Cutscene: I Am Just a Fashion Accessory

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Gold Erodes the Soul 4.5

Starring: Mariko Ohmukai

WARNING: Rated a very, very hard R. Emphasis hard. Get it? Don't read if squeamish or prudish.

What you may not know is that when Masahiko Irie tried to make an honest woman out of me, he still let me continue some of my dalliances. He allowed me my three highest-paying clients -- my Daddies -- and no more. So I kept them, because I'm a very greedy little girl, and because in times of trouble, a little girl can always rely on her Daddy.

Nobuo Yashida thinks I'm stupid. To be fair, when he first started paying for me, I was strung out on smack and was happy to play whatever part people wanted me to play. After I cleaned up I stayed stupid, just for him. He liked dumb girls too much. He married one of them, and look how that turned out. Actually, it turned out pretty well for me, because he'd take all the things he couldn't do to her and do them to me, and pay me for it. Plus, he was pushing seventy years old, and that's just kind of hot.

The Yashida-kai started off in Tokyo. Their trade is vice: girls, drugs, gambling. Is it any wonder I let the head of that family paddle me until I can't sit? Things went sour in Tokyo and they lost a lot of men, a lot of money, and eventually had to settle for being a medium fish in a medium pond -- Sumaru. They had the market on dope cornered until I fucked all that up, but that's another story. Anyway, Yashida-san talks too much. I know the history of his group, the Vietnamese pipeline they get -- got -- their smack from, the shady accounting, the legitimate business fronts, the fact that his bitch wife is fucking his lieutentant... Put a few lines and some Viagra in this boy and he just goes and goes.

So let me tell you how it happened. It was business as usual. I arrived at the hotel room and asked him what kind of game he wanted to play. I held the costumes up over my body to help him choose. Wayward lingerie model looking for a chance to make it big and willing to do anything to get it? Icy bitch queen who needs to be broken and put in her place? Tough biker dyke, roughly manhandled into cock-loving submission? He did some coke to clear his head, gave me a little bit -- not too much, since I'm a good girl now, just like Irie wants -- and decided on California sex kitten. I like that one. I get to wear the blonde wig, I get to talk dirty in English. I can't really do the accent but I don't think he cares. Cared.

I got changed. American flag bikini, go-go boots, body glitter, heavy make-up. I looked pretty good. Not really what I'm into, myself. My tits are too small and the winter's kind of killed my tan a bit. With all the insane stuff going on lately -- like this -- I haven't had time to lay around in a tanning bed. Anyway. I could tell he was getting fired up. He never actually fucks me. He pops pills to give himself a near-priapic hard-on, but he never wants to go inside -- he gets off doing stuff to me, making me submit to him. Even though it's a game, it's all he can get off to. It's why his wife never gets him off. She's too much of a standoffish bitch to let him bully her like he does me. I love it.

He went through the toys and fun things I'd brought with me, in the bag with the costumes. He'd found a whip and was lashing it at thin air. I could tell the coke was in his brain, making him crazy, which in turn made me want to do this even more than the money already got out of me. We set some stuff up. I took off the little scarf ribbon I was wearing and changed into a posture collar that kept my chin tilted up -- I don't like my Daddies seeing my scars. He tied me in a vertical spread-eagle kind of thing, my limbs splayed to the corners of a doorframe. I was soaking.

He called me every name in the book. American whore, American slut, white this, white that. Then, like usual, he just started spewing venom at people who weren't there. Complaining about his Yakuza brothers -- who all hate him, because he hoards so much power in the Yashida-kai that without him no one would know what to do. About his wife, who fucks his lieutenant, who hates him. About some accountant who disappeared on him. Each bite of the whip into my back -- it was just a stunt whip, a toy, the kind that doesn't scar forever -- made me writhe until my own bliss drowned out both his words and the pain.

I don't know how long it lasted. He could have been beating me for five lashes or fifty. My knees were quaking either way. I'd have fallen if I wasn't tied in place. Then I felt his breath against me. His voice was throaty and cracked, and he had the delusional loudness of, well, a cokehead. I could feel his hard-on pressing against my ass through the bikini bottoms. He was whispering nonsense at a mile a minute, about how he was going to get rid of his wife and his lieutenant, how he was going to make me his next wife, about how he loved me and how I was the only good thing in his life, and more melodramatic coke chatter that no one ever really means. I wouldn't have minded all of that if he wasn't about to rape me. Bound up, I couldn't stop him from untying the bottom of my bikini, and I couldn't even lean around and bite him because of the collar.

I never even felt him go in. Because he didn't. He made a noise like a vacuum cleaner misfiring and fell against me, hard, almost wrenching my shoulders out of the sockets. Then he fell back and I could hear him drop on the floor. I tried to look behind myself but couldn't -- collar. I thrashed at my restraints but all that did was aggravate the pain in my back from the whipping's bruises. I was pretty sure he was dead. For a long few minutes I tried to think of what to do.

All I could think of was to hope that a hotel maid or something was walking past the suite's locked door as I screamed help, help, help.

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