Taken by the Samurai
The air is cool against my damp skin as I rise from the lake, beads of water trickling down my body and glistening like little pearls under the light of the silver crescent moon peeking from the veil of the clouds.
I shiver a little but do not hasten to cover myself, instead relishing the refreshing feeling. I have not, after all, had a bath in days. Taking a bath in the light of day is not exactly a wise thing to do for a woman trying to disguise herself as a man.
Passion on High Seas
The waves of the sea lay full and pure before me like the shattered shards of a glittering diamond, swept by a light, breezy wind and illuminated by the golden rays of the afternoon sun.
Never had I seen a vision of such incredible beauty; an image that looked as though it’d been snatched whole from a beautiful portrait and placed before me in all its glory.
The only difficulty, of course, was that I was not an old seafarer, but rather a 19 year old girl.And, perhaps as a consequence, I was bored quite silly.
Of course I had heard the name Mallinaga Vatsyayana countless times before I entered the house, starting work as a serving girl, and not always in the warmest of terms.
“That young dreamer,” scoffed the old gossips of Benares, “thinks he’s writing the secret to spiritual enlightenment. Well, so he says, and if he really believes it, more fool him.”
“Calls himself a writer,” others frowned disapprovingly, “he’s besmirching the paper he writes on.”
“Sacrilege,” spat the Hindu priests, averting their eyes in disgust as he passed, “simply sacrilege.”
Slave of Pleasure
I was shivering. My long blonde hair was almost the only protection I had from the biting cold, but the high wind was blowing it into my face, so I had to take my arms away from my body to keep my eyes clear of the unwelcome strands. I had to see what was happening. The rest of my life depended on these next few minutes.
Passion and Hysteria
Gideon Smith was the talk of all the women in town, the more so because he was single, attractive and seemed entirely immune to the coy smiles and light flirtation my friends had tried on him. With his hair soft and golden, his figure tall and immaculate and his eyes a dark, hypnotizing blue, he was the man we all chose to sigh about. To add to the romance, he was recently returned from Germany where he had studied some dull but impressive-sounding subject with some dull but impressive-sounding German neurologist. Now, he’d come to practice his skills in our neighborhood, with an expensive looking sign outside reading Gideon Smith, Psychoanalyst.
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