Ember and Ashe – Chapter Three_(0)

Dawn rose, casting its unwanted rays at me through the windows. The solar darts prickled my skin, and made beads of sweat appear on my brow. As much as I wanted to remain in bed, I knew I couldn’t. The blasted sun wouldn’t let me. She wouldn’t let me. Eimi Yoshikawa. Today she’d leave.

I showered quickly, shaved, then splashed on a little Halston Catalyst. A bone colored, long-sleeved shirt, a pair of khaki twill pants and a natural brown, zip-necked cashmere sweater slipped onto my body as if by themselves while I pondered the upcoming confrontation. What could I say to her, I wondered. I still didn’t understand why a whore would get so upset over someone fondling her privates. Well, understanding wouldn’t come by me standing here all morning. I left for the second floor to find her. The bedroom I had given her to use the night before lay empty. The bathroom looked equally devoid of life. Room by room I searched. My bare feet made no sound on the gleaming oak parquet flooring. Would she have left without saying goodbye? If angered enough, perhaps. My heart lodged in my throat at the thought of never seeing her again. Angrily, I pushed the feeling away, shoving it down into the depths from whence it had risen. She wouldn’t leave without getting her money first.

I stifled a yawn as I continued searching for her. My horniness had taunted me throughout the entire night. My futile attempts at relieving myself only further aggravated my condition. I didn’t crave my own hand, but Eimi’s flesh. She made a hot, all-encompassing fury burn within my breast. It tormented me without surcease. Not like the weak flicker Heather had caused. I laughed. I didn’t miss her at all. We had dated on and off for almost a year, and she held no place in my heart. What kind of witchcraft did the little Asian possess that made me slaver for her like I did? I had a number of women on file I could call. Women who would give themselves to me without hesitation. But I didn’t want them. It made no fucking sense! A starving man wouldn’t refuse to dine from a stranger’s plate, but I did. I only wanted to sup from Eimi’s honey pot. Ludicrous. Still, I couldn’t change the facts. My condition knew one source, and one antidote only.

Eimi Yoshikawa.

It must be her, and no other. Just saying her name in my mind made my penis throb in anticipation, as if her name summoned up my libido from the depths in which it had been interred hours earlier. I slapped my prick in annoyance, pissed off that last night it had failed me, and now it stirred to life at the mere thought of the enemy. I went to the second floor kitchen to get myself some breakfast. Perhaps some food would settle my stomach and clear my mind. I turned the corner, then quickly pulled back lest Eimi spot me. My cock throbbed again, extending itself to its full-length. Blasted woman! Must I speak of her in euphemisms to prevent my body from acting this way? Who was this enchantress who created this all-consuming passion within my loins? I thought of other things. My war experiences. Seeing people die of hunger and disease. Fat, ugly broads! Anything I could do to rid myself of the hateful erection that sought to humiliate me in front of her. Slowly, my cock heeded my wishes and shrunk back to normal.

She busied herself at the center island and the stove top. She had miso soup on the element, with rice steaming in the cooker. Some various Japanese pickles sat contentedly in a bowl while two large fish steaks, cut lengthwise, grilled nicely on the tabletop broiler. The scent of maple-glazed salmon perfumed the kitchen. A most Canadian twist to a Japanese dish. I smiled, feeling secure in my hiding place.

“Please be seated. Breakfast’s almost ready,” she said. She had not turned. “Soap and spice,” she replied, answering my unasked question. I made a mental note to myself to start using a more subtle fragrance. This ‘cinnamon and cloves’ thing was becoming quite unsettling. I sat at the table and watched her. She seemed at home in the kitchen. No, it was more than that. She seemed happy to be in this kitchen, to have a place of her very own. She wore no makeup this morning. A red and orange scarf pulled her hair back into a ponytail. The yukata – the thin, unlined cotton kimono – fit her perfectly. The loose-fitting garment accented the gentle swell of her beautiful breasts and hips. Tabi socks hugged her dainty little feet. No zori, though. I’d have to remember to buy her a pair. All she lacked were the tatami-woven, oval tipped sandals. She certainly could play the part of a contented Japanese housewife enjoying her Saturday morning. I felt pleasure just watching her bustle about that kitchen.

She quickly served me my breakfast. Salmon and soup, pickles and rice. Green tea, of course. What meal would be complete without it? “Andrew, eat,” she said. She sat, staring at me. It looked like she’d not begin until I did. I picked up my rice bowl and my chopsticks, intending to eat my breakfast. “Oh, I almost forgot!” She deftly cracked an egg on the flat tabletop and plopped it onto my bowl of rice. Yolk and albumen jiggled on my breakfast like freshly brought up mucus from a person with a chest cold.