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Tokyo Torture (Damien Starkey)


Tokyo Torture by Damien Starkey

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Misako is a pop idol in Japan, flaunting her masculine image on stage, wearing suits, ties and carrying a riding crop.

Some of Misako’s fans are being killed, after gaining access to back stage areas. Assistant Inspector Nakamura is delegated to solve the crime.

He is a sadist with a totally submissive wife and finds the Fem/Dom aspect of Misako’s act hard to come to terms with.

When he gains an interview with Misako herself and ends up in her torture chamber, however, he finds out first hand how it really feels to be dominated by such a powerful woman!

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 1 / 2018

No. words: 41700

Style: Fem Dom - F/M, Sex Slavery / Training

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Excerpt

Chapter 1

The crowd of fans surge forward, each trying desperately to get nearer to the theatre’s backstage door. There appears to be no pattern to the random surges, but they are primarily determined by the instability of those packed in it.
Fans jam-packed near the front can make out the short passageway created by metal control barriers beyond which are stage entrance doors. This is connected to another cordoned-off area cutting a way through the theatre’s back-lot, guarded by security personnel and more anti-crush barriers. For some reason, whoever had the authority to make the area off-limits and to police it in adequate numbers, has decided to leave open this one as a way for fans to express their devotion; which they do readily. Maybe the lucky few might glimpse a pop star, but it is doubtful they will see Misako from here.
If the fans do snatch a sight of Hanada - Misako’s sole music man - they will cheer at him. But he isn’t the real star, the one they’ve come to see. One thing Misako’s known for is her reluctance to thrust herself into the public domain. She’s secretive, with an aura of inaccessibility. No one expects her to bring attention to herself, pause and wave on her way to the stage doors. Tonight, it’s unlikely the fans in the theatre’s back area lot are going to catch a rare peek.
Minoru is knocked forward. He falls but springs back up almost instantly as the crowd in front reel back. Not for the first time it feels like the whole weight of the crowd is pressing down on him from all sides. Breathless, a sensation of lightness in his head, he lunges back; steps on an abandoned shoe. Instinctively he feels for the waistband in his panties, reassuring himself one of his stiletto shoes is still tucked safely against the elastic. He tightly grips his handbag, where he’s storing his stockings and the other shoe. If the stockings rip open before he gets inside, his day – one he has thought about obsessively since the Japanese Misako tour dates were announced - will be ruined. Unpardonable if, somehow, he gets to meet Misako and his sheer black stockings are shred. At least once inside he can redo his makeup. He winces, seeing a male teenager to his side with his eyelids smudged. I have to look my best, Minoru is thinking subconsciously, each time his gaze falls on one of the many male Misako girls in the crowd. There’s so much competition. Like him they’ve put in a lot of effort to make themselves look good.
Most young females thronging the backstage area appear as near to the public’s current perception of Misako as they can get it. Short black hair in a severe bob, long and intricately straight at the front, tapered ends two inches off the collar at the back. Her hair seems to have a permanent gloss. Naturally black – if she does dye it like so many of her generation, she does so to make it an even darker shade of black. The clothes are stereotypically male. Well-tailored black or grey suits hang low to obscure all the feminine curves of her body. They are expensive and as immaculate as Misako’s are: scarcely indistinguishable from the uniform of a conventional salaryman, equipped with shirt and tie; big, militaristic boots, riding boots or men’s leather brogues. Like Misako, some of the female fans carry versions of her stage prop: a riding crop.
For both public and global media the so-called Misako girls epitomise the pop idol’s fanatical male fans, most of them teenagers. They started appearing two years earlier after Misako, in a rare interview early in her career, mentioned she liked to dress and act like a man and liked her men to dress and act like girls. Devoted male fans began to wear heavy makeup and putting on the tightest dresses they could get into. Meeting a need, Misako official merchandising brought out a range of dresses and outfits in sizes designed for male fans. Though colours and styles vary, the standard is sequinned, glittery, short and tight, the hem well above the knees. Black tights or stockings, fishnet or opaque, together with stilettos.
In the crowd, hordes of Misako girls are thrown together into the mass made up of a typical cross-section of Japanese big city youth.
A shift forward in the crowd. Minoru steps up on his toes. Movement inside the cordons; tops of heads quickly travelling in the direction of the stage doors. Craning his neck, Minoru flicks hair away from his eyes. Cries come from up front. Male shrieks. Not having much choice in the matter, Minoru finds himself moving forward a body’s length. His pelvic bones are digging into a young female’s back. She grunts, holds her riding crop high. Another surge originating from behind him sends Minoru sprawling on top of her. Using all his strength, he pushes back up, courteously bringing the female with him as he holds her up by her elbows. She turns her head round as far as she can and gruffly thanks him. The voice is wary and begrudging, because everything the girl knows about Misako tells her: she mustn’t appear too grateful. Not to a Misako girl, anyway. In similar circumstances, where there was more space to swing, she has seen female fans using their riding crops to force their way through to the front. Brandishing them threateningly is the usual pose, but some girls like to use them. The Misako girls accept it without argument, looking at the female fans in their Misako garb with a mixture of awe and discomposure.
“What’s that?” the girl in front of Minoru asks, leaning over a hunched Misako girl. Her grumpy intonation is like one used when addressing someone of low intelligence. Minoru notices the tip of her riding crop quiver. She’s in a pin-stripe trouser suit. He gets a flash of one of Misako’s censorious looks straight out of one of her S/M themed pop videos. A man’s bare back lined with criss-crossing raw welts. Cut to Misako in a suit with her back to camera, a considerable bullwhip poised high in her hand. “What did he say?” the girl inquires again in a whiny voice.
There’s movement at the front of the crowd. Fans are trying to find ways through. From the disgruntled face of the girl in front of him and the garbled pieces he picks up, Minoru figures out, word is: Misako is already inside. The girl he’s had his front squashed against over the last fifteen minutes or so starts turning round. Involuntarily, Minoru quails before he sees her face. He expects there to be a big ugly scowl. Nor does he reject the possibility of her riding crop swishing in his direction. He gets a split-second mental flash of the tip cutting into his bare biceps.
The actual face is pretty. Pale skin, delicately sharp features. She gives him the once-over: full makeup, bright colour blush smeared at his right cheek, tiny pink dress with round mirrors the size of CDs covering much of the fabric; hair cut in the current Misako style. She moves away, expressionless, riding crop swinging.
Minoru side steps and dodges people making their way toward the theatre entrance. The crowd thins out. He finds a way through to the barriers on the public side, settles at a spot where he can make out the stage doors.
He doesn’t realise he’s been gazing at a teenage Misako look-alike for a full minute till she loudly kisses her teeth and turns away. Unlike the original, the fake has acne spots. She pulls out her cell phone and starts pressing buttons; the i-mode link plays a relentless, disharmonious tune. Nearby a Misako girl with garish pink lip-gloss giggles and gives him an understanding look. It says: Women! There’s an effeminate bearing the Misako girl has, that Minoru doesn’t appreciate; standing so close to him Minoru can’t avoid seeing him dramatically rake a hand through his long, wavy blonde hair. The blonde Misako girl twists his hips and offers an alluring side-glance. It’s clear he uses a strong yellow base foundation to successfully match his complexion to his obtrusively light hair colour.
Minoru feels the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. His first thought is: he wants to punch the blonde hard on the nose. He dismisses it quickly – a Misako girl isn’t meant to have such prejudice. Instead he shifts his pelvis more in the blonde’s direction.
“Looks like we won’t see Misako till after the show,” the blonde lisps, head cocked slightly. He plays with his bangs, looks across coyly to check he has Minoru’s attention. “You got a ticket for the show?”
“Uh-huh.” Minoru glances across the blonde’s flat chest. The dress is gleaming orange PVC. The type of attention he’s getting unnerves him. His cheeks are hot. “Haven’t you?”
The blonde tilts his head to one side and slowly licks his pink lips. Giving Minoru a full-on look he pulls back his shoulders and stretches out a stockinged leg.
“Of course. If I didn’t I think I’d kill myself,” he giggles, throws back his head so the back ends of his hair cut across his shoulder blades. “If I hadn’t bought a ticket early I’d have done anything to get hold of one. I mean anything. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, sure,” Minoru replies blandly, not wanting to give the impassioned anything a reply that alludes to what’s going on inside the blonde’s head. He glances up and observes the blonde looking down his nose, the leisurely gaze heading downtown.
“It’s the same like what you have to do to get backstage, so why worry about losing your honour?”
“You been backstage?” Minoru asks abruptly, expectantly, his edgy tone making it clear he’s desperate for an answer.
The blonde swivels on his high heels and throws out a flirtatious side-glance. The pink lips glare from the lamp over the stage doors. He bends his head deep, like he’s about to deliver something confidentially. If there is an intention to get Minoru to step in closer, it succeeds.
“At Budokan, this tour,” the effete voice is low; Minoru strains to hear it over the hubbub all around them.
“Yeah, really?” Minoru says dubiously.
He diverts his eyes away for a second. Beyond the anti-crush barriers a bouncer scuffs his steel-capped toe on a fold in the worn red carpet. Readjusts his sight as he catches the blonde turning 180 degrees, lifting up his PVC dress by its hem. On the blonde’s lower back, visible outside the narrow line of his thong panties, on the cheeks and the backs of his upper legs are long cuts. One horizontal red line runs along both cheeks. Though it is hard to be sure in the poor light, Minoru thinks there’s bruising on the thighs. The dress comes back down. They face each other, the blonde staring brazenly with a dirty smile.
“Misako did that?” Minoru exclaims shrilly. Suddenly he’s conscious he’s soaking wet inside his panties. Through his dress he feels for the waistband. Must’ve worked up a sweat while crushed and rocked about by the crowd. Or so he thinks. A breeze falls on his bare legs, reminding him he can put on his stockings now he isn’t tightly boxed in. Little thoughts like that drift in as he starts thinking, maybe, just maybe, he might really meet Misako tonight. And the shoes? Tells himself the high heels will elongate his panty line. “Later on, you going to try getting in again?” he asks, eyeing the blonde with an impressionable interest.
“Of course,” frantically flickering his thick and false painted eyelashes. “I’m It, Baby,” limply he flips his fingers inwards, demonstratively at his chest. “Maybe we can make it a threesome.”
“What’s Misako like?” Minoru blurts out eagerly. On mentioning her name his eyes dilate slightly and there’s awe in his voice. He leans in a little closer, hooked. “What did she do?”
“You know a lady never talks about her affairs, certainly not a Misako-gyaru.” The blonde sways his hips decorously. “You’re going to have to find out for yourself. A pretty Misako-gyaru like you.” Delicately, he puts his hand on top of Minoru’s arm. “Joyu-san will be foaming when he sees you. And not just at the mouth.”
“Joyu-san?” he overlooks the fact the blonde’s fingertips are loitering on his forearm.
“Misako’s Chief of Security,” the blonde scrunches up his face, his nose crinkled. His fingers trace invisible circles in Minoru’s slender arm. The light touches are like an abstraction because the blonde holds his gaze. “A vulgar man, but if you want to see Misako, he’s unavoidable, I’m afraid.”
“Can you arrange for me to see him?” Minoru asks enthusiastically. He smiles sweetly, edging closer. “I’ll be really grateful.”
“Does your gratitude excite my jewel stalk?” the blonde asks, looking quizzical. In a natural progression he moves his fingertips off Minoru’s hand and follows the line of the Misako girl’s slender hip. “No, it doesn’t. If I help you to meet her, what’s in it for me?”
“If you get me in to see Misako I’ll do anything,” Minoru enthuses; ducks his head low, not reacting as the blonde’s hand reaches his bare thigh and starts to move up slowly, underneath his dress. He gives the blonde the most sugary, obliging expression he can manage. A chill runs down his spine as the blonde edges cold fingers within his damp panties.
“Anything? That’s good. Because we’ll going to have ourselves some class-A sex and you’ll thank me for it later.” The blonde tightens his grip, the tip of his tongue wetting his upper lip. A tumescent bulge is held down, encased in his taut underwear. “I promise you, Baby, you’ll have the time of your life.”

The stage décor is black. There are no massive rear video screens, no props or hydraulics, explosions or smoke. The backdrop is the colour of Hanada’s formal clothes, every item, shirt, tie etc., black. Hunched in an unwrinkled suit behind his workstation, he concentrates on pressing keys and buttons, flicking switches, sliding levels and turning dials. It is rare for him to look up. He cannot escape the white swirling floodlights that scan the stage area. They illuminate his face so it appears chalk-white.
Music journalists debate whether Hanada plays anything live during a concert. It’s open to speculation because, like the star of the show, Hanada no longer gives interviews. Often it looks like he isn’t doing anything at his end of the stage. Always straight-faced, eyes fixed, gazing down; the dance-orientated electronic rhythms and beats that feature in many Misako songs have no effect on Hanada’s rigid posture. He isn’t one to nod his head to the beat.
He leans forward slightly, punches a button on an old-fashioned synclavier. A pre-programmed sequence is released. He looks like he’s about to stretch for a key but decides not to but lets the monotonous groups of eight bars extend up to Misako’s vocal part. Then, as she’s about to enter her first bar, hits a button and quickly follows it up with a rapid keystroke. Low down in the mix crackling white noise shadows Misako’s vocal; a simple sequenced programme of bleating monophonic notes, corresponding to her voice, drives the melody. Drum machines pound, time kept not by a snare drum beat but with the sound of metal sharply hitting metal. The hi-hat and cymbals sound like shattering crystal. Hanada types in words and releases them on the chorus as electronic vocal phrases. The audience whoops: it is the first time they hear the band’s third member tonight. The artificial voice is neuter, womanlike but manly. A transatlantic accent; more than half of Misako’s songs are sung in English.
Misako looks like her face is bleached. Off-stage, out of the light, her pale face is said to be a characteristic people from the industrialised south suppose is common to women of the north. Jokes are made in the domestic media based around the knowledge that Misako originated from the Tsugaru peninsula, one of the remotest, backward regions in the habited areas of Japan’s largest island. It is said one of the reasons Misako doesn’t do interviews is because she’s embarrassed about her thick, barely decipherable Tsugaru dialect. If true, it isn’t the first time a new arrival to Tokyo has feared his or her specific dialect will be mocked by sneering Tokyoites.
Another characteristic said about northern girls is that they’re beautiful. Throughout the phases of her music career Misako has kept her body off-limits. There are no known photos showing her legs or arms bare. Because of her taste for men’s suits and shirts, her body shape is unknown. From her thin face and sharp bones it is assumed she is trim. But beautiful? Men are divided on that point. Some say they see a man there, with her broad nose and a well-defined jaw-line that sharpens at the chin – and the current page-boy-like hairdo doesn’t go against that impression. Misako girls attracted to females find in Misako the perfect embodiment of a modern woman. Attractive, confident and successful; a ball-breaker not ready to pander to male sexual fantasies that depict women as dutiful and submissive schoolgirls, stewardesses and brides.
In the standing-only section of the crowd, near the front of the stage, Minoru’s gaze is locked on Misako’s white face. She stands close to the mike, her body not stirring. She closes her eyes; hits a high note and keeps it up there over two bars. Her white hands grip the mike stand. She opens her eyes. As she croons the muscles in the face go slack again.
The blonde’s arms are around Minoru’s slim waist. Their bodies pressed so closely together, each time the blonde breathes Minoru feels it on his neck. Fingers rub up and down his cock. Misako lets out a stimulated orgasmic cry. She announces: she wants to hear the ladies make the boys scream. Like most of the male audience Minoru screams as loud as he can. The blonde’s exposed member jabs him in the butt.
Bass-like thuds rebound off the theatre walls; an acoustic-sounding 4/4 beat accompanies frenetic analogue electronic warbles that are distorted bass lines. Over the top Misako wails, an incomprehensible word she twists and violates while the dry artificial voice recites one line of the song.
“I want you give me a blow job,” the blonde shouts in Minoru’s ear, cutting through the formidable noise, “while she sings Fairy Queen.”
“I don’t know how,” Minoru answers turning his head. A look of disgust screws up a corner of his mouth; the blonde’s hand is still around his manhood.
“You don’t know how, huh?” the blonde says doubtfully. Wrapping his arm round more tightly he works the skin of Minoru’s member vigorously. “You know how to masturbate, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” Minoru yells back.
“Same thing only you go up and down with your mouth, rather than your hand. Simple, don’t you think? Come now, you want me to introduce you to Joyu-san, don’t you?”
Misako hurls her hand in the air, making her riding crop vibrate. She grabs the mike stand and drags its metal feet backwards.
“Fairy Queen, Fairy Queen,
You’re only sweet eighteen.
Fairy Queen, Fairy Queen,
What you do’s so obscene,
What you do’s so obscene …”
She hollers out the lyrics, eyelids clamped tight, the mouth in a rictus of concentrated aggression. With difficulty, bodies packed around him, Minoru begins to swivel around. He gracefully apologises as his shoulder bumps against the person in front. By thrusting his ass back against whoever is behind him, the blonde creates a little more space.
For a moment Minoru glances at the reason why he’s on his knees. For such an effeminate Misako girl the blonde has a prize matsutake: long stem and a huge round head. Taking half of it in his mouth Minoru gently moves the skin back and forth. Within seconds a light discharge trickles onto his tongue. Rushing to the front of the stage, Misako swishes the end of her riding crop in a long arc in the direction of the audience. She looks down, taunting one example of an especially feminine Misako girl: long false eyelashes, thick makeup including rouge, and a long curly wig. The unemotional artificial voice repeats the song’s refrain. The blonde jerks his pelvis, his head hitting the back of Minoru’s throat. Minoru gags on the glans, instant reaction to pull his head back, but the blonde is holding him firmly by the hair. Above him the blonde giggles, relaxing his grip slightly, stroking the top of Minoru’s head.
On the saliva released in Minoru’s mouth the long root slips in and out rapidly. Shutting his eyes and bobbing his head fast, Minoru keeps to a rhythm that complements the Eurobeat-like synthesizer riffs Hanada projects out of the banks on his work station. Minoru pictures his number one idol there only twenty-five feet behind him, glancing down with a look of distaste as she spots the blonde’s lit-up face twisted into an obscene grin.


Author Information

male dom, fem dom, vampires, they all come easy to this writer!

 

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