her fate was firmly established; no matter how bleak things got, no matter how utterly decimated she was on the inside, she was unable to summon the courage her father had. Where he had the steel in him to know what to do when life’s punishments far exceeded its rewards, she lacked that strength. So while she was sexing and drinking and drugging, she was also slowly going insane. Trapped in a life where there was no way out.
Until the day she called Manning. She was intending to hire him-after all, he was a killer, right? — her only sole desire at that point was to beg him to make the pain stop. To end her miserable existence, and take from her the shame that always threatened to drown her, but never quite did.
“I need to talk with you,” she had said when she called him. Hot tears burned down her lovely face, leaving trails of fire, her misery a black hole that threatened to consume every last bit of sanity, leaving behind only a mindless animal cowering in a beautiful package.
“Please let me come see you,” she had begged.
And of course, he did.
At first, she found him to be cruel, refusing to honor her pleas, even though she had promised him every penny of her $250,000 net worth. He instead gave her $1,000, then took her north, to the island of Hokkaido, where he rented a house in the colorful, rustic wilderness outside of Sapporo. He denied her drugs, denied her alcohol, but provided her with companionship, understanding, and kinship. He never touched her sexually, never abused her, but forced her to confront her shame, as he had done so many years ago. She found strength in discovering his own pain, the pain borne from lost love and betrayals and fallen comrades on distant battlefields when he still considered himself a man of honor.
She was not alone, and that gave her the boost she needed. While she didn’t hold any allusions that she and Manning were kindred spirits, as she groped her way back to reality she could understand they were more alike than not. He could never heal her, nor did he promise to do so; but he did make life bearable for her again, made her strong enough that she could awaken and face each new day without feeling the need to start it off with a scream…or a shot of whiskey or the pinch of the hypodermic.
There were only two spots of trouble. One was when her employers found out where she was and sent a legal representative to order Ryoko to return to work, as she was still under contract. Manning rebuffed him, and the next day two
The second spot of trouble were the phone calls, those terse conversations he tried to keep hidden from her, when he spoke mostly Chinese. It was during these calls that his black times would return, and while he did all he could to shield her from them, she perceived them as easily if they were bright sunlight shining against her closed eyelids. They were there, they would never go away, and they would both have to face them. For without him, she could likely not go on.
And that was how the hit man and the porn star developed their relationship.
After three months, Ryoko was well enough to return to her work. And Manning’s employers were anxious that he return as well. But no matter how far away from each other they were, they had forged a bond between them; they were forever connected by a silver thread of pain.
Manning’s apartment was the same as he had left it. He had forgotten to run the dishwasher after dinner, but that was the only thing he could hold against himself insofar as his home went. He shrugged out of his jacket, not having to worry about the pistol as he had already disposed of it. She walked into the living room and slid onto the couch, waiting for him. Manning hung up his jacket in the hall closet and removed his shoes, then padded after her.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Thirsty?”
She smiled up at him, and behind the beauty of the action, he saw the sadness she still carried with her. He touched her face, his fingertips tracing the outline of one alabaster cheek. She reached up and took his hand in her own. Brushed her lips across his fingers, something she always did that both thrilled him and made him uncomfortable. Manning knew he was the truly filthy one-compared to him she was practically an angel. And her work gave joy to her audience; Manning’s audience knew only fear and regret.
“Will you stay here tonight?” he asked.
“Please,” she replied quickly, then added: “If you wish it.”
“I wish it.”
She smiled and drew him toward her, her mouth opening beneath his like a butterfly spreading its wings. His hands stroked her face, hands that dealt the harshest of punishments to all but her, hands whose very touch thrilled and warmed her in a way she had never felt with any other. He was foot taller than she was, and weighed more than twice as much; she had no hope of defending herself if he wished her harm, but the connection between them was too strong for that. A connection that could never be rightfully defined as love, but one that served the same purpose.
She serviced him artfully, willingly, taking her time and using every ounce of skill she had. He deserved no less, for he treated her with respect and kindness, and she was duty-bound to return it in full. She removed his clothes and stroked the expanse of his body, her fingers roaming over corded muscle and the occasional rippling of scar tissue. He was in excellent physical condition, with a lean, taut body that possessed a natural physique honed by years of martial arts and a proper exercise regimen; she marveled inwardly at his condition, for it should have belonged to a man more than ten years his junior. She felt the tension slowly ebb from his muscles as he reacted to her soothing touch, and she was gratified by that.
He was much better endowed than most of the men she worked with, and she viewed the size of his penis with both awe and anticipation. It surged beneath her hand when she touched it, and she gently stroked its hard length as her own body reacted to the sight and feel of it. Slowly, she ran her hand up and down its span, feeling the shape of its contours, the throbbing veins beneath the soft flesh covering what felt like polished glass. It was perfectly shaped, circumcised, something she rarely saw in the course of her work but something she appreciated from an aesthetic point of view. She knew many, many of the finely-coiffed and manicured beauties which populated Roppongi and Shibuya and Ginza would find equal joy in touching such a member, but she knew that she alone was able to feel the thrill of it. His testes had drawn tight against his body.
Ryoko lowered her head and kissed the head gently, and the sensation her lips evoked made him gasp and shudder. She was finely attuned to his rhythms, and she fully understood that he needed release as quickly as she could grant it. His needs weren’t created from selfishness, but from actual necessity, as his life and work were replete with stresses that could not only physically cripple a man, but leave him psychologically devastated as well. To this end, she served as a therapist of sorts; she tended to the needs and desires of his body, placating them so that his mind and heart could work together to overcome the deeper strains she could not reach. Over the course of the past year, Ryoko had come to understand this duty, and had eagerly accepted it, for he also fed her body and spirit and mind with what she required. It was true two-way street.
As she kissed his member again, and allowed her tongue to slowly stroke the head, he moaned and reached for her, but she gently pushed his hands away. As she did so, she began to work on him more earnestly, taking him in her mouth more fully. Her line of work had allowed her to refine her skills, and she fellated him not just expertly, but artfully. As always, she granted him access to her skills not because she was required to, but because she hungered for it as much, if not more, than he did.
“Ryoko,” he moaned, his hips thrusting upward of their own accord. She accepted him as deeply as she could, his size filling her completely as her lips and tongue and teeth and hand worked on him, pistoning up and down his length with as much speed and finesse as she could muster. Already, she tasted the precursor emanating from him. He was on the verge of release, his breath quickening, his moans growing louder, his head thrown back against the softness of the leather couch. Ryoko redoubled her efforts, hungry for him now, moaning in her throat. The core of her own sex was flaming like a small star.
