Blood on the Chrysanthemum
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 2
Historical Sex Story: Chapter 2 - 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, 1592
At ten years old, Kiku could hold a handstand for an hour without wavering.
She stood inverted in the training yard, her small body perfectly vertical, fingers splayed against the packed earth for balance. Sweat ran down her forehead—or up, from this perspective—but her arms didn’t shake. Four years of training had turned her body into something harder, leaner, more controlled than any child’s body should be.
Her father walked around her in a slow circle, examining her form.
“Your left shoulder is dropping,” he said.
She adjusted, feeling the minute shift in her weight distribution.
“Better. Another thirty minutes.”
He walked away.
Oda approached after their father had gone, crouching down to look at her upside-down face.
“Breathe through your nose,” he said quietly. “Long breaths. It helps with the dizziness.”
She followed his advice. The world stopped spinning quite so badly.
“Why does he make me do this?” she asked, her voice strained.
Oda glanced toward the house, making sure their father was out of earshot. “Because balance isn’t just physical. It’s mental. If you can hold this position while your blood pounds in your head and your arms scream, you can hold your focus in any situation. In battle, when you’re exhausted, when you’re injured, when everything is chaos—you’ll remember this moment and know you can endure.”
It was the most explanation he’d ever offered.
“Does it help?” she asked. “Knowing why?”
“Sometimes.” He stood. “Twenty-eight minutes left.”
But before he walked away, he added: “You’re doing well, little sister. Better than I was at your age.”
It was the closest thing to praise she’d received in four years.
Three months later - Winter
“Today,” her father announced, “you begin training with the yumi.”
The bow stood nearly as tall as she did, elegant and deadly. Made from bamboo and wood, it curved in a distinctive asymmetric shape—shorter below the grip, longer above. The string was taut hemp, the arrows fletched with eagle feathers.
“The yumi requires absolute stillness,” her father said. “Any tension in your body will travel through the bow and corrupt your aim. You must become empty. Calm. The arrow knows where to go—your job is simply not to interfere.”
He demonstrated, drawing the bow with fluid grace. The arrow sang through the air and buried itself in the center of the distant target.
“Now you.”
Kiku lifted the bow. It was heavier than she’d expected, the draw weight substantial. She nocked an arrow, trying to mimic her father’s stance.
“Your breathing is wrong,” he said immediately. “Your grip is too tight. Your shoulders are tense. Lower the bow.”
She did.
“Why do you think the yumi is important?” he asked.
It was a trap. She could feel it. But she’d learned that answering was better than silence.
“Because ... it allows you to kill from a distance?”
His hand struck her across the face so fast she didn’t see it coming. She staggered, the bow falling from her hands.
“Never answer a question when you don’t know the answer,” he said coldly. “Guessing is for fools who value speech over truth. If you don’t know, say ‘I don’t know, Father.’ Nothing more.”
Her cheek burned. Blood trickled from her split lip.
“Pick up the bow,” he continued as if nothing had happened. “The yumi is important because it teaches you that power without control is worthless. Any fool can loose an arrow. A samurai makes the arrow find its target through perfect harmony of body, mind, and spirit. Now. Again.”
She practiced with the yumi every day for two months before her father declared her “barely adequate.”
During that time, her body began changing in ways she didn’t understand. Her chest hurt sometimes, tender swellings beneath her training wraps. Her mother had taken her aside one evening and explained, with clinical efficiency, that she was becoming a woman. That more changes would come.
Kiku hated it. Her body was supposed to be a tool, a weapon. These changes felt like betrayal.
“Bind them,” her mother said, offering cloth wraps. “Your father won’t ... it’s better if they’re not obvious.”
So Kiku bound her chest every morning, compressing the small buds until they were nearly invisible beneath her training clothes. It hurt, but she was used to hurt.
What troubled her more was the realization that her body was doing something without her permission, without her control. Even here, in this most intimate space, she had no choice about what she would become.
Spring - Age 11
“You will hunt today,” her father announced one morning.
Oda was already preparing, checking his bow, selecting arrows. Their father gestured for Kiku to do the same.
“A samurai must know how to track, how to move silently through terrain, how to take a life cleanly,” he said. “We hunt deer in the mountains above Yoshida. You will each kill one. We return when the task is complete.”
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