Gaijin Slave

Gaijin Slave

A buying trip to Japan for a happily married Englishman and owner of a shop selling far-eastern artefacts, swiftly becomes a nightmare when he finds the gargantuan and monstrous Tokyo woman he thought was a customer has an entirely different agenda.

An agenda that will ensure he never sees either his homeland or his wife and twin daughters again – despite that wife’s efforts to have him returned.

Though he will see far more than he ever envisaged of the dominant Japanese woman holding him captive from his cage in her basement

EXCERPT

Prologue

Not so long ago it had been different for him.

Very different.

Huddled upon a cold concrete floor, Paul Gertin marvelled again at his situation. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth and his muscles were cramped and angry. A single and naked light bulb hung from the ceiling of his current living-quarters below ground and the surroundings it brought into stark relief only served to keep his sense of wonderment and righteous indignation first and foremost in his mind.

He was still disoriented from the pain that seemed to inhabit every crevice of his body as he gazed upon the windowless cellar holding him.

Pain that screamed from every bone, muscle, and sinew in his body, complaining at the confinement by which it was so prohibited.

And, yet, it was the reminder of his empty stomach and the parched mouth that was the result of having taken in no liquids for so long – a thirst that had resulted in his resorting to the indignity of having to drink his own urine from the bowl inside his cage in order to gain some small and revolting relief from his need – that introduced him from the escape of his daydreams to the living world once again.

Biting his lip that he might not call out for nourishment and invite more pain, Paul gave out a pitiful groan as the full import of his situation thundered home to him yet again.

The Japanese bitch was destroying him!

Already, after so relatively short a space of time, she had him afraid to so much as speak without her permission; lest she deny him sustenance for longer.

Punishment and denial accompanied by not a single word from his tormentor with what was a very definite agenda in his regard.

But why him?

Given his surroundings and how well they fitted him – especially the custom-made cage currently holding him – it was almost as if she’d had some prior knowledge of his existence before he had arrived in Tokyo.

And that was simply impossible!

Unthinkable, in fact, given the ramifications if it were true.

But reasons were not his main concern at this point.

He needed water and food.

Badly.

But especially water.

His own urine was scarcely a substitute.

Even if its repugnant re-insertion into his system at least gave a temporary respite from his dehydration and kept his mouth moist.

His thoughts, not for the first time, cursed the bitch with a venom his fear prevented him from venting when in her actual and unspeaking presence.

Which was when he heard the click of the bitch’s heels upon the concrete steps outside his…

How could he best describe it?

Cell?

Prison?

Dungeon?

Certainly, not the “new home” his demented female captor had insisted it was in the note written in impeccable English she had left for him to read in his cage. This as she left him unattended for the whole day to dwell on the bullet-pointed contents of that note.

And now she was coming to visit him in his cage after what seemed like a week on his own – a week that was, in reality, less than the sum of two days.

Too weak to lift his head to greet her properly; so physically, mentally, and emotionally drained did she have him, he waited in suffering silence, praying she was fetching either water, food, or both, to finally alleviate his torments.

At least a little.

As he watched her approach the cage she had allocated him – a cage high enough that he might rise to all-fours but not so high he could stand – it occurred to him through his mental and physical agonies, and for the first time, that he might never be the same man again even if he did get to leave his “cell” at some point.

So cramped were his muscles and joints.

It also occurred to him that there were some men who actually paid to be treated in such an emasculating fashion.

Men who even prayed for the advent into their lives of a gross and totally sadistic bitch such as the one opening the door to the cellar and pecking her way across to him on the heels that were de rigeur for her and gave stature to the short and oversized body above it that conjured up certain images for him whose provenance he could not quite place.

Images he knew he had viewed not so long ago but remained stubbornly resistant to his attempts to recall when and where.

Giving up the attempt at recall, he contented himself with feeling nothing but contempt for such pitiful examples of his own gender who took satisfaction from being treated as if they were the human equivalent of dog-shit.

And especially by a race of women whose culture he was happy to study and make a good living from but for whom he had always felt some small contempt.

Arrogance, and a false sense of superiority when it came to his race – subliminal or otherwise; and especially for of the bitch intent on destroying him – that was fast becoming…

Despair.

Was it only a month ago, that he had flown into Tokyo on a buying expedition as a free and independent Englishman? Searching for the Japanese ephemera, prints and cultural artefacts, that sold so well in the “Emporium of Exotica” he owned with his wife of sixteen years in the centre of Stratford-Upon-Avon. A month that he had intended to be two weeks away from their home in Royal Leamington Spa and now could be as long as…

Well, for as long as the bitch now towering above him could keep him.

And she had already told him via her note that he would either remain with her, trained and utterly obedient, or he would leave with a heart that no longer beat and a pulse that no longer pulsed.

A promise, looking upon the maniacal intensity in her eyes as she made her way to his cage, Paul Gertin had no problem in believing sincere

Such were his thoughts as the memory of his beautiful wife, Jane, and his anguish for the fear and anxiety she must be experiencing at his absence, jabbed at him once again. Adding yet another layer of psychological torture to the growingly unbearable physical aspects of an incarceration that had yet to reach two days but seemed so much longer.

He wondered how she had explained his absence to their twin seven-year-olds, Josie and Hayley – his wife had wanted to name them Naomi and Hitomi, after the passion she had for the country – or at least its artefacts – that gave them such a good living.

Not naming them for the country of his captor seemed almost like a small triumph for him.

There were no words from his captor as she came to a halt by his cage as he waited inside upon all-fours but he certainly recalled her as the prospective seller he had met at a coffee-house before…

Before waking in her basement!

He recalled sipping at his espresso and sharing some polite conversation with her, and then…

Nothing!

That meeting in the coffee-shop, being the seventh such meeting on a list of possible suppliers of Japanese artefacts, of either antiquarian or exotic interest, and the only one he would be making to a private collector; this after having readied and researched the list back home with the help of his Japanese speaking wife, Jane.

Relief flowed through him that he had been the one who agreed to travel to Japan for the actual buying of the artefacts; he being far more knowledgeable when it came to purchasing; despite his unfamiliarity with the language.

And besides, the twins were far better served by having their mother at home to take care of them.

His ruminations were interrupted suddenly by the appearance of foot, high-arched in the heels with pointed toes she had chosen for their first meeting in her home, as it was thrust beneath the bars.

Still unable to bring himself to believe what she had made of his reality, he could do no more than stare at it; as if his eyes somehow possessed the power to make what they saw vanish.

And what they saw was a short and muscular leg rising above the foot awaiting his attention.

A short and muscular leg that was almost caricatured in shape, leading him to believe he had seen it, or something like it, only recently, waited as he stared down upon it, the pointed toe of its shoe tapping upon the concrete, almost imperceptibly but undeniably impatient.

He knew what she wanted and was now, given his condition, resigned to giving it to her.

Anger flared throughout the length of his tormented body and, for a few moments, he toyed with the prospect of sinking his teeth into the bare yellow flesh of the ankle she had placed between the bars of his cage to plant its spike-heeled shoe next to his head so imperiously. Impossibly slender ankles for such a short and fleshy woman morphing into those aforementioned and almost caricatured calf muscles, so rounded and muscular were they, before her shapely but oversized legs ended in thighs that would not have shamed a Sumo. Once again, his mind searched for the origins of their familiarity for him.

Which was when he looked up to see that she was holding a bottle of ice chilled water in one hand, and a bowl of food in the other.

“It is your choice,” her slitted dark eyes seemed to tell him, devoid of pity and regarding him as if he were no more than a piece of human real estate she could use as she saw fit.

Though he was worldly wise enough to know that the gleam in her eyes signified she considered him a piece of her estate that was very special to her.

He knew from her note that if he did not give her what she wanted now she would simply walk away and take both the water and the food with her.

His stomach groaned in protest and a throat that had known only the liquid refreshment of his own urine since he had been placed in the cage made a more strangled and guttural protest.

He eyed the bitch’s ankle and the high instep in a heel of vivid pink that was far too feminine for such a monster. Still tempted to sink his teeth into the skin below those caricatured calf-muscles. Telling himself it would be worth the punishment he would receive simply to hear her howl with the same kind of pain she had inflicted upon him so often during his unwilling stay.

Knowing though, even as he bared his lips and considered it, that he would not be going through with his intent.

He was in a cage on all-fours, chains connected to a collar at his neck and then to bracelets about his wrists and ankles ensuring he remained that way.

An unmissable target for the rage she would vent on him if he were to give way to his desire to cause her what would only be in the end some small pain.

But it was the parched throat and hollow stomach; even more than the pain and discomfort she had inflicted upon his body; that robbed him of the strength to undergo more torment simply to provide the bitch with a temporary measure of her own agony.

Better, he told himself as the toe of her shoe continued to tap out an impatient rhythm upon the concrete, that he go along with her and provide the subservience she was seeking.

At least until the madwoman was confident enough of him to make a mistake.

Then, he thought, shuffling the few inches to her waiting and still tapping shoe to place his lips upon it, the disgusting Jap bitch would pay.

Big time.

With a sense of revulsion that must surely have made him throw up – had his stomach anything to evict, that is – he lowered his head and placed dry and cracked lips upon the toe of her shoe.

Just as her note to him had insisted.

In his head, he counted to five…

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