Chapter Text
~~~~~~~~~~
I love spring.
It's not just the abundance of flowers that gladdens my heart.
The birdsong is so lovely.
And the variety of fruits is so rich.
It's the cherry blossoms that I adore so much.
For these beautiful plants carry the color of love within them.
They fill everyone who is fascinated by them with blissful happiness.
Because when the crowns of the trees blossom in pink, they make me forget.
Where I am.
When the warm wind sweeps through the branches.
When the soft rustling floats around the leaves like waves.
When a shower of pink petals pours down and sinks silently to the ground.
That is the melody of harmony.
The song of the cherry blossoms.
Which revives my soul.
Because then I forget.
Who I am.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So the slender hand laid down the quill pen.
The handle was so old and worn that the black lacquer on the bony wood cracked.
So often had it been used.
It had once been a magnificent writing instrument, but after many years it had lost its luster.
Yet the rose gold nib still seemed intact.
At least intact enough that writing with it felt like gliding through honey.
These were the words of a young girl who, in her innocence, had entered the old house where deep desires were the order of the day.
Writing was always her companion and comforted her on difficult days. When tears got the better of her, they were dried.
And it brought a smile back to her lips.
This girl was a loud one.
Cheerful and boisterous.
A creature that was taken hunting.
Who cut her own hair and came home in the evening with bruises.
But when she crossed the threshold of this house, knowing she would never return, the once cheerful girl lost her smile.
She buried it under a hard shell of makeup and silk.
After all the shameful deeds that had corrupted her body, she had forgotten how to do it.
Until finally, all that remained was a lonely heart with countless cracks.
For she was sold and left in the care of a strange woman.
In a house of adult pleasures.
A place of lustful desire.
A place of sex, alcohol, and secrets.
But that was all in the past now.
The years passed and the young girl grew into a woman at the age of twenty-nine.
With her graceful gait and her always beautiful appearance, she had caught the attention of noble men.
Or so they called themselves.
Her hair was as black as ebony and her skin as white as porcelain.
Flawless and pure.
With her sapphire blue eyes and pastel pink lips, the new attraction drew countless visitors.
With carefully chosen words that sounded sweet as sugar, she brought forth coins and bills.
For she also had intelligence.
She could inspire people with stories and thus won the hearts of many men.
Men she did not want at all.
Because the game of love was too false for her.
Uncomfortable and too restrictive.
Too complicated and full of lies.
To deceive souls.
To forget or to be forgotten.
It was difficult for her to accept this until she learned to master the game.
To rule and dominate in it.
Because refusal was not an option.
She had no choice but to adapt.
But she learned quickly in order to survive. Sacrificed her innocence in order to grow.
After more than ten years of offering up her body, she finally held the reins.
As far as was possible with the golden chains that bound her to this place, she had gained her own empire and was now self-determined.
And so her story began in this dusty book.
In this place of oblivion.
Which became a home for her.
So the delicate hand picks up the quill again and makes the first stroke.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"People are strange."
That was the thought that had always accompanied me.
A phrase that occupied my mind from time to time and that I dedicated to my fellow sufferers on gloomy days.
As I did on this day.
"I know."
Sighed the young woman next to me, who had strikingly silky hair.
Smooth and growing almost to the backs of her knees, it shone as deep black as pure silk, which in those days only nobles wore.
It was her trademark, always asked for when this woman was ordered.
"The bluebell with the silky hair."
Her title and her self-chosen name were known throughout the neighborhood.
And this woman, standing next to me in a wine-red kimono, letting bill after bill slide through her fingers to count them, has been by my side since the first day I entered this house.
Because we girls were sold together to the old lady, who raised us from that day on and called herself our mother.
She taught us everything.
From tying our shoes to sewing.
From putting on makeup to dancing.
From mastering instruments to never forgetting poems.
Just like a mother did, only she went beyond that in her teachings.
She showed us everything in detail, right down to the movements she had to master in order to serve one of the guests, please him, and earn money.
Since it was our duty as young girls to play the game of love, we had no choice but to learn.
Because we - girls who were far too young, barely ten years old - were known to be the most profitable.
The business of innocence, which was so popular among the upper class.
As I heard, one of the highest prices was paid for my innocence at the time.
This also applied to my friend, who had always stood at the bar at the entrance to welcome guests since she came of age.
Because the first glance inside was decisive in determining whether or not to enter this establishment.
A nice figurehead, which she had come to terms with.
It was better than waiting in her room every day for the "gracious gentlemen."
As she always called them with a sarcastic undertone.
Their grace consisted of mounting her like cattle.
Words she chose herself, proving that she was only nice to look at.
Because her mouth was out of this world. That was exactly what made her charming to me.
"Argh, damn it, Kagome!"
She scolded and let the wine-red color I had made for her from cherries crack on her lips.
"What's wrong, Kikyō?"
"Is something missing from yesterday's takings again?"
I asked, brushing a strand of hair back into my bun, which was held in place by two lacquered chopsticks.
Pink paper flowers were arranged around it.
"Yes, a bill is missing!" "I bet that little brat Kaede stole it again!" "If I catch her, then...!"
She raised her fist threateningly.
Although everyone here knew that these were just empty platitudes. Because this woman named Kikyo may have had harsh words, but her heart was so gentle that it beat for an orphan.
"Oh, come on, we did that back then too."
"Do you remember how you wanted to run away from here with me at some point to have a house in the forest?"
I said, taking my elbows off the counter.
"Hah, but we were smarter than that, so no one ever noticed!"
Kikyo laughed loudly.
"God, we were just kids back then." "But maybe one day, when I've saved up enough money."
As I walked away quietly to get back to work, she smiled secretly at me.
Part of the job was waiting.
Until a man appeared who wanted to avail himself of my services.
It wasn't always sex, as some might assume.
Serving tea, dancing, singing, and playing innocent games were also part of my duties.
And when parties were held, I had to ensure a good atmosphere, dressed up nicely.
However, I was not paid.
The money we earned belonged to the house.
Because we belonged to it.
I was sold because my grandfather fell into debt when his only son went to war and never returned.
It was only in later years that I understood his grief, but as a child I had felt only anger.
But that was something I could only understand after more than ten years of brooding.
Now, at that age, I could be a mother myself if I weren't in chains at this point.
"Oh, and Kagome."
Kikyō said before I disappeared.
"The cherry blossom season has begun."
"I know."
I turned back to her in my green kimono with purple ends on the sleeves and flowers of the same color on it, nodded cheerfully, and then continued on my way.
It was the most beautiful time of the year, in my opinion.
The time when the cherry blossoms began to bloom. They sent their petals to the ground in a pink shower and enchanted lovers.
Only I had not yet found love.
I never knew what love felt like.
As I always liked to do, my fingers brushed over the red curtain that led to the long corridor. Doors lined it like a string of pearls on beauties. Behind each door, an oiran waited to be chosen.
Because every customer and every banknote could be the ticket to freedom, to get out of here.
Even though we were fellow sufferers and felt almost like sisters, we were still competitors.
It was like a race against time that had no end. But even though they all claimed they wanted to get out of here, none of them knew what would happen afterwards.
After what happened in these rooms, no man would marry her.
Children were therefore not an option at that time without a husband.
Because a woman alone with a child who depended on her would never have worked.
She would not have been able to work, because the child could never be left alone.
Without a family home to take on this role, it was pointless and all hope was lost.
As my finger traced the red walls, which were covered with soft paper to make them look particularly elegant, I let my thoughts drift.
For this establishment, as it called itself, was a high-class brothel of the finest kind.
"The House of Flowers" was written above the entrance, which is how it was known.
At least I was spared having to stand on the street or offer myself in a moldy room.
But I was lucky in my misfortune.
If you wanted to call it that.
I was a high-class prostitute.
An oiran.
A well-known one, even.
For my name was associated with a magnificent voice and skin as soft as cotton blossoms.
I was known for my eyes, which were as blue as sapphires, and my lips, which were as delicate as rose petals.
At least, that's what our mother Tsubaki once told me.
I had never heard it myself.
I was Cherry, the oiran with porcelain skin.
It was a macabre feeling to repeat that myself if someone had asked me.
But no one did.
I was only supposed to be pretty to look at or sound adorable when I faked an orgasm.
Because when I was honest with myself, I had to admit that I had never experienced a real orgasm. Except through my own hands, of course.
My hand wandered over the relief engraved into the paper. It was something I had always loved, even though it often got me beaten with a stick. While I could hear moaning behind some doors.
Perfectly rehearsed and practiced.
Because it was an art in itself to make a sound that sounded so bitterly desperate for more and at the same time begged for mercy. It made these men believe that they had succeeded, that this woman was burning like hell.
I continued walking down the long corridor, which always seemed endless to me. To get to my room at the end.
My room.
My home, where I could be who I wanted to be.
And no one could boss me around there.
It was my kingdom.
Where I made the rules.
Past endless doors, where I had occasionally peeked through a crack to catch a glimpse of a shiny bare bottom.
Now I reached my blood-red door.
With a glance back, I disappeared into my kingdom, which smelled so sweetly of cherries.
For it wasn't just the blossoms that had grown so dear to my heart. The red fruits were also my constant companions.
Then I sat down on the cushion laid out on the floor to take off the hair ornament that was weighing down my head.
It consisted of a golden comb, pink paper cherry blossoms, and matching white bells that tinkled softly with every step I took.
With a weary sigh, I let my kimono slip from my shoulders, revealing the sin I had committed against my body.
Despite all the warnings, I had something immortalized on my oh-so-flawless skin.
In a moment of passion, courage seized me and I forgot the consequences. I sneaked out at night and visited the artist Kōtatsu, who tattooed men, to give me something that no one could take away from me once it was done.
I gave myself a gift in the form of a bony branch. It was dotted with my beloved cherry blossoms and ran across half of my back. It ran over one shoulder blade down to my slim waist and spilled out into individual petals on my round buttocks. One blossom remained on one buttock and a few individual petals remained on my shoulder.
At the lower end of the branch, a young woman formed from the bark.
It was the free woman who was my destiny to be someday. That was my own decision.
Even though it was said that oiran did not have tattoos, I was proud of this work of art despite the pain that followed the ten-hour session.
It was applied to my skin in just one night with ink and countless stitches.
Even the artist Kōtatsu was proud of it in the end.
Even though it made me less valuable.
But that didn't bother me at all.
Because it was only a small price to pay for the feeling of freedom.
For the daily reminder that I belonged to myself alone.
And always would.
When our mother saw my back the next morning, she screamed, but by then it was already a part of me.
With this feeling of triumph, I sat down in the tub filled with warm water and herbs, which had been brought in especially for me when the nights were still stormy and cold.
Individual petals still floated on the pink surface of the water, sailing away from me like little boats.
When the wait became too long for me, I secretly played with them, because they sometimes brought out my inner child.
But this bath wasn't just for me.
As I had always done since becoming my own master, I insisted that every man who entered this room had to wash first.
Before his dirty hands were even allowed to touch my body.
For a reason that almost cost me my life.
As a young girl, I wasn't allowed to decide for myself who could take me. This was quickly regretted after the old house doctor, who had to treat a girl almost every week, presented the bill to the lady of the house, Tsubaki.
I still had to pay it off, which only prolonged my stay.
But that was a small price to pay for my life, I thought.
Because my guest, who called himself "Master" at the time, had pounced on my innocent body, unwashed.
Like a wild boar on a truffle.
He left behind a traumatized child with an illness that slowly consumed her.
That taught me one thing.
Men were nothing but dirty beasts to me.
They were useless, constantly drunk and smelly.
Deceitful and dirty.
Loud and vulgar.
Nothing I desired.
In any case, I had never met a man who had aroused my curiosity until then.
Not that feigned interest that was intended for my guests.
I craved genuine emotions.
For trust.
For tenderness.
For love.
But that was denied me.
I let a flower float through my fingers like a boat under a bridge.
So that it could dance and spin playfully until it floated away in pirouettes.
Unfortunately, I never learned the real name of this man who bought my innocence. Otherwise, I probably would have set his house on fire on a dark new moon night.
But I never forgot the name he gave me.
"My little doll."
He whispered repeatedly in my ear while my whole body trembled with fear and disgust.
As if I had been nothing more than a toy to him.
A collection of holes.
Empty and insensitive.
Like an object.
But I had never seen his face again since that day. He had probably been expelled from the house.
Perhaps he had already passed away, given how old he was. He could have been around thirty.
Or maybe his dick had lost its steadfastness. Which would have been fine with me.
That way, every girl would be safe from him.
Leaning back, I let my thoughts flow. I breathed in the scent of the soothing herbs deeply, as if I needed more strength to get through the next day.
Which was probably the reason.
Although my thoughts were never visible on my face.
Even when anger was boiling inside me, I always knew how to hide it. I usually concealed it with a fleeting smile that was as fake as the woman's feigned orgasm in the room next door. She suddenly screamed a little too loudly, causing me to roll my eyes for a moment.
"Unskilled and too obvious."
I whispered and began to slowly wash my arms with the red soap - the reason why the water was always pink.
Next came my breasts, with which I was blessed, making many women pale with envy. With pink nipples that matched my fair skin perfectly, like a raspberry on a spoonful of cream.
The sweet-smelling soap wandered down to my pubic area, which deserved special attention and, completely hairless, was meant to remind Western women of something exotic. That's how I wanted to arouse the curiosity of men who were interested in the exotic.
Because, as I knew, anything new, anything different from the norm, is an attraction for money.
At least in this business.
Until my long legs and delicate feet, the last part of my body, were clean.
This was particularly important, because some men preferred the attention of feet.
So every morning I washed myself with this soap, which smelled so fruity and which I made myself every year from cherries. The same was the case for cosmetics such as the lipstick Kikyo always wore, or my wine-red eyeshadow.
It was a ritual I had established to pass the time until the next guest arrived. Later, it also became a little secret passion of mine.
After freeing my hair from its confinement, I let my curls fall into the water.
As I did so, I threw the needle onto the jewelry on the pillow.
The corners of my mouth turned up triumphantly when I hit it.
I washed my hair.
Although curls were not uncommon in this area, with straight roots and curly ends, I was the only oiran blessed with them.
It was difficult to manage, but also angelic to look at.
As I looked around my brightly lit room, whose large windows offered a view of the cherry trees in front of the house that had just begun to bloom,
it was something I loved to see when I tried to relax.
Or when I wrote whatever came to mind at my small glass table, which stood directly in front of the windows. Or when I was supposed to be sleeping.
Opposite my bed and at the other end of the room was a huge dark oak cabinet. Inside were tons of different toys waiting to be used.
From whips to replicas of penises in all shapes and sizes.
One of them, in pink, was my own.
There were also ropes, clamps, rings, and other things that could be placed around or in a penis, hung or wrapped around it. Or in other orifices, if desired.
I hid a little secret in a secret compartment inside, which I preferred to keep to myself.
Right next to the closet was my wardrobe.
Behind a white paper wall decorated with cherry blossoms, I hid a wide variety of dresses, kimonos, and underwear in bright colors and beautiful patterns.
Then I put the red soap back in the mother-of-pearl dish that a wealthy man had once gifted me.
The same with the jewelry that lay on the pillow.
Countless fabrics and various kimonos.
Sandals and underwear from the West.
I owned so much underwear that I could almost have opened a small shop with it.
Because gifts were often brought that the oirans were allowed to keep. This helped to maintain the illusion that this profession was a good choice.
Although I never had one.
Just like many others here.
But in those days, we were highly revered.
People were amazed when we left the house. We walked through the city as if in a parade.
Perfectly dressed and beautiful to look at, we sometimes went shopping like this.
When I got out of the pink water to dry myself off, I always wandered over to the fabrics to choose a kimono.
That day, I yawned tiredly and felt more exhausted than the day before. It was as if the dreariness was sucking me dry a little more every day.
Silk with so many elaborate patterns beckoned me, making the decision difficult.
But I chose white with pink petals on the collar and ends because that's what I felt like that day. I didn't know why, but somehow I felt the urge to dress up.
I placed the kimono with its belt, the obi, next to the pillow where the hair accessories lay. I took the small box to retrieve a porcelain bowl containing my cream, which I used to keep my skin as perfect as Tsubaki described it.
My fingers circled my pink nipples, glided over my soft breasts and down to my belly button. They brushed over my arms and stretched legs, massaging them.
After putting the cream back in the wooden box and locking it so it couldn't be stolen, I slipped the silk over my shoulders.
I carefully folded the fabric and closed my kimono with a knot that I tied into a bow at my stomach.
Then I went to the small round glass table with three delicate legs. They converged in the middle, where I placed the box.
The table looked like an elegant metal bouquet decorated with countless laces.
But it matched perfectly with the equally elaborate chair next to it.
To this room.
To this établecement.
I sat down on the chair and began to brush my hair.
With a mother-of-pearl comb that an old lady once gave me. She said I was as beautiful as a pearl from a deep-sea shell.
Meanwhile, I looked at the flame flowers on my table, better known by their botanical name Phlox, which were scattered throughout the building.
They came in shades ranging from pinkish white to fiery red, symbolizing unity and harmony.
This flower also represents the oiran. As I once learned, this plant was meant to symbolize us, who shone with magnificent kimonos and extraordinary appearances.
As I calmly wrote down these thoughts, my curls spun with each stroke.
When suddenly a loud scream shattered the heavenly silence.
"Ahhhh, a demon!"
It echoed through the hallway, which slowly filled with voices.
But this statement made no sense, or so I thought.
I had never seen demons in this area before, as they had always avoided the island.
It was too poor, too small, or simply too uninteresting for them.
So I raised an eyebrow and stared thoughtfully at my red door.
Past which loud footsteps scurried.
Suddenly, my tired eyes widened.
"Are we being attacked?"
The words bubbled out of me.
After all, that could have been a possibility. There had already been two wars in the past, so why couldn't a third follow?
That's what I thought.
In times of war, oiran were treated like goods and then thrown away like trash.
But that was not to be our fate, because I chose to flee with my sisters rather than wait.
Come what may.
So I put down the comb and hurried to my door with my hand on my chest. I threw it open and followed the voices to another door in the middle of the hallway, which belonged to one of the younger oiran.
I pushed past the shoulders to take a look into the room, which was always full of roses.
But then a young woman jumped out at me.
"Ah, Cherry, thank the gods!"
The beauty with the curly hair rushed out of her door and threw her arms around my neck.
I used the name Cherry to hide my real name. Every girl could choose her own name.
Since it was safer not to reveal our real names to our guests, it was mandatory to choose a new name upon losing our virginity.
And so I decided on the fruit of my beloved cherry blossoms.
The Cherry.
"Please!"
Her chocolate brown, tear-filled eyes implored me.
"I did everything she asked, but please, not that!"
She grabbed my hand and began to sob.
"What happened, Grace?" "Did someone hurt you?"
I asked, suspecting the worst, but all I got in response was more pleading from her, whose real name was Ayumi.
But she called herself Grace in front of the guests instead, so as never to lose her grace.
Which is what she was doing right now.
"Please, I'll do anything!"
She fell to her knees, her fiery red kimono still open, and begged me as if I were the mother of this house.
She pressed her sweet breasts together, laid her forehead on the back of my hand, and I could feel her trembling.
"I'll clean, wash, and take every man you spurn." "But please, not that THING!"
Thing?
I asked myself.
"You know I don't have the power to decide that, Grace, my dear."
I said somewhat desperately. Because she seemed to be in dire straits.
I looked up and glanced into the unfamiliar room. Just then, Ayumi stood up and whispered to me.
"T... that's a monster!" "Please help me, Cherry." "I wouldn't survive this."
But I couldn't see anything because of the sunlight shining through the window. It blinded my eyes so much that I raised my hand to shield them to get some shade.
"Then direct me to the monster."
I said this without even seeing the man she couldn't stand.
After all, he's just a man, not a real monster. Neither did I see any demon nearby that could instill such fear in her.
That's why I attributed the outburst I had heard earlier to a misunderstanding.
But apart from that, I would have put up with anyone, because I had grown so fond of this girl during her two years here that I would have helped her without hesitation.
"Really?" "Are you sure, Cherry?" "He'll tear you apart!"
She asked incredulously, but there was relief in her voice.
I put my hand on her shoulder to encourage her and walked past her with an approving nod.
What could possibly happen?
That's what I confidently thought. Because up until then, I had mastered every man.
Even the rough ones were nothing new to me.
I subdued the rude ones.
And I silenced the loud ones.
When I entered the room, I saw the demon, as they had called him, filling the hallway.
A large silhouette with a broad back was bathed in the gentle rays of the sun as he calmly observed us.
His long hair fell over his shoulders and flowed down his back. It formed a hump with strange spikes on his head. These were probably part of his hair ornament.
At least, that was what I had assumed.
Then his huge hand came away from his head, as if he were indecisive or overwhelmed by the cries. It joined the other hand, which was hanging down.
They were hands as big as a bear's paws, each with sharp claws on the fingers that resembled weapons.
For the first time, I swallowed, feeling a little uncertain.
A demon had truly appeared in our Ethableschment, I thought to myself.
However, the shadow obscured any precise form.
The details were too dark to make out. The play of light and shadow blinded me.
But that was what I saw at first glance, blurred by the sunlight. With a glance at Ayumi and another nod, I made my decision clear.
Because I still wanted to help her.
"Are you really sure, Kagome?"
Sango whispered secretly to me.
So quietly that she could even use my real name. Because no guest could have heard that.
"That's a monster!"
Sango was another beauty in this house, but she arrived here after me and Kikyō.
However, the years we spent together bonded the three of us, and another, like sisters.
At that time, the four of us were the oldest oiran in this house, apart from the mistress, and we spent both bad and good days together. The bad ones outweighed the good ones.
Sango was the youngest of us elders and had an athletic body, which made her extremely popular. That's why she was bought from our establishment by another one back then. She attracted men who were drawn to women who made yoga part of their daily routine.
Because it was said that these women were not only persistent but also extremely flexible.
Whatever that meant.
"Oh, you're exaggerating, Maple."
I said incredulously and stepped closer to the monster in question to take a closer look.
I addressed Sango by her chosen name, Maple, which stands for the maple leaf.
"It's just a man, not a real mo..."
But then I paused at the sight before me.
~~~~~~~~~~
So the slender hand with porcelain-like skin puts down the quill pen.
