Читать книгу The Blonde Samurai - Jina Bacarr, Jina Bacarr - Страница 6

San Francisco

15 September, 1876

’Tis not an easy task I have, dear lady reader, to respond to the vicious gossip spread about me through Mayfair drawing rooms since I returned to England. Whispers of euphoric nights with not one but two men pleasuring me; mysterious items to soothe a woman’s burning need for clitoral touch and fill her with orgasmic bliss; the erotic game of domination with girls strapped down and flogged upon their bare buttocks. Did I take part in these wild imaginings? Or are they merely tales fabricated by a besotted male scribbler to sell his stories and make his fortune?

You be the judge as you continue to read, and I hope you will, for pages and pages of erotic delights await you. What is undisputed is that I ran away from my husband and disappeared. Some say I went mad and was confined to an asylum. Others insist I entered a convent. Neither is true, but the scandal I provoked shook the standards of bland respectability and sobriety that govern the upper class and started nonstop discussions about what they deemed to be my outrageous behavior and what should be done about it.

Done about it? As if they alone exist on a lofty plane and rule all those below. I subscribed to no such rules and they shunned me for it. I will shock you further, for I shall begin my story with a confession, one that will titillate you and give you another reason to speculate whether what you’ve heard whispered about me is true. ’Tis a fact that I, a spirited daughter of Erin by way of America, came to London in the summer of 1872 seeking a titled match. Be it known my looks were plain and my opinions brash, sending my marital prospects into discord among my suitors, though for reasons I shall make clear in these pages, I married well. Yet the first man I took to my bed after my wedding night was not my husband—or yours—but one of the most mysterious, elusive and enigmatic men in all Japan. A samurai.

His name was Shintaro.

I shall never forget the moment the tall, muscular samurai swept into the room, his heavy walk making the wooden floor tremble, his presence commanding, electrifying, his melodic, deep voice speaking to me in his native tongue about waterfalls and flowers and the gods as if he was a poet and could produce an alchemy of words to create harmony between us. I burned with such desire I could not catch my breath. All I wanted was him. Bold, handsome he was, and as persuasive as the wind nudging a morning glory up the vine with his heated breath, exposing her to the sun, then seducing her to open up to him and live her vivid, unspoken dreams in his arms.

I knew Shintaro as a man with a deep passion for everything artistic and refined, including the grace and repose of the erotic “spring drawings.” He took great joy in demonstrating to me the sexual acts depicted upon these woodblock prints, down to the most exquisite, savory detail. Yet as a member of the warrior class, he harbored an intensity for warfare and honor and adhered to their strict sense of personal loyalty with a readiness to fight and die without hesitation; he also possessed a readiness to make love to me with the same vigor, his need for me burned indelibly into his soul. When I was with him, my spirit was as light as a cherry blossom floating slowly to earth, its pure fragrance scenting the passion of our union with a fresh innocence, yet hiding no thorns under its petals like the English rose.

Then a great tragedy came upon us and I was forced to leave Japan and return to London. Not an easy venture for me, dear lady reader. I harbored a profound uncertainty that I had assimilated so deeply into my life there that coming back to England would be unsettling and difficult. Had I known what scorn and ridicule faced me, I would have changed nothing, for I am destined to write this memoir and be faithful to the tale as I have lived it. I admit I have crafted my story in an enchanted world owing much to feminine perception and fancy, but ’tis my belief my memoir will evoke a response in you that will have far-reaching consequences beyond the telling of this tale. My hope is you will discover another side of your intimate self as I have, a side which will tempt you to deviate from the prevailing standards and expectations in your romantic life and allow you to enjoy the sexual act with his lordship to its fullest—or with any gentlemen you take to your bed.

To allow you to do so, I have chosen to write the story of my adventure as an Erotic Tome for Young Ladies. I came upon this idea because of a certain incident known to many readers of this book that occurred on the twenty-fifth of April 1876 at the London town house of the Viscount Aubrey. An evening of fun and gaiety was in play until I entered the room and all heads turned. Curious, questioning, some envious, for arousing tales about my powerful and masterful samurai lover had preceded me. Word passed quickly among the sanctimonious ladies of Mayfair. “That Carlton woman has arrived,” they whispered. They couldn’t take their eyes off me, scrutinizing my gown, my figure, my jewels, for I had dared to leave my husband and seek my own life among the samurai. In the eyes of the British aristocracy there was no greater sin.

I shall not spoil the story if you are unfamiliar with the newspaper accounts of the scandal, but suffice it to say I’ve left unnamed those of you living in London who are innocent of any wrongdoing. And though the exclusive upper class is well represented in my story, be advised their names have been changed. ’Tis a spicy tale, dear lady reader, replete with the words and phrases known to and used by the male sex. Before we begin, you may wish to open your reticule and remove your smelling powders. You will need them. I warn you, you may be shocked by my story, but never bored.

Tomorrow I sail for Yokohama from the port of San Francisco aboard the SS Oceanic. By the time you read this, I will be home, for that is what Japan is to me now. Hearth and home. There I have known the joy of a passionate love, the pain of suffering a great loss and the importance of duty if one is to survive. I count the heartbeats until I arrive back in Japan, but first I shall send off these final pages by post to my solicitor in London, Mr. Robert A. Brown, to give to my publisher. I wish to thank him for his unending support during these long months of writing and deliberating over whether or not I should pen this memoir. He has given me the courage to do so and made it possible for me to secure a contract with the best publishing house in London. In many months hence, this book will be in your hands. Then it will be up to you, dear lady reader, to decide its fate. I realize your fascination with reading my memoir lies in making your heart beat faster by recalling with me my romantic interludes with my handsome samurai. Fear not, in due course, I shall set into motion the frightening incident in Japan, which thrust me into his arms. But first I shall sketch the previous acts of the drama that make up the fabric of my story, beginning with my wedding night and what followed so you shall understand all the events that transpired, be they sensual, provocative or tragic.

If when you come to the end of my story you accept my words as truth, then I have succeeded. Shintaro will live not only in these pages, but in your heart, as he does in mine.

Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke