Blood on the Chrysanthemum
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 1: The Forging
Historical Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Forging - A fictional tale of the legendary female samurai Tomoe Gosen A tale of brutal revenge, forbidden love, and the true meaning of bushido. Three women will claim their freedom with sword, gold, and courage.
Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Romantic Polygamy/Polyamory Oriental Female First Oral Sex Petting Revenge Violence
Yoshida, Mikawa Province, Autumn, 1589
Kiku was seven years old the first time her father struck her.
She stood in the training yard behind the Fujioka estate, dawn mist still clinging to the ground. The wooden practice sword felt impossibly heavy in her small hands. Her father, Fujioka Motonari, stood before her—a wall of muscle and iron discipline, his arms crossed, his face as unyielding as temple stone.
“Hold it higher,” he said.
She raised the bokken, arms trembling with the effort.
“Higher.”
Her shoulders burned. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back. Crying was weakness. Weakness was unacceptable.
“I said higher.”
She lifted the practice sword as high as she could manage. Her arms shook violently now.
Her father’s hand shot out—not to help, but to strike the bokken from her grip. It clattered to the ground. Before she could process what happened, his open palm cracked across her cheek, snapping her head to the side.
“When I give an instruction, you obey it. Completely. Without hesitation. Without failure.” His voice was cold, measured. “Pick it up.”
Kiku’s cheek burned. Her eyes watered from the impact, but she didn’t cry. She bent down, small fingers wrapping around the bokken’s handle, and straightened.
“Again,” her father said. “And this time, do not disappoint me.”
Behind him, in the shadow of the estate’s engawa, her brother Oda watched in silence. He was twelve, already training for five years. His expression revealed nothing—not sympathy, not satisfaction. Just observation.
Kiku raised the bokken. Her arms began to shake almost immediately.
“You will hold that position until I tell you otherwise,” her father said. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the estate.
She stood there, arms extended, as the sun climbed higher. The mist burned off. Her shoulders screamed. Her hands cramped around the wooden grip. She wanted to lower her arms, wanted to rest, wanted to run inside and find her mother.
But she didn’t.
When she finally collapsed two hours later, the bokken falling from her nerveless fingers, Oda was there to catch her before she hit the ground.
“Get up,” he said, his voice flat. “Father will return soon.”
Day Two
Her arms wouldn’t stop shaking. Even at breakfast, her hands trembled as she tried to hold her rice bowl. Her mother said nothing, eyes downcast, serving tea with practiced silence.
When dawn came, Kiku could barely lift the bokken.
Her father stood in the yard, waiting.
“You’re late,” he said, though she wasn’t. “Hold it. Higher than yesterday.”
She raised the practice sword. Every muscle fiber screamed in protest. Within minutes, tears streamed down her face—not from sadness now, but from pure physical agony.
“Tears are weakness,” her father said. “Weakness invites death.”
She held the position for ninety minutes before her arms gave out.
This time when the bokken fell, her father’s foot lashed out, catching her in the ribs. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough that she gasped, the air driven from her lungs.
“Again.”
Day Three
Blisters had formed on her palms where the bokken rubbed. They burst during the morning drill, fluid mixing with blood. Her father noticed but said nothing.
Oda approached her during the midday rest—if ten minutes of sitting in the shade could be called rest.
“You grip it wrong,” he said, crouching beside her. His hands were rough, callused from years of training. He took her small, damaged hands in his and repositioned her fingers. “Like this. The pain will be less.”
It wasn’t kindness. It was instruction. But it was the closest thing to gentleness she’d experienced in three days.
“Why?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Why does he—”
“Because you’re a girl,” Oda interrupted. “He knows the world will be twice as hard on you. So he must be three times as hard. If you’re going to survive as a samurai, you can’t just be good. You have to be flawless.”
He stood and walked away.
That afternoon, she held the bokken for three hours.
Day Five
Her hands no longer looked like a child’s hands. The blisters had evolved into raw, weeping wounds. She wrapped them in cloth before training, but the fabric quickly soaked through with blood and lymph.
Her father introduced footwork.
“Hold the sword. Now step forward. Left foot, then right. Maintain your guard. Do not lower your arms.”
She moved through the kata—the formal sequence of movements—like a puppet with tangled strings. Every step was agony. Every moment the bokken remained raised was a small war between will and flesh.
When she stumbled, failing to maintain her guard, her father’s bamboo switch struck the back of her legs.
She learned quickly to anticipate his displeasure, to read the subtle shift in his stance that preceded punishment. She learned to move through pain, to ignore her body’s desperate pleas for rest.
By evening, she couldn’t remember what it felt like not to hurt.
Day Seven
A week. Seven days that felt like seven years.
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