him.” As a seductive whisper, it compels her soul.

Yumi surrenders and tightens her limbs around his thrusting mass. Flexing back, she crosses her ankles to trap him in her embrace. It glimmers inside, hot and tight, a ball of tension that swells, making her restless. Growing in size, she clamps tight around her impalement, so vast, so sudden, its force cripples her. Convulsive and limps, tender, nimble fingers slide between their bodies. They find their prize, chasing her fugitive clit, slippery and hard.

Poleaxed and yelping, Yumi arches her back, pleading for more.

“Submit to him.” The soft burr of her voice inspires her instincts.

Powerful collisions push squeals from her stricken body. A haze of rapture empties her mind, and the single-minded craving for orgasm grips her again. He is relentless through her cries. Buffeted by these raw, untameable thrusts, her slithering hips rock back and forth for more. Writhing as one, the pent-up tension grips his swelling shaft. Yumi needs it, and her ferocious spasms will make him yield.

“Focus!” Mama-san’s steel command cuts through.

The vision shatters in a haze of pleading whimpers, fading as ecstatic sighs. Yumi kneels before her, presented with her flawless sex, and peers up. Mama-san pulls her hair, and she cups it with painted lips, burying her tongue into its silken folds. Greeted by austere eyes, savouring the tart taste, they soften as she nuzzles her clit. There are no more instructions, only a voyage of discovery. Unable to contain her hunger, its powerful novelty compels her fingers into her own sex. Yumi parts her candy-pink lips, showing the salarymen her wanton hole.

Teasing her soft flesh, Mama-san does not relent, pressing that bone-hard mons to her mouth. Her hips rise and fall, steering Yumi to gratify her queen. She shudders in pouted gasps, lost amidst the smoke, laughter, and sexual tension. Attentive to the last lick, Yumi looks up for approval and finds no reward. She will try harder next time. Releasing her grip, Mama-san offers a hand to rise, leading her to the crescent of salarymen.

“Kneel.”

Human contact is a commodity she craves, and this is the cure for her loneliness. As their hands paw, her mouth nurtures rigid hot steel in gratitude. She cedes control to them, her decision, her precious gift, and they do not ask twice. Guided to stroke another, Yumi’s body sings. Her hips are positioned, and a firm grip lifts her behind. An unknown assailant breaches her sex, and the curve of rigid meat in her mouth stifles her delight.  

Her aimless mind and body fuse as one, revelling in who she is. Eager loins swat her ass, a firm hand holds the back of her head, plunging her down to take it all. Each thrust counts the seconds, accumulating as minutes, and so many elapse she loses count. A deft wrist stiffens another one, ready for her sex. She wallows in her destiny and new purpose, back and forth, mauled... used. Basking in how they take turns with her, she wills each one to provide their best.

Until one swells inside her, and Yumi is ready to receive their gift.

“Yes,” purrs Mama-san, “Good girl. Earn your commission.”

Yumi rejoices in her approval, feeling him twitch inside. Encouraged, she slurps on the erection in her mouth. Suddenly empty, his runny seed trickles down her inner thigh. Fingers pull at the jewelled plug, and the anticipation flutters in her stomach.

She craves more and needs more. All of them, all at once, one for each hole.

Mama-san knows and responds with a sickening laugh.

Yumi wakes with a jolt.

He is upon her, testing the stout springs of her bed. His mass obscures the daylight, and the burden of his muscular body delivers lunging thrusts upon her stricken frame. They writhe together, soaked through. He drives harder, her gratification so fulfilling that the pressure within makes her cry out. Yumi’s fingers spread to clutch his back as her meagre response for more. Her arms and legs cling to his seething body in desperation.

“Kamuy takes,” he growls, “you are mine.”

The scent of damp rot rises, and her hands clench as fists to rain blows on his broad back. There is no fight left in her, and he is the man she needs. An incredible fill of thick muscle follows, and she must bite his shoulder. Her involuntary body arches and her hips rise to invite the deepest penetration. There is nothing to fear; Mother Nature is in charge and squeezes on him to provoke the inevitable. Corpulent and hot between her legs, he is close.

She is ready to bear him a child.

Thrashing, Yumi awakens. Trapped in the cotton sheet, she flails to kick it from her body. Her jackrabbit heart slams, and she stares at the rust-coloured water stain on the ceiling. Her desires, a dream, a nightmare in the neon, she cannot decide. Bleary-eyed and mindless, an idle hand rests on her breast. A rich heat churns in her loins, and she toys with the small tuft of hair on her mound.

“Kamuy sees,” she mumbles.

Kneading her breast, she pinches its nipple, scouring her body with need. Her clit is blood-hot and swollen, and two fingers are an inadequate replacement.

Yumi presses them inside; she gasps, and the devil may care.