By C. Sanchez-Garcia (Guest Blogger)
Stories of strange love from Whiskey Creek Torrid.
“Kwaidan” are a great tradition in Japan. These are ancient ghost stories, which are passed down from generation to generation, embodied in Noh and Kubuki plays, and lately in modern Japanese Horror cinema such as “The Ring”. The most famous of all the traditional kwaidan-shu is the tale of “Mimi Nashi Hoichi” or “Hoichi the Earless”. This is the story of a buddhist monk who sings and chats stories accompanied by the Biwa, a Japanese lute. Hoichi encounters the restless dead and barely escapes with his life. I love these old stories and was determined to write a series of erotic folk tales from Asia and other countries, and the novella “The Color of the Moon” is the eroticized retelling of this most cherished of all Japanese ghost stories.
In Sanchez-Garcia’s first book of stories, love takes strange and deadly twists of passion and madness for a musician-monk and a lonely noble woman in eleventh-century Japan; and in the near future, where a man seeks a last chance at redemption with a desperate machine built for love.
Shoji stood up and held out his arms. Hirome inventoried her work, taking time to touch up spaces she had missed. Shoji had become a living text of sutras. His shaved head was covered in the words of the Lotus Sutra, in Kanji she didn’t know how to read. His ears, neck, throat, shoulders and shaved arms were filled with marching rows of stark images. His back, waist, ribs, chest and belly. The backs of his legs. His round strong buttocks, she had taken her time with those. The insides of his thighs. His ankles. His feet. She turned him around.
“How do I look?”
“Like a strong and beautiful book,” said Hirome. “You make me wish I knew how to read.”
“Would you like to learn?”
“When this is over, I can teach you. But it will take time.”
“It’s all right if it takes time. You can stay here longer, as long as you want,” she said, caressing the Kanji paintings on his chest. “I don’t want you to leave. If you stay, I’ll paint you this way every year in remembrance.”
Shoji noticed his cock beginning to swell and rise again as she touched her work on his skin. It had not been painted yet. “I think there is one place left.”
She stepped back and looked down. “Oh!”
“You could if you wanted to.”
“I like it when you write it. I don’t wish to embarrass you, but anyway it’s easier to paint it when it’s stretched out hard.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, Ichinori said we must cover everything.”
She kneeled down in front of him. His thick and risen cock was level with her face. She cradled it gently in her fist and gave it a little squeeze. Shoji sighed and closed his eyes, and let it rise freely as it wished. She caressed it to make it stretch out all the way, fully strong and hard. She began to paint.
Shoji felt the intolerable tickling of the brush along the tip of his cock, and her fingers handled it lovingly, wantonly, painting the tip, until it swelled and reddened under her brush. And then the shaft, pulling on the skin like silk over warm steel, to tighten it as she worked. She painted down to the root, stroking it lightly to keep it stiff, blowing on it to make the ink dry faster. She painted the root of it, where the hair had been shaved away. She cradled his balls, pulled them down to stretch the skin taught and painted all of it. She painted under them.
“Oh look,” she said. “I painted this part wrong.” She rubbed the tip of his cock vigorously with her hand, and seeing the ink remained, she placed it in her mouth and licked off the ink. She looked up at him intently as his knees sagged and he moaned. “There. It’s off now.” She spat out the ink.
Holding his hardened cock firmly in her fist, she painted the characters again. “Oh, another mistake.” She took it in her mouth and licked off the ink again.
Bio: At this particular time in a wandering, often bizarre and unexpected life, C. Sanchez-Garcia is living quietly in eastern Georgia where his personnel library is bursting the walls of his little house. He stubbornly believes in passion, god, sensuality and spirituality and that a good love story is life’s finest medicine for melancholy.
He is the author of the erotic novellas Mortal Engines, and the Color of the Moon, and the anthology Coming Together Presents C. Sanchez-Garcia. Several of his short stories have been published in the “Mammoth Book of Erotica” series and the “Coming Together” anthology series, as well as in the Erotica Readers and Writers online gallery and permanent archives. If you would like to meet the author you will find him on Facebook as Christobal Sanchez-Garcia and at the Oh Get a Grip writers blog where Sanchez-Garcia’s blog appears hell or high water every Wednesday.