An Excerpt from Violet Glaze's Hotel Butterfly The soft chime of a bell stirred Miyako awake. “Good morning,” Dr. Zhen’s merry voice pealed behind her. “Refreshed?” “Very,” said Miyako. She blinked a few times. It was like she’d gotten her batteries replaced. “Wonderful!” the doctor crowed. “You take very well to acupuncture. You should make it a habit,” she advised, quickly plucking the needles from Miyako’s skin with the precision of a hen pecking for grain. “Hidari and Migi are ready for you. Don’t worry about your clothes. You can keep that robe on.” Miyako retied her robe and sat up. “Thank you very much.” She bowed, her heart swollen with real gratitude. Dr. Zhen waved her hand. “Think nothing of it. Your health is my pleasure. Now don’t delay! Straight through that door.” She motioned to the room’s only door, the one that led back to the lobby. Miyako bowed again and hopped off the table, her bare feet padding on the floor. She turned the knob and stepped through…and found herself not in the lobby, but in the starkly lit foyer of an elegant and plush nightclub. “W-what?” Miyako stuttered, astounded. Sure enough, there was Dr. Zhen’s treatment room behind her, and the doctor stripping the exam bed of sheets and humming a tuneless folk melody to herself. But where was the lobby? What happened to the front desk and the practical carpeting? She rubbed her eyes and looked to see if she’d gone through the wrong door. No dice. There was no other door, only an endless row of low, sleek horseshoe booths lit by single spotlights scattered in the velvet darkness. A long chrome bar stretched to the vanishing point. Scarlet and electric blue neon slithered over the ceiling. “Miko-chan! Over here!” Miyako turned toward the voice to spot Migi waving sloppily from one of the booths. Several empty cans of Asahi Super Dry beer littered the tabletop. The crumpled aluminum glittered like jewelry. “Join us!” She giggled. Miyako felt a little sheepish at entering a swank nightclub still in her robe, but except for Migi’s table, every seat in the place was empty, and its silence made her want company. The white-shirted waiter noiselessly polishing a pint glass paid her no mind as she padded on bare feet past the bar toward Migi’s table. As she got closer, she could see Migi wasn’t alone. There was a man in the booth with her, the black leather of his motorcycle jacket and the onyx spray of his jagged-edged hair almost perfect camouflage against the dark walls. “Miko-chan, this is Kitsu,” said Migi. “He’s one of my oldest, bestest friends.” The man in the leather jacket turned to face Miyako. The breath caught in her throat. He was Japanese, probably not more than thirty, his gaunt and vulpine face framed by a mane of hair as shiny and black as a lacquer beetle’s shell. Predatory eyes peered out from beneath swooping dark brows. He sat leaning back in the booth, his long, leather jacket-clad arms stretched over the seat back with unnerving confidence. The slightest hint of a smile played on his lips. He had the look of a lean and hungry carnivore. “Hello, Miko-chan.” His voice was surprisingly low and magnetic. “Very pleased to meet you.” He didn’t break his gaze. Miyako noticed with a jolt that his eyes were a startling and very un-Japanese shade of emerald. “Hello,” she answered. A tingle rushed through her. “Have a seat! How did it go?” Migi motioned to their table. “Fantastic,” Miyako answered honestly, then hesitated. She had her choice of sliding into the booth next to Migi or, if she felt bold, next to Kitsu, right under his outstretched arm. Temptation welled up in her for a second, but common sense won the day. She slid in next to Migi. “That’s good,” purred Kitsu in that butterscotch voice. He leaned forward in his seat, those unnerving jade eyes locked on Miyako. “Dr. Zhen is the best.” “You’ve seen her too?” Miyako answered. Suddenly her throat was very dry. “No,” Kitsu answered. “But there are no secrets between Migi and me. I know everything about this hotel. And the people in it. And I understand you’re its newest visitor.” The bartender hovered over Miyako’s shoulder. She looked at Kitsu. Kitsu returned her stare evenly. Did she want a drink? It would take the edge off. But there was something about Kitsu that made her want to keep her wits about her. “A vodka tonic,” she finally decided. “And one more Asahi Super Dry!” Migi cheered. She thumped back down in her seat. “I love being able to cut loose at work. Right, Kitsu?” Kitsu just smiled and reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket. The bartender nodded and disappeared. Kitsu extracted a pack of Seven Stars cigarettes from inside his jacket. “Is smoking a turn-on or turnoff for you?” he asked Miyako. Miyako hesitated. Migi took a last, draining swallow of her beer and waited politely for the answer. Something about her ease in Kitsu’s presence gave Miyako courage. She thought about it. “A turn-on,” she finally declared. “It reminds me of cutting class in high school to sneak cigarettes outside. Cigarette smoke on a sunny day --” “Smells like liberation,” Kitsu finished. Miyako’s eyes widened. “You feel that way too?” “Mmm-hmm,” Kitsu murmured, a slim white paper cylinder already between his lips. He flicked a blue gas flame from a stately lighter and ignited the cherry tip, taking a deep drag before handing it to Miyako. “I wouldn’t have started if it didn’t.” Miyako’s fingers brushed against his warm hand. She took a drag. All of tenth grade came rushing back -- the nicotine exhilaration, the sun on her face, the camaraderie that came from stepping outside the crushing, inhuman rules. She didn’t exhale but instead let the smoke curl in silver-blue tendrils from her open mouth and watched it disappear into the dark. The bartender returned with drinks. Migi clapped her hands and cracked her beer open with a zesty fizz. Miyako took a sip of her cocktail. “Kitsu’s going to be your first lover,” Migi blurted. Miyako almost spit out her drink. Carbonation and citric acid singed her sinuses. She gagged and fumbled for a cocktail napkin. “What?” “Don’t worry, eventually you’ll get to pick. But Dr. Zhen just put you right again. You need an experienced lover,” she burbled, leaning against Kitsu. “Someone who won’t let you fall back into those old bad habits…” “Like skipping your own orgasm,” Kitsu said. “Letting the guy think it’s all about him,” Migi offered. “Denying your own pleasure,” Kitsu added. He slid into the booth next to her, wedging her between him and Migi. He was close enough for Miyako to smell the leather of his jacket. Miyako gulped, speechless. A gingery sensation flowered in her groin. “But I won’t touch you,” he purred into her ear. His breath was hot, like the vapor rising from a freshly poured cup of coffee. “If you want it, you have to choose.” She turned to look at him. He had sidled so close she could see the fine stubble lurking under the tan chamois of his cheek and notice how his eyes glittered with opalescent fire. The ginger sensation swelled, and her heart fluttered. She felt herself leaning closer to him in spite of herself, like a stick of butter slumping in a warm room. She reached up and brushed the hair from his ear. It felt bristly, coarser than human hair. “I need two things from you,” she whispered. “Okay,” he murmured. She was close enough to feel the vibration of his speech through her own skin. “One” -- she took his hand and laid it on her lap, the tips of his fingers resting on the slit of the cotton robe -- “I need you to prove your technique.” “Fair enough,” he whispered. His fingers twitched. “And two” -- she turned to Migi, her voice rising -- “I need to know what kind of crazy, fucked-up place this hotel is. Before I do anything else you ask of me.” Migi gave her a drunken grin. “Soooooo sorry,” she slurred. “I guess we never did tell you.” “She doesn’t know?” asked Kitsu. Miyako felt his fingers flex and inchworm another centimeter toward the warm and tender skin inside her thigh. The blood in her veins rushed southward. “Nnnnope!” Migi crumpled on the table, then straightened herself up and cleared her throat in an elaborate pantomime of an official spokesperson. “This is a magic place,” she began. “The rules of Earth don’t always apply here. But just know these four things.” She ticked the points off on her splayed fingers. “One, you are perfectly safe. Nothing here can or will hurt you, no matter how unpredictable it may seem --” “Like the door that connected to a lobby suddenly connects to a nightclub instead --” Miyako began. “And a man you’ve never seen before has his hand on your thigh,” whispered Kitsu into her ear, “and wants to know so badly if the wetness he can already smell has made your thighs slippery or if it’s still only sticking your pussy together.” Miyako gulped. If he checked, he wouldn’t come up empty, she thought. She wiggled forward in her seat a little. Kitsu took the invitation and slid his hand up her thigh. She could feel the edge of his thumb barely tickle against something very sensitive. “Exactly,” agreed Migi, oblivious to the exchange going on between the two of them. “Two, the hotel takes its cues from you. The truer you know yourself, the happier our staff can make you. You need not tell anyone explicitly what your heart’s desire is,” she clarified. “But the spirit of the place can read what’s in your heart only once you know it yourself.” “You like touching your nipples?” Kitsu’s breath sizzled against Miyako’s ear. Miyako blushed. “My breasts are very small,” she whispered back. No reply from him. She realized her mistake; that wasn’t what he asked. “I do,” she whispered hoarsely. “Three,” Migi continued, “this place follows the rules of heaven in regard to the rules of time and space, cause and effect. Nothing within these walls has lasting consequences, and nothing will carry with you into your earthly life.” Miyako leaned in closer to him and let his hand creep around under her armpit until he found the hard nub of her nipple through the cotton of her robe. His touch was intoxicating, the kind of sensation that makes girls forget where they are and whom they’re with. Drunk with pleasure, Miyako slung one thigh over his and wriggled onto his lap. His finger slid inside her up to the first knuckle with swallowing ease. She gulped and tightened involuntarily. He wriggled back in acknowledgment and brushed the meat of his thumb against her clit. An electric jolt jumped from groin to heart and melted over the surface of her skin. “And finally,” said Migi, although Miyako was barely paying attention anymore, “this hotel is only for you. But understand that something can be only for you and belong to everyone at the same time.” Migi jumped suddenly with a yelp, quickly snatching at the cell phone clipped to her belt. She peered at the screen. “Oh, shit. Back on the clock. See you later, you two!” She squealed as she slid out of the booth and scampered out of the nightclub. Miyako didn’t turn but followed the sound of her footfalls receding back to the door at the bar’s far end. “I want you,” she gasped to Kitsu as soon as Migi’s footsteps had disappeared. Whatever his fingers were doing was so electrifying, so gratifying, she didn’t care about propriety anymore. The words had tumbled out of her mouth unrestrained by any internal censor. “Here or somewhere else?” he purred into her neck, delivering two quick nips on the cartilage of her ear as he spoke. Miyako was torn. She didn’t want to slip out of his touch, not even for a second. But some small residue of shame welled up within her and threatened to drench the desire slowly percolating up from the pit of her being. She could be more relaxed with more privacy. He slid a knuckle deeper. “Somewhere else,” said Miyako. It was at that instant she noticed the celadon door directly to her right.   * * * * *   He had her pressed up against the wall in the private room, her head against his collarbones. She licked the hollow at the base of his throat and slid her hands around the waistband of his jeans, where rough denim met a narrow ribbon of hot flesh beneath the hem of his motorcycle jacket. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered. His hand was fully under her robe now, the V of his fingers sliding in the gully on each side of her clit. Her eyes rolled back in her head with each thrust. She was not only wet but hard, the pearly nub of her clit vibrating with blood and rising to his touch. She found it hard to form a complete sentence. “I don’t know.” She swallowed hard. No man had ever asked her that before. It was like being asked what kind of weather she would like to order for the day. Sunny, I guess…but what if other people were counting on rain? Kitsu gave her clit a quick, sharp pinch. She yelped and stared hard at him. It hadn’t hurt, but the sudden pink peal of sensation shattered her distraction. “I asked you a question.” He smirked and slid his hands over her throat, tilting her jaw toward his and bestowing a devouring, hungry kiss. He tasted so sweet, so musky, like cigarettes and pheromones, and she swore she felt the edge of pointed teeth against her tongue. Suddenly an ember of what she wanted burned in Miyako’s brain. “I want to see you,” she said. “I want to look at you.” Kitsu slid his long arms out of his leather jacket. “And if you don’t like what you see?” he teased. “Then I won’t fuck you,” she said. A wellspring of glee bubbled up inside her. If I don’t like how you look, I won’t fuck you. She thrilled at the wonder of that power. Kitsu pulled the white T-shirt over his head in a crisscrossing flash of white cotton and tan skin, and Miyako gasped. Her hands reached out to his torso with the same unconscious levitation of a child’s eager fingers to a candy dish. Most guys her age had the paunchy slouch of the desk worker, all bad food and long hours in a cubicle. Kitsu was no office worker. He had the lean and hollow torso of a day laborer. The flat muscle rippled in tight shoals under his amber skin, forming familiar constellations of bone and sinew against his ribs, his hips, the plane of his stomach. Piano-wire muscles twitched in his arms. A multicolored, ancient-style tattoo spanned his chest, an untouched gully of virgin flesh from throat to sternum dividing the picture in two. Miyako spied flame-colored foxes in the variegated swirls, their tails curling above his coffee-colored nipples, their eyes flashing green. Kitsu wedged his thumbs beneath the waistline of his jeans, but Miyako wouldn’t let him continue. She grabbed at him, wrapped her hands around the small of his back, ran her tongue over the groove of muscle spanning his navel. She felt his hands close around her hair. Her mouth searched over his body, feeling the salty tang of smooth skin against her tongue. She found the soft hollow girding ribs to hips and gave a quick, impulsive nip. He jumped in reflex, and she felt the muscles twitch all over beneath his skin. The robe was slipping off her shoulders, but she didn’t care. She pressed her chest closer to his body and felt the fabric slide off her back, exposing her naked breasts. Her nipples brushed the rough denim, and a sweet shock of pleasure telegraphed all the way to her clit. She grabbed his hands and pulled them down to her chest. He took the hint immediately and slid his palms over her nipples as she tore at the button fly of his jeans with her teeth. She had slid to the floor by now, kneeling with her legs spread in a wide, inverted V, and she could feel the evaporating air against the wet slit of her crotch. “If you don’t have a huge cock, I won’t fuck you,” she whispered, thrilling again to her choice in the matter as she unsnapped the last button. Suddenly his hands were underneath her armpits, and in one fluid move he pulled her up like a rag doll and threw her onto the bed. “I’m not even going to think about fucking you until I know you’ve had your pleasure,” he panted, standing over her. He pressed against her, burying kisses in her neck. Undeterred, she grabbed at his jeans and slid her hands down his ass, feeling for herself the hollow of tense muscle, grabbing his hips. Finally, as his fingers encircled her nipples, she drew her palm around to the front of his groin and found what she was searching for. Hot, engorged flesh jumped against her caress. He groaned and unconsciously ground into her, but kept his control. Suddenly he jumped off her and yoked his hands around her hips, pulling her down to the edge of the bed with a yank. Before she knew what was happening, his face was buried in her pussy, the rough catlike slide of his tongue gliding over the sweet spot. Miyako gasped like a drowning victim resurfacing and instinctively flexed her thighs together against his ears. Unfazed, he persisted. This was, absolutely, the first time any man had done this to her. She’d wondered about it but didn’t know how to ask, and no one seemed to care. It was more earth-shattering than she’d imagined. Her entire body was ready to melt into the bed. He drove his fingers up to the knuckles into the wet gully again, and she writhed in ecstasy. He’d found some secret spot deep inside her, and the pressure was intoxicating and uncomfortable in equal measure. She tensed. “Stop,” she whispered. “I have to pee.” “No, you don’t,” he murmured. She felt his words as hot vibrations against her clit. “Sink into it.” His fingers still curled sinuously in long, lapping strokes inside her. He was right; she didn’t have to pee. It was a sensation so new, she didn’t have words for it. She felt warmth and heat and light coil in a ball around this secret passage. The sensation consumed her, but something well trained inside her wouldn’t budge. What? He must want something. He wants me to come. I don’t know if I can. She’d been able to, once, a long time ago as a child, back when there was no moral value to the cascading ripples of pleasure that came from grinding against the hard nose of her teddy bear while everyone was asleep. But that ended the day she got caught. Her mother’s purple, enraged face flashed in her mind, and all power shut down below her navel with the speed of a catastrophic blackout. Kitsu paused midsuckle. His eyes flashed at hers knowingly over the mound of her pubic hair. He raised his face from between her thighs, and Miyako could see the glisten of her juice against his lips and chin. “You think I’m going to give up on you,” he intoned, his fingers still probing that electric spot inside her, “because you think I want instant results.” “Yes,” she relented, her face turning pink with humiliation at admitting the most vulnerable truth. She buried her face in her hands. “There is no result.” He pulled himself forward and lapped at her navel, bestowing small kisses against the tender ridge of flesh over the tuft of fur. “There’s only sensation.” “Won’t you get tired?” “Aren’t you tired already?” he countered. “Waiting years and years for someone to notice your hunger? Your power?” He was face-to-face with her now, and she could smell the lemony tang of her own scent against his lips. It wasn’t unpleasant, she had to admit. “What’s a few hours compared to a lifetime of waiting?” He smiled, a knowing smirk that melted Miyako’s reserve instantly. The childhood memory of that shrieking gorgon faded in the daylight of that smile. “Men aren’t really up to the task, are they?” She smiled. He smiled back. “They can be. But most are just lazy. Lucky you, I’m very disciplined.” He grabbed her hips, one hand on each side, and rolled her on top of him. © Violet Glaze, October 2009 All Rights Reserved