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Painted Doll ~ by M. Christian

Painted Doll: An excerpt from the novel - Chapter 2


On the banister going up, winding down the paired columns at the top, in both architectural details marching in a tightly twisting single file, preceding tails barely touching the tips of a following hissing tongue. Round and round, up and up, one lizard behind the other. Under her fingers, sliding smoothly along the silken lacquer, scales, dagger teeth, and clawed toes, were almost too precisely carved, too excellent. Their realism a soft whisper of perhaps, maybe, could-be movement.

Claire didn’t like the walk up those carpeted stairs, with their own parade of tiny reptiles woven into the border in careful golden thread, because of that banister. Didn’t like putting her hand on the smooth pillars on the upper landing, either; that long dead Malay, Indonesian, or Chinese wood carver’s art too haunting, ghostly shivers up her arm.

One step, a pause. Another, and then another, and another of each: closer to the top with each careful, controlled, ascent; each cool hiatus. Hand out, holding the railing with each rise, the woodcarvers art was just a decoration, the thing that gave the Salamander Room it’s name. Domino, not Claire.

Peak vaulted in a upward sweep of beams that seemed transported from somewhere else, the room was warm, looming to be even hot later in the day. But that was a long time to come, and the client had only paid for any hour. Two pieces of furniture, one piece of baggage: an opium bed, frayed fabric from generations of smokers, trim and tassels missing or discolored. Next to it, a high octagonal table, rosewood glowing from different generation’s use. On it, a leather satchel, low and square, showing early signs of wear at the corners but otherwise anyone’s carry-on, containing almost anything.

As Domino reached the stop, the man on the bed rolled to one side; he looked back at her, she saw him.

“K-Konichiwa,” he stammered, with a sharp dip of his chin, eyelids lowering. Young, but not a boy. Dark hair in a corporate apprentice pudding bowl, growing out in a soft bristle around the ears meaning an approaching graduation to junior salariman. A few months before a move from the dormitories to a single men’s building. Student larva cocooned before emerging as a fully-formed and valued worker.

Flowing slowly into the room, the hushing of her kimono was her only answer. A celebration then. A promise to himself, a reward for memorizing the company manual, no doubt standing in the rain, pattering ice water on his bare shoulders, and singing their anthem until his voice had cracked then broken.

Naked then, more than likely; naked now, clearly. Hairless and smooth, with nipples the color of his bloodless lips. Between his legs, no sign of a penis. Tucked between his thighs in a reflex of Japanese decorum he could have been as sexless as a bee.

“Relax,” Domino said then, without asking if he spoke her language. Eyes to what he’d hidden, his kept privates, she added: “Expose yourself. You will be uncomfortable otherwise.”

“Hai,” was the reply, order accepted, action performed. Penis revealed to her: he was white as a cloud, completely hairless testicles the size of grapes, but the color of grapefruit. Laying back on the bed, he shifted, hips to one side then the other, then arms by his hips palms held flat in tension and fear against the bones there.

“Good,” was what she said to this, even though the allure of him was lost to Claire, as well as meaningless to Domino, what she created of her. “You are ready?”

Another “Hai,” and he leaned back on the faded cloth, the threadbare patches of the priceless antique. She caught herself wanting to explain it to him, what was going to happen, but she didn’t speak. Domino wouldn’t have spoke: he knew where he was, he’d paid for an hour of her time, he understood because Madam Lu would have told him whatever he hadn’t researched himself. Besides, Domino did not explain anything to anyone. Ever.

The kit then. To it, she turned, movements precise as she imaged the machines he might some day be selling, designing, maintaining, or even working for. The zipper, then, folding it back to expose the interior to no one but herself. The brush then, and not for the first time she wanted to grin at how much it was yet how much it wasn’t like a painter’s. The mask she wore, both as Domino as also Domino’s thick white kabuki-style makeup made any revelation or exhibition impossible.

Smoothly, the glanced over the row of plastic cells, running an immaculately painted nail over the sensations each could bring to if she should choose it. An idea beginning to form, she held the brush up to her eye to better see the selector ring. A twist and she had a level, possibilities of intensities. Nail again to the cells, she flipped a few of their caps off. Two on the top row, three on the next, two on the one below, four at the bottom, and then – naturally – the lid off the releasing solution, a long trough of insulating plastic that ran along the bottom of the kit.

“Your eyes –“ Words careful and crisp.

“Y-yes?” They were open and wide, showing brown irises.

“Close them.”

“Yes. I will.” Then they did, and with them a slow, hissing breath as he pushed his body his body even more to release his virginally nervous tension.

“We begin.” Brush to the first cell, she studiously dipped it’s hazy tip into the solution, indistinct from hairs nothing more than twists and curls of carbon molecules, then reaching from where she stood by the side of the bed, she painted a thin, faintly yellowish inch stripe just below his heart.

Not a hiss then, instead from him a quivering gasp, an edged intake of alarmed air. Tightened muscles, strained tendons, his body arched and his fair hands tightened, nearly into fists.

#

Not like music, that was too touching. Domino did not touch. Her brush might, but her body did not. Not like a machine, that was too cold. A voice like that her clients could get what they wanted over the net. If she could use a British accent she’d have used that, but she couldn’t so she didn’t. Instead, Domino spoke in a stately, controlled tone. She-did-not-use-contractions. Each and every word had an essential weight, an important taste, a vital color, an indispensable sound, a crucial aroma – as important if not more than the neuroscopic brew on her monomolecular brush.

“You are at work. You are an important man, high on the ladder. Your office has a window that looks out over the city. Your chair is a nice one, as comfortable as your position.” The bite of high quality plastics in his sinuses, the sun’s warm expression on his face, the buzz and hum of business life -- tricks generated by the assemblers in the kit, as stroked on his alabaster chest by her precisely adjusted instrument. But also Domino’s voice, Domino’s words.

“They all bow to you, the men in your division. They call you sempai, and come to you for advice and guidance. The woman in your office bow to you as well, but their eyes also linger on you as they do so. Eyesight hanging on your body as they bring their eyes down.” A new mixture on the brush, a new stripe on his thin chest. This time his reaction was one of cooing pleasure, the complex magic being a whisper of perfume, the hushed smoothness of underwear cotton, the inflation of respect, and the chocolate aroma of brewing coffee.

“Maki, her name is. New to your division, a transfer from headquarters. She is to be an executive secretary. You meet her on the first day of her arrival, your mutual greetings deferential, cordial. You note that her appearance is immaculate, a business woman’s suit, finely polished shoes. You also note that under the blue suit, beneath the smoothness of her skirt, her body is rich and full and tight. But she is an executive secretary, and these thoughts and images of her vanish from your mind the moment that she says that she is grateful for the opportunity to work with you.” A different pattern on his skin, this one her brush bringing the growling purr of her voice, the dance of this woman’s pupils as she looks at him, the slight curl at the corners of a sensual pair of lips.

“Your work together is satisfactory. She is an excellent employee: intelligent, aware of her position and your authority, pleasant without being frivolous. You enjoy her company, but not just for her efficiency. You find her attractive. Very much so. You watch her as she moves, imaging the weight of her breasts. The possible colors and shapes of her nipples. The smoothness of her belly. The firmness of her thighs. The strength of her posterior. The plushness of her pudentia. The lushness of her hair below her waist. But you say nothing, do nothing. You are aware of who you are and who she is.” The glossy sheen of aroused skin. The tender rubber of provoked flesh. The ocean wave of a woman’s arousal. The mass of breast, the tension of muscles.

On the bed, his own body responds. The erection is a gently bobbing sign of his approval of the scene, a sign she wishes she could recognize with a smile. But Domino does not, only continues:

“You try not to think of her. You avoid her. The temptation, you understand, would be too great. You do not even fantasize as you masturbate, instead you concentrate on other, anonymous, women to whom you pretend you would want to fornicate. But every day while you are at work and she should happen to be nearby, or even when she simply walks by, you cannot think of anything but her, and the litany of activities you would want to do with her, that she would do to you – and even what you would do together.” This time the brush brings him frustration, knotted muscles, gritted teeth, fists, narrowed eyes, a bitter taste in the mouth. Denied, starved, unused his erection seemed even more determined, the veins standing out loudly along the length of his shaft.

“Then one day, when you are working late, you go to the place where the keep the paper files … the file room. Opening the door, you see that she is there as well. The room is long, and empty except for metal filing cabinets. She is at one end, you are at the other. You are standing in the open doorway, she is bending over, examining the contents of a lower drawer. You think about leaving, but for some reason you do not. Instead, you close the door behind you and cough, politely, to let her know that you are there.” The smell of dusty paper, and her perfume. The touch of the doorknob in his hand, but also his sweat slippery on the metal. The taste of nervousness in his mouth, but also his thundering arousal. The pings, whirrs, and architectural sighs of an office at night behind him, but also the soft sounds of her dress in front of him.

“You know … that she knows. That much is without question. You know what you want. Even though you have denied yourself the specifics it has been in the nights of your mind for a very long time: to be in a room like that, to have her in a position like that, to lower your zipper, to extract your penis, to lift her skirt, lower her hose and panties, to take her – to slide yourself into her wetness, her supple warmth. To … fuck her, hard and passionately. To push yourself and hear her cries and moans of mutual pleasure. But that is the fantasy. You do not do it. The company says you should not, and so you cannot.” The mixture this time was frustration distilled, boiled like the orgasm bottled in his testicles. A streak of aqua down his belly that made his mouth open and a low, groaning plea in a wordless language escape. But that was the only thing that could and did escape. Corked and bluish red, his penis looked like it might strain itself from a dire need to release.

“You are about to leave, to turn and walk out. No matter that she feels the same. No matter that she wants you just as you want her. Regulations must be obeyed, the company … is… a… harsh …. mistress. But before you can leave the room, she brings out hand around behind herself, and deftly takes hold of the bottom seam of her dress, pinching the fabric tightly between her fingers. You watch. Then she begins to slowly lift. Without looking back, she brings the bottom of her skirt higher and higher and higher still. You watch. The materials slides up her calves, up her thighs. You watch, expecting the shimmer of hose, the white decorum of lace or cotton panties. You do not see that.” The brush this time brings all the shades of skin, all the smells of arousal – both his as well as hers – as well as the sounds of her clothing, the feeling of both of his erections, the one from her telling and the one connecting to his body, as they throbbed and demanded.

“You see instead her bare skin, and it is the best skin you have ever seen in your life. The shape of her, the roundness, the firmness, the tightness of her is a remarkable sight. But that it not what only what you see. Because, as you watch and watch and watch, your eyes and your arousal the only parts of your body that seem to exist, you see that because of her position, and the shape of her, that between the gently perspiring globes of her, you see the twin seams of her shaven sex. Pink, and white, plush and glossy with her clear and apparent arousal. Then the woman named Maki, who you may see but may never, ever touch, carefully pulls her skirt back down over her body and goes back to her filing. But in her demure and cool covering you know and agree with her unspoken promise that while you may never touch, there are other – many other -- ways for her and you. Many, many other ways.”

The last drop she selected, from the last cell in her kit, she withheld, holding her brush a few inches from the quivering bulb of his penis. Listening to his whistling breath, with a background of groaning pain, watching his hands clench the antique fabric of the opium bed, the bite of his sweat in the still air, Domino waited until she felt he could not control himself much longer – then she let a single drop of the neuroscopic compound fall onto that most sensitive part of his painfully aroused body.

Screaming, yelling, thrashing in a body liberation, his eyes opened wide, pupils nothing but tiny punctuations. His arms and legs kicked and flailed, so much so that Domino too a stately step backwards unless he should touch her. A beat, then two, then three as his obviously quaking heart and his breaths became more regular, less ragged, his vision blinking back to stable and clear.

When he reclaimed enough of himself to be able to sit up, Domino moved to her kit, beginning the tea ceremony of cleaning her brush in the releasing solution, then returning it to it’s holding slot. Once there, she zipped the case shut, tapping it’s worn leather surface with a single nail – a ritual appearing old and traditional, yet born that very instant.

When he’d reclaimed even more of himself to be able to stand up, she nodded a polite bow to him, the client, and said, her voice even more cool, even more immaculate, as Domino: “The session has concluded. Someone will be here shortly to assist you in preparing leave.”

Picking up her kit, she turned and went to the landing -- then down the stairs. Claire may not have liked the sensation of the lizards under her hand, but it Domino who descended, one careful foot in front of the other.

And it was Domino who heard, but who made no sign of hearing, the client back up in the Salamander room say in a quavering and quivering voice of shock and awe: “Arigatou … Arigatou ….”

#

Home. Night and home. Dinner finished, its instant packages in the trash, labels and foamed packages already fading and melting in a ecologically-sensitive way. Curry and the mysterious fish smelling up with apartment. The food wasn’t good, but it’s disintegration was oddly entertaining.

Home. Late at night and home. Outside, the city moved quietly about it’s business. Sitting by the window, looking beyond the courtyard, through the narriw space between buildings, she played a game for a few minutes. That dark figure was a jewel thief with the countess’s jewels hidden in a secret compartment of his thick coat. That old woman was actually a private detective shadowing the crook. That drunk man was … actually just a drunk man, bent over and throwing up his last meal, a heaving splatter into the gutter reaching her from even across the street and up three floors.

Hesitating. Didn’t know why, exactly. But she was, and realizing she didn’t want to anymore. To her desk, then, making herself comfortable, first. Adjusting herself for a letter.

Miss you, she began to type. It was the way she always started. Been thinking a lot about you. Hope things have settled down for you there. Things are okay here, getting to know the ropes and all that. And yes, you can laugh at that. It was a joke.

I miss the way you smell. Is that okay to say? I should have kept something of yours, just so I could smell it. I really should have ….

… I’ve been thinking of that summer. You know the one I mean, the one where we rented that cottage near Fuji. It was hot, and all we seemed to do was find ways to stay cool. During the day I mean. At night all we did was take walks, and make love. I miss you. I remember one night, cooler than the others, I think. You were standing by the window, looking out at the little town. I think you’d said something about a place that wasn’t asleep but instead the town never really woke up. I know you knew I was watching you, because without turning around you lifted your skirt up. You weren’t wearing panties, just your base ass and sweet quim showing. You were sweaty, but I don’t think that was the only reason your were so sweet and wet that night …

… we made love. We made love a lot, I know. But that time there was something else about it. I guess ‘cause it was so hot we couldn’t really go at it very hard, so we had to take it slow and easy. It seemed to take forever for each of us to come. You first, I remember that because I was between your thighs and your hands in my hair. When you came you pulled so hard it hurt! It even hurt the next day. I remember when it was my turn you didn’t me. Instead you just stood up and made me play with myself while I looked at your ass as you posed all over the room. By the chair, bending over, at the end of the bed, as you ran your hands uup and down your back. When I came I screamed, so loud that you had to stick a sock in my mouth or the manager would have come knocking. We laughed so hard after that ….

… I miss you. Write when you can. I love you, was what she wrote, an hour later. It was the way she always ended her letters. “I love you,” was also what Claire said, as she touched a laser-projected symbol, the bright red signet for send.

It was only after, seeing herself reflected in her bathroom mirror, that she’d forgotten to remove her makeup. The woman looking back at her was white, immobile, and immaculate – except where the geisha doll white was running from her tears.



Read the entire novel, "Painted Doll: An Erotist’s Tale" by M. Christian.

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