Chapter 9: Konomi and Emiko

This can be read and enjoyed as a stand-alone story, but deeper character depth and the effects of the plots, rivalries, twists and turns will be found by reading the chapters in order.

I had a problem. Two problems, actually, and both of them were currently eyeing each other across the table in the ex-Kempeitai night club I now owned and had Konomi managing for me, and which was proving to be a financial success. It had been quick thinking on my part, even for me, to obtain ownership. After the events of Chp. 8, which ended with my good old boys USA MPs bursting in and saving me, my brain went into overdrive.

After some CIA agents I had phoned arrived and contacted HQ, I had it sorted out. The CIA had just started in 1947, so were still looking for quick results to justify their existence and increase their budget allocation. They were happy I called them and not the military, and I sold them the idea of keeping it open so they could trap any ex Kenpeitai ultra nationalist members or prospective new members who attended not knowing it had been closed. As the man who had discovered and infiltrated the club, and of course I didn’t disclose that I was dealing with them illegally, I was the obvious person to run it for them as a honeypot to trap existing or potential new members. Ownership also gave me the time to clear out their hidden gold taken from the countries they overran in their initial conquests of the Pacific War.

But back to my troubles. On my left sat Emiko, the widow who was the key to my Japanese stock exchange holdings, as they needed to be owned by a Japanese citizen. She was wrapped in a pale-gold kimono embroidered with silver cranes that clung to her slim frame and made her look like an Edo-era mannequin display at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art’s world-class Asian art wing that had come to life. However, her normal cool composure was starting to fray at the seams as she and Konomi s traded barbs, both only recently having found out about the other.

We were in the fine dining restaurant I had acquired, and I know it was fine dining as the ingredients were from the Officers mess where I had exchanged them for goods of, let us say, lesser quality and provenance. On my right sat Konomi, the Sakurakai Okiya Club’s sex worker who I now had running the club, as she had saved my life by tripping the katana-wielding ex-Kempeitai Captain Endo. She was wearing a two-piece suit that a dressmaker had butchered into something obscene, even for the Tokyo sex clubs at that time: the skirt ended at a scandalous mid-thigh, the jacket gaped open over bare skin with no blouse underneath, and at certain angles it was obvious she had nothing whatsoever beneath the skirt. The staff were getting an eyeful of her thick, solid thighs and the occasional flash of her hairless, damp cunt every time she shifted in her chair. So was I.

Normally being between two women, especially when they are nude, and you are all on bed is a marvellous way to keep warm in the depths of winter, but not now. The tension between the two women was thick enough to cut with a bayonet, something I was an expert in. Back in New Guinea in 1942 when the Japs invaded, I had an Owen Mark 1 10-inch one as it was more suited to jungle warfare than the standard 17-inch Aussie issue bayonet, though I only used it in anger to open tins of bully beef.

It was what I supposedly used in my version of fleeing from the Japs as they advanced. The report I told had me in my bloodlust cutting my way through to HQ with the message that we had been overrun, not that I had simply cut and run. The public in Australia needed hope, and my recollection of 15 Japanese dispatched single-handedly helped the war effort. I am pleased that official research later increased it to 28 confirmed. My only worry was that they would find my Owen submachine gun I had thrown away so I could run faster and its serial number would identify me.

Now I knew from long experience that when two bitches circle the same bone, either you let them fight or they wreck your dining room, so I didn’t interfere. I let Emiko pour sake for me, as she had learned quickly that managing my Japanese share portfolio also meant managing all my appetites, and she played the role of a demure widow like a virtuoso. But I saw her dark eyes flick downward to Konomi’s exposed legs and saw the cold calculation in her pupils as she assessed the competition.

She didn’t want competition and knew Konomi represented everything she was not: a coarse slutiness, public exhibitionism, and an unstated promise of sexual depravity that kept the ex-Kempeitai club whore loyal to me. Konomi, as usual, was less subtle. She had her bare foot on my cock under the table, stroking me through my uniform trousers with her toes in a way that made me grunt into my Scotch, while she glared at Emiko with naked hatred. Her message was clear: this prick is mine, and you are only a book-keeper.

“Major,” Emiko said softly, controlling her hatred so her voice her voice was like honey slipping down your throat, and I knew from experience that was not all that her throat accepted, pretending Konomi was no threat, “As we discussed in bed two days ago, I have reinvested half of Bandai sale into the Orient Watch shares, and the remainder is sitting in the nominee account ready for OUR next acquisition.”

“How absolutely thrilling,” Konomi sneered, her working-class accent the opposite to Emiko’s cultured Geisha-like tones. She leant forward deliberately, letting her jacket fall open to expose her small, firm tits with their dark, hardened nipples. “While you manage bits of paper, I keep the Major’s real business flowing. I fuck the men who run the companies whose share papers you file, and I break the women who entertain them and have the energy to satisfy him.”

Emiko’s smile did not reach her eyes. “I am sure your contributions are noted in the appropriate ledger, under sundries and miscellaneous, Miss Takinishi.”

The warm sake arrived, served in a ceramic flask that looked centuries older than the occupation. Emiko reached to pour, and somehow, the flask tipped. Warm liquid cascaded down her own chest, soaking the silk of her kimono until the pale-gold fabric became transparent and clung to her small, hard tits. Her dark nipples were visible as clearly as if she were naked, the wet silk outlining every curve of her lean torso and the shape of her prominent cunt. She gasped, a sound that was half surprise, half theatre, and her hands fluttering up in mock distress.

“Oh, Major,” she breathed, “I am so clumsy.”

I took my time reaching for a napkin, enjoying the view. Emiko’s chest was heaving, making the wet fabric outline every detail of her lean frame and highlight the small, perfect swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the dark shadow of her cunt hair visible through the soaked silk where the kimono had parted. I made a mental note to remind her to shave down there, like the women on the 8mm blue movies I watched. I dabbed at her breasts slowly, my thumbs lingering on the stiff nipples, rolling them through the transparent fabric while she kept her eyes lowered in mock shame and Konomi watched with murder in her eyes.

“Allow me,” I said, and made sure Konomi observed every second of my hands on Emiko’s body. That was when the under-table war began in earnest.

Konomi slid her hand beneath the tablecloth, and it replaced her foot on my cock and worked it with a roughness that made me shudder. Her fingers were strong from years of giving handjobs, and she squeezed me like she was trying to extract information like the Kempeitai but using a different method. Emiko disappeared below the table, and then I felt the familiar warmth of her skilled mouth enveloping me. She sucked me deep while I tried to maintain a polite expression for the nearby waiter. Konomi’s hand was still on my shaft, competing with Emiko’s tongue, and the sensation of the two women fighting over my cock under a table was almost enough to make me forget the occupation would soon be ending.

Then Konomi dialled it up to 11. She reached further under the table, found Emiko’s arse as she knelt on the carpet under the table, and forced two thick fingers into her cunt from behind without warning or lubrication. I felt Emiko’s mouth gag around me and her rhythm faltered as she grunted in shock. To her credit, she did not stop sucking, just simply adjusted, taking me deeper into her throat while Konomi’s fingers pumped roughly into her from behind.

The table rocked and a sake cup tipped over, spilling its contents onto the cloth. Konomi was on a mission, grabbing Emiko by the hair, pulling her away from and forcing her face into her own pussy, smearing her sex juices across Emiko’s lips and chin.

“Clean it, you cold bitch,” Konomi hissed as she forced Emiko’s face into her slit, “Clean my cum and taste a real woman.”

Emiko surfaced, her face flushed crimson, lips wet with her saliva and Konomi’s wetness. Her eyes were dark with humiliation and anger as she watched Konomi trying to climb onto my lap, her skirt riding up to expose her bare, dripping cunt, and her thick thighs spreading as she prepared to mount me as I sat on my chair, cock erect.

Emiko snapped. She lunged across the table and seized Konomi by the hair, yanking her back with a sharp cry. “You filthy animal,” Emiko snarled, her composure finally cracking. “You will not disrespect me.”

Konomi snarled like the wild animal she was and exploded. She seized Emiko’s kimono collar with both hands and dragged her bodily across the table. The two of them crashed through plates of raw fish, sending soy sauce flying and hot miso soup scalding across their thighs. They rolled through the wreckage of porcelain and sliced tuna to shatter the ceramic sake flask on the floor.

They were a study of contrasts as they struggled on the table. Konomi was solid and thick-thighed, and her heavier frame immediately pinned Emiko down so that she could grind her pelvis against the smaller woman’s lean hips. Emiko was slim and flexible as a whip, and her small breasts bounced as she arched and twisted, trying to escape from the body on top.

Konomi tore Emiko’s expensive, delicate kimono open to leave her completely naked, displaying her small, dark-nippled tits, flat stomach and the black hair covering her cunt. Emiko retaliated by raking her nails down Konomi’s back, leaving four parallel red welts that immediately began to bead with blood. Konomi howled and sank her teeth into Emiko’s shoulder, biting hard enough to leave a purple bruise.

“Whore!” Emiko screamed, her voice pitched high with pain and rage. “Filthy, uneducated whore!”

“Prissy cunt!” Konomi roared back, her thick fingers grabbing Emiko’s small tits and twisting the nipples viciously. “I’ll fuck your stuck-up superiority out of you!”