satellite photo of JapanMelluchan

 

 

It was well after midnight.  In Roppongi Hills in Tokyo that only meant that every place was open and on the street the music from each club blended together to form a loud buzz, and if the sky above was dark, most of it was hidden by tall buildings and neon lights, so it made no difference. 

 

Taro was drunk, but he was still angry.  Angry at his father, angry at that stupid company he currently worked for, angry at the world, it seemed.  He wanted to be an artist, not a businessman.  His passion was drawing.  He could draw anything.  But his father wanted him to prove himself.  And that seemed to mean sitting in a cubicle, staring at a screen full of numbers all day.  It made him crazy. 

 

Taro had loved school.  As long as he had a notepad to draw on while the teachers were droning away.  He could draw and still absorb the information, making grades acceptable to his father.  College had been even better.  As long as he took the business track, he was free to take any electives he wanted.  All of them had been in art, many with field trips to Italy and France. And a year in New York had meant museums and galleries as well as business school.

 

After graduation, he returned home, the dutiful only son.  And he was told he needed to prove himself and start at the bottom.  He spent eight to ten hours a day draining his life into a cubicle as an endless stream of numbers crawled across a computer screen in front of him.  In the evenings, he drank to forget the mind-numbing dribble of the numbers.  Then he got up the next morning and did it again.  Tonight was no different from any other night.

 

He had bypassed the more crowded Gas Panic, it was nothing but a meat market for Japanese and foreigners alike, all hoping to score.  He was in no mood for the performance art of Space Lab Yellow.  The Lexington Queen was out, too much flash photography around some clubbing starlet.  They all seemed to flock to the old dame of Pongi and he wasn’t in the mood.  He found himself at the Mori Tower and decided to try Heartland.  Most of the girls there were too busy trying to score a foreigner and wouldn’t bother to hit on him.  He could drink in peace.

 

He hadn’t even ordered a drink yet when he saw her on the dance floor.  The angry techno music seemed to be drilling a hole in his head.  She danced to match, her blonde hair swirling wildly about her.  She wore a short tight skirt, a blouse that was almost see-through – and there was a lot to see through it – and heels so high it amazed him that she could walk much less dance with the kind of ferocity she was displaying. 

 

He stared – to the point of impropriety.  And when the song ended and she gave her hair a final toss her eyes met his, and held them.  He smiled and lifted his glass to her.  Her own smile started with her eyes and spread across her face like sunrise.  It was a sly, mischievous smile, as if the two shared a joke from across the room.  People swirled between them, but she moved smoothly to join him at the bar.

 

“What are you drinking?”  He never thought to speak anything but English to her.

 

“Martini,” she answered with barely a glance at the bar tender.

 

The conic stemmed glass appeared at her elbow.  She took a sip and turned to view the crowd.

 

“I love the way you dance.”

 

She smiled again, put down her drink, and held out her hand.  “Come join me.”

 

Taro frequented places like this, but he came to drink and watch the women, not dance.  His dancing experience was limited to a few stiff lessons in childhood, and those the formal dances his mother had insisted he learn. 

 

He did not see a partner.  He didn’t noticed anyone else in the room once he saw her.  But he was compelled to follow her on to the dance floor.  Saying no was simply not an option.  They danced.  He moved in ways he had not known he could.  She never once corrected him, never told him what to do, but somehow she encouraged him and he was improving as they danced.  When they left the floor he was soaked with sweat, much more sober than he had been in a long time, and she came home with him.

 

 

At sunrise he woke, as usual.  But there was nothing else usual about the morning.  He lay on his back, naked to the air.  His usual silk pajamas were missing.  He would have thought the night before a dream but he heard her breathing beside him and turned to look.  She curled next to him on the bed, content as a kitten, and looking every bit as innocent in sleep.  It was a startling contrast to the fluid dancer and aggressive vixen he brought home the evening before. 

 

It had started in the elevator, her fingernails drawing up his thigh to his crotch while her lips began to nibble at his ear.  She seemed to know exactly what to do to tease him into arousal.  He was breathless with desire for this blonde goddess he had found, but fumbled with the buttons to her blouse, uncoordinated from the sensations her hands and lips were creating in his body.  She only laughed and helped him, flashing him a glance at her breasts as the elevator doors opened.  She quickly tied her blouse together for the walk down the hallway, a tantalizing ribbon of skin stretching from neck to belly button.  She did not stop him from caressing the curve of her breast with one hand as he opened the door to his small apartment.  Then she took the lead, heading for the bed, removing his clothes, mounting him quickly but prolonging the act, savoring every moment, including a slow withdrawal after he was spent.  She then encouraged his touch and exploration, guiding his lips gently down her body and between her legs.  He remembered her moans of ecstasy and trembling orgasm.  She grasped the sheets and called out his name as she peaked.

 

The rising sun lit the corner room with a rosy glow and Taro knew he must draw her.  He wanted to draw her like this, curled up and relaxed, innocent and vulnerable, and he also wanted to draw the woman she had been the night before at the club, fierce warrior princess, ready to take on the world.

 

His drawing table sat in the corner of the room, where the sunlight streamed through the uncurtained windows.  He loved the light that poured through the windows in the morning.  It was the only piece of sanity in his long dreary day.  He found his silk pajamas in their usual spot, the drawer next to the bed, and headed for the table.  He pulled out a pad and a box of charcoal and began to sketch., fearing if he didn’t work fast enough, the mood would break and he would lose the vision.

 

In minutes he had finished the first drawing of her sleeping.  She lay on her right side with her arm pillowing her head.  Her left hand was tucked under her cheek, and her left arm was nestled between her breasts, her left breast propped on her arm, nipple pointed directly at him like a beacon, drawing him back to her.  All covers had vanished from the bed and her left leg coyly hid the blonde curls between her legs, curls he remembered with relish from their earlier activities.  He pinned the drawing to the top of the desk and resisted the siren song of her breasts, returning to a blank paper and his memory of her from the club. 

 

From her spiked heels to her wild blonde hair, she radiated aggression, so different from her picture in repose.  He wanted to add a katana to her hand and was debating that idea when she placed her hand on his shoulder, pressing those beautiful breasts into his back.

 

“You’re very good,” she murmured into his ear.  Her hand moved inside his robe to caress his chest.

 

“With my drawing, or in bed?” he asked, more bold than usual.

 

She laughed softly and moved her hand lower and past the waistband to his pajama bottoms.  His body responded to her, rising to the occasion as she stroked him.  “It looks just like me.  Both of them do.  Are you an artist?”

 

He made the decision and quickly added a katana to her left hand with bold strokes.  “In my heart alone.” He spoke the truth, too distracted to do otherwise.

 

She laughed again.  “You have a big…”  she hesitated.  “Heart.  Among other things.  You noticed I was left handed?”

 

“You are handling my sword with your left hand now.”  Her hand was continuing to work its magic.

 

“So it is.  A sword?  Looks like the cover for a manga book.”

 

“Mellu-chan, Warrior Princess.”  He said with a smile.  He could no longer concentrate on the picture in front of him.  He turned and drew her to him.  He wanted to use his own sword, draw her back to bed, pierce her until she screamed with ecstasy.

 

Melluchan smiled and kissed him and with unusual aggression of his own he took her to the bed, not caring that he should be preparing for the morning commute and a day of drowning in numbers. 

 

He did make her scream, although he was not surprised when they ended with her on top.  She was no coy maiden.  She reveled in the sex act and made it something akin to a religious experience.  As she moaned her pleasure he was able to watch her breasts rise and fall above him.  He stretched up to kiss them.  She offered him first one nipple, then the other and he suckled like a starving child until his own arousal overcame him and he thrust into her with her encouragement.  She seemed to take as much pleasure in his own release as hers.  He lay back on the bed, completely sated.  She moved off him with incredible grace and lay next to him.  She reached a hand over the side of the bed and retrieved her small handbag.  From it she pulled a slim silver lighter and a pack of American cigarettes.  She lit it skillfully, puffed deeply, then offered it to him.  He took it, took a puff of the strong sweet smoke and handed it back.

 

The phone rang. Taro knew who it was, of course.  He should have been at work an hour ago.  He reached for the tiny phone on the bedside table.  He was sick, he explained.  Still in bed.  That much was true, he thought with a tiny smile.  He went on to describe flu-like symptoms in marvelous detail, finishing with the explanation that he would not want others at work to contract such a horrid illness.  His supervisor, the damn toady, did not believe him and made sure Taro knew his father would hear about this.  Taro assured the man that his father was certain to take an interest in his son’s illness. And hung up the phone with a muttered curse for his father.

 

Mellu-chan remained quiet throughout the conversation, continuing to blow smoke at the ceiling above them and passing him the cigarette during his supervisor’s rants.  At the mention of his father she gave a low chuckle.  He looked at her with surprise.  She smiled back at him and said in Japanese, “I know about fathers.  Mine’s the reason I try to stay over here on the other side of the world.”

 

“I didn’t know you spoke Japanese,” he said, in the same language.

 

“I pick up languages quickly.  And I took a couple of classes in college.  I can’t read it worth anything.”

 

He took the cigarette from her and gave a long thoughtful puff.

 

She rolled on her side and propped herself on her elbow.  “Really, Taro.  Have you considered being an artist instead of an accountant?”  She motioned toward the two sketches of her on his drawing board.

 

“My father expects me to make something of myself.  On my own.  He doesn’t expect me to be a starving artist.”

 

She eyed the books on the book cases that lined the interior wall of the apartment.  Gracefully, she stood and moved across the room.  There was a number of art history books, but much of the collection was the manga he had read obsessively since he was a child.  She drew her fingers along the spines, pulled out one of the small paperbacks, flipped through the pages, looked thoughtfully at the drawings on the desk and chose another.  She flipped through that one as well, raising her eyebrow at some of the drawings.  She set that one aside and moved on to others.  Taro crushed out the remains of the cigarette and enjoyed watching her.  She seemed perfectly comfortable in her own skin with no hint of modesty.  She was beautiful and her movements were those of a dancer.

 

“You draw better than most of these guys.”

 

“Perhaps.”  Taro admitted.  He reached for another cigarette while she perused his library.  “But in order to make any kind of living, you have to have a story line to write.”

 

She returned to the bed with several volumes.  He noted that she had quickly picked out those with the best art, some of the most popular and successful titles.

 

“So tell me what these stories are like.  I read a few comic books as a kid, but they weren’t like this.”  She lay down with her head on his shoulder and handed him a book.  And so, instead of going to work that morning, Taro Murata lay in bed and read manga to a naked American woman.

 

 

Melissa checked out of her hotel that afternoon and Taro helped her bring her scant belongings to his apartment.  They chattered all day long about manga, its different types, the kinds of plot lines, what was successful, what lasted only a few issues.  There were forms that were aimed at girls, others at boys, some for grown women, with plenty of romance, some more violent and action oriented for men, and even some that seemed to revolve mostly around the sex act.  Melissa asked a thousand questions.  They ate dinner late that night at a sushi bar, Melissa still asking questions in both English and Japanese.  Once he knew she spoke Japanese, their conversations were a mixture of both, each choosing the best words from either language for what they wished to express.

 

They hit the clubs together that night and he danced mostly with her.  She had an energy that was almost magnetic.  He drank very little compared to his usual evening’s activities.  As Melissa drank, her dances became more erotic, more amorous, and every male in the vicinity seemed to notice her.  He was almost afraid she would choose to leave with someone else, but as she finished a martini he leaned against her, hand on her thigh, lips to her ear and suggested they return to his place, she graced him with a sly smile and a quick kiss that promised more, much more, and very soon.

 

They took a cab rather than his more usual train ride.  Her hands were all over him as soon as they were seated and he barely had time to give the driver the address before her lips were covering his.  One hand was quickly inside his pants, giving encouragement to his arousal that was completely unnecessary.  He found this behavior completely improper for a cab, but the driver simply smiled in his rear view mirror as their eyes met, and accepted his fair at the end of the ride with a look that told Taro the man was more than a bit jealous.

 

Alone in the elevator, Mel dropped to her knees the moment the doors closed.  Taro pressed the button and leaned back, pressing his hands against the walls to remain upright while she pleasured him.  He could only moan with the sensation of her lips against his erect member and the elevator pressing them higher. 

 

She came off of him long enough to call out encouragement.  “Do it, Taro, come on. Now!”

 

He needed no further urging, her long nails coaxing him as her lips formed a circle of suction around the end of his shaft.  He came as the elevator arrived at their floor, just at that tiny moment where the floor seems to fall out from below you as the elevator stops. The release seemed to prolong the sensation and he wasn’t sure he would be able to move when the doors slid open.  Melluchan stood before him, hair slightly mussed where he had placed his hand on her head at the end. She wiped her lips with a delicate finger.  He wanted to take her here, he wanted to draw her, those jade eyes of hers filled with delight and mischief.

 

The hallway was empty, not surprising at this time of the night, or morning, as it were.  Melluchan had loosened her blouse in the cab.  She drew him down the hall as she slid the blouse off.  Her skirt followed before they got to his door.  He fumbled with his keys in the door knob, and only her spiked sandals were left.  Finally they were inside and on the bed and his own clothes were disappearing rapidly, and despite the antics in the elevator he was wanting her and ready for her.  She drew him down and he worshiped the orchid between her legs until she screamed for her release. 

 

At dawn he awoke as usual and moved quickly to his drawing table.  He could still see that image of her in the elevator, finger at the corner of her lip, eyes triumphant, a battle fought and won.

 

It was the weekend.  He drew almost feverishly.  They talked about plot, they talked about characters.  She posed for him.  His imagination clothed her nude body, but the clothing only enhanced the nudity, much of it flowing and transparent.  He drew while she slipped out to the market, after tutting over the Kirin beer and moldy takeout containers in his refrigerator.  His small kitchen had never been used for anything but storage, but she cooked for him, pausing to stand behind him, touch him, offer comments on the latest drawing coming from his fingertips.

 

On Monday morning, he returned to work, without the hangover that Monday morning usually brought.  He took a small sketch book with him, and made quick drawings and notes on the train.  The numbers didn’t seem quite so evil this morning, and as they moved across the screen, he could tap a few buttons and return to his sketches.

 

On the train ride home, Taro had a moment of doubt.  What if Melluchan had been some kind of odd alcoholic induced dream?  As the train pulled into his stop, he pulled himself up, if it had been a dream, it was a dream of inspiration and he would draw the book anyway.  But Melluchan met him at the door to his apartment with a spiral bound notebook full of ideas.  The apartment looked cleaner, neater, and there was some sort of wonderful smell coming from the kitchen.

 

They sat together on the terrace as the sun set and she fed him fresh baked bread, so warm it melted the butter she spread on it, while she told him her ideas for plots and stories.  Then she set out two plates with freshly cooked vegetables and thin slices of meat on a bed of rice.  Her ideas were as amazing as her cooking.  He could almost see the panels for the plot as she told it to him.  It would be exciting, adventurous, amorous, erotic. 

 

“So what do you think?”  she asked, eager for his opinion.

 

“I think it is absolutely marvelous.”

 

“Now all we need to do is draw it and sell it.”

 

“I can certainly draw it, and I believe I know someone who may be able to help us sell it.  A friend from school days works for a publisher.  I can call him.”  She didn’t need to know that the publisher was owned by his father, something his friend would take into account when Taro showed him their idea.

 

“Wonderful!”

 

Taro reached out to caress her bare thigh, moving his hand up above the hem of her short skirt.  She reached over him to pick up the dishes and clear the table.  “Leave it.”

 

“It won’t take a moment.”

 

“An eternity,” he corrected.  Her tight shirt didn’t quite reach the top of the skirt and he leaned forward to kiss the bare skin of her middle.  His searching fingers found their way inside her underpants and he turned and pulled her to him.  She was wet and eager, Melluchan always seemed to be wet and eager.  Before he could contemplate leading her to the bed she was sitting in his lap, unfastening his pants.  He was quickly inside her and she moaned in his ear.

 

“Mmm, Taro.  I love it when you’re deep inside me.”  She moved against him and he helped her remove that t-shirt.  She offered him her breast and he caressed her as their rhythm increased to a frenzied crescendo.

 

 

A phone call resulted in lunch on Friday.  Taro rose early each morning and drew frantically.  He wanted more than a story treatment and a few drawings to show him.  Taro wanted the panels for the first chapter of the story done.  He could almost taste how much he wanted this to succeed.  Work was a blur, something to be endured until he could come home to Melissa, plan with her, make love to her, and draw until he was too tired to see  then start all over again the next morning.

 

He wanted Melissa to join him for the meeting, but she declined.  She insisted that he needed to do this on his own.  She felt she would be a distraction.  He considered that for a while, then decided that having a mysterious partner might be a better idea than bringing along the beautiful model for their heroine.  She sent him off with a portfolio of drawings and fresh kisses.  He felt as if he could conquer the world. 

 

And he did.

 

He returned to her intoxicated with victory.  His friend was suitably impressed and wanted more.  Quickly.  He had a month to deliver the first volume.  He returned to his dreary office late from lunch.  It took only moments to resign and head home to tell Melluchan the news. 

 

They celebrated over sushi and continued with a night on the town, moving from club to club to dance, finding a dark corner to tease each other to arousal, then moving on like two children out for a romp. 

 

Melissa drifted off to sleep near dawn.  Taro rose, still too high to sleep, and ready to draw.  His inspiration lay there on the bed, and he enjoyed watching her sleep.

 

By noon, she was awake and there were large drawings hanging around the apartment.  She moved to stand behind him and watch him draw.  She kissed the back of his neck and moved her hand inside the waistband of his pajamas.  He gave a sigh of pleasure and closed his eyes for a moment as she massaged him to arousal.  When she moved to kneel in front of him and finish what she started he looked down at her.  She met his eyes and winked at him before bending over to pleasure him to release.  Then he went back to drawing.

 

If she hadn’t been there, he probably would have kept going until he dropped from exhaustion.  But she took care of him, feeding him, pleasuring him, drawing him to bed for a few hours of sleep every night, usually calming him to sleep with sexual release. 

 

On Monday night they went to their favorite sushi bar for dinner.  She was continuing to create situations for Melluchan to encounter, writing them in her notebook much faster than he could draw them. 

 

“Taro, I plan to fly to Fiji on Friday.”

 

“Fiji?  Why would you do that?”

 

“They’re plans I made before we met.  I have a commitment I have to keep.”

 

He looked at her with surprise.  He had not imagined that she would leave.  To be honest, in her presence he had lived only for the moment, not thinking about tomorrow, much less next week.  She had so quickly become a fixture in his life.  He hadn’t thought about her having any sort of plans of her own. 

 

“Why don’t you come with me?”  She asked.  “It should be a lovely place where you can draw all day long.  There’s a bure where I’ll be staying with a view of the ocean.  Plenty of room for both of us.”

 

He couldn’t imagine working on “Melluchan” without her.  On Friday they both flew to Fiji.

 

 

The sun was bright as they left the plane in Nadi.  Melissa, always thorough, handed him dark glasses.  A young man of indeterminate race met them, waving at Melissa as soon as he spotted her.  She held out her hands to him and greeted him fondly.

 

“Miguel, que pasa?”

 

“Mucho gusto, Melissa.”  He kissed her quickly on the lips. 

 

Melissa immediately turned to Taro.  “Miguel, this is Taro.  Taro, Miguel.  We’ve know each other since we were babies,” she added to Taro, smiling at Miguel fondly.

 

“Pleased to meet you, Taro.”  Miguel offered his hand and spoke in English.

 

“I am honored to meet an old friend of Melissa’s.”  Taro said formally.

 

“Let’s get your luggage transferred to the sea plane.  I’ll just have time to introduce you to the pilot before my flight leaves.  Mel, I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

 

“I’m happy to be able to help, Miguel.” 

 

They headed through the airport quickly.  An eager teen was quickly hired to carry their bags, one containing nothing but drawing supplies, to the seaplane.  Miguel spoke quickly in some combination of Spanish and English that Melissa seemed conversant in.  Taro considered himself to be quite fluent in English, but this accent and the addition of Spanish words and phrases made the conversation impossible to follow.  They and their bags were loaded into the teen’s cab to be taken to the seaplane.  Melissa was kissed again, Taro’s hand was shaken, then Miguel was gone.

 

“I did not catch everything he said to you,” Taro admitted.  “He said something about horses?”

 

“Miguel works for a resort near Savusavu, taking care of their horses.  His father in Texas is terminally ill and Miguel wants to be with him for the end.  So I’ve agreed to take his job for him for a couple of months while he goes home.”

 

“You are going to work here?”

 

Melissa nodded and smiled.  “Miguel loves it here and didn’t want to give up his job, but they would hire someone else if he just quit.  So I’m just stepping in to substitute while he goes home.”  She gave an impish smile.  “I think he’ll probably get married while he’s there too.  I know his mom is hoping that.”

 

Just as Taro hadn’t considered what Melissa had done before they met, he hadn’t considered that she might work while they were here.  There were still times when he wasn’t sure if Melissa were real.

 

The seaplane took them to an island just across the bay from Savusavu.  The resort was nestled by a lagoon, and over a small hill was another small lagoon with a bure for them within walking distance of the stables.  Paddocks spread out across lush grass with a number of sleek horses awaiting the pleasure of the guests.  The place was quiet, secluded, and beautifully tropical.  A hammock on the porch gave a view of the beach.  Despite a thatched roof, the interior of the small hut was luxurious.  There was a small kitchen in the back, a large bed under mosquito netting, a day bed in one corner, and a table next to a window that would be ideal for drawing. 

 

He noted the look that Melissa gave to the hammock and knew that she didn’t consider it a place just for napping. 

 

They settled into a comfortable routine.  Taro rose early and began to draw.  Instead of sleeping in, as she had done in Tokyo, Melissa rose at the same time and fixed a pot of coffee, left a cup at Taro’s elbow and headed for the stables with her own cup, dressed in jeans, well-worn boots, and a long-sleeved shirt.  He liked this cowboy persona of hers and drew a few sketches for future use in his ever-present sketch pad.

 

She would return at mid-morning, strip off her cowboy clothes and wade out into the clear waters of the lagoon.  She would emerge from the water like Venus in a Botticelli painting.  This vision invariably drew Taro out onto the porch where they would meet in the hammock.  After the first few days Taro began to sketch one-page inserts for Melluchan to break up the story.  Melluchan’s Kama Sutra of the Hammock was born.  It would become a popular feature of the series.

 

Taro would return to the drawing table until lunch.  Occasionally Melissa would return to the stables to take a guest out on horseback to explore the trails that cut into the volcanic rock of the mountainside, but usually she would sit curled on the daybed to write further Melluchan adventures.

 

Lunch would be simple:  fruit, tea, perhaps some rice.  Enough to eliminate hunger.  She went native in the afternoons, wrapping a sarong around her hips, bare breasts, bare feet.  Down the beach was a small native village.  She would visit there, usually bringing back fresh fish for supper.  She cooked nearly every evening, picking up recipes along with the dialect of Fijiian spoken by the natives. 

 

One afternoon she showed up with three other bare-breasted women in a large outrigger canoe.  He joined them for a distracting afternoon of fishing and that evening they ate their catch in the village.  There was a bonfire that night, with dancing as the full moon rose.  They danced until she pulled him into the shadows to kiss him and move her hands into his pants.  They retreated down the beach where she pulled him to the sand.  She tasted of smoke from the fire and salt from the sea and she urged him deep insde her with her moans of pleasure.

 

Long days spent drawing completed the first issue well before the deadline.  Evenings and interludes in the hammock left them with plans for future issues, each with a cliff hanger ending to keep people wanting more.  The took a boat to Savusavu, found a Federal Express office and sent the carefully packed manuscript to the publisher.  The remained in town for a celebratory dinner at a local sushi restaurant.  Taro fed her fresh octopus, shark and squid.  They returned to their lagoon and their bure with high spirits and high energy.

 

The next day Taro began work on volume 2.  In just a few days they received a contract from the publisher.  They curled up on the daybed and read it together.

 

It was not a lot of money, but Taro deemed it acceptable.  He was more concerned with future sales and other media:  cds, animae, toys.  The contract was favorable in that respect as well, something Taro had homed.  Since the publisher knew his family they would take care not to cheat him, and he had requested up front that he wanted a percentage of future profits.  The contract was only for Taro, and one of the first changes he noted was that the proceeds would be split between himself and his co-creator and writer.

 

It took a week of faxing back and forth contract changes until Taro was satisfied.  Melissa was fascinated by the negotiation process.  She had some doubts about future profits, but Taro insisted that they should prepare for the most favorable outcome should it happen or not.  They should profit from their intellectual property, not be shut out as new markets developed.  Melissa found that reasonable.  She also had a few suggestions.  Taro considered each, discussed the merits of each idea and they changed the contract accordingly.  He told her she had good business instincts..  Melissa looked surprised and Taro wondered if everyone simply took the beautiful blonde at face value, never noticing she had a brain.

 

Not that he didn’t enjoy her physical attributes.  Melissa had taken to the idea of a Hammock Kama Sutra with her usual verve.  She added new moves to the list almost daily, to Taro’s great enjoyment.

 

As their two months in Fiji drew to a close Taro finished volume two of Melluchan.  He loved the rhythm of the days here and thrived on the creative atmosphere Melissa surrounded him with.  Their contract called for six books with an option for an additional six.  The stories for the entire dozen were plotted out in one of several spiral bound notebooks Melissa was writing in.  But Taro found he was looking forward to returning to his sunlit apartment that looked out over Rippong’s hills, with its nightlife and restaurants below.  He mentioned this to Melluchan one morning as they lay curled together in the hammock.

 

“Of course you are, Taro-kun.  It’s your home.”  She murmured against his bare chest.  “I think it may be time I went home too.”

 

“To the States? To your family?”

 

“Well, to the states anyway.  I love traveling around but I love how happy you are with your own place.”

 

Funny, he had never thought of himself as happy.  But he was looking forward to returning there, to drawing each morning in the sunrise.

 

“But, who will model for me when I need to draw Melluchan?”

 

She gave a soft chuckle.  “Well, I suppose I can come for visits every now and then.”

 

“Of course you can.  You will always be welcome.”

 

She looked up at him and smiled.  “And I suppose we could take some pictures.  You could use them in between.  Strictly business, of course.”

 

“You say ‘strictly business,’ but your eyes tell a different story.”

 

Melissa leaned up to kiss him and he pulled her on top.  She immediately straddled him.  The hammock barely wobbled.  The had much practice at this by now.

 

“You would promise me that the pictures would stay private?”

 

“Of course.  The would be well secured.  For research purposes only.  I would take very good care of them.”  He moved his hands up and down her body.

 

He was aroused, and she knew it.  With minimum motion she took him slowly inside her and held still.  “I know you would, Taro.”  She looked deep into his eyes.  “I trust you.”

 

She bent down to kiss him deeply and settled into a slow steady rhythm.  He caressed her breasts, thumbs circling her tight nipples and a climax rolled over both of them like the waves beyond the reef.

 

A month later they stood together in the Tokoyo airport.  It was raining and her plane was delayed.  Upon returning from Fiji they had rented a photography studio.  The pictures were stunning and erotic and would keep him inspired for years.  The negatives were destroyed and he and Melissa chose only the very best prints to keep.  Melissa took none of them with her.  She preferred the snapshot Miguel had taken of the two of them together on the beach.

 

They had received their first check from the Melluchan franchise as Taro called it.  Taro would name off dolls and t-shirts and lunch boxes that would soon adorn the streets of Japan, and Melissa would dissolve into giggles at the thought of Hammock Kama Sutra lunch boxes.  Melissa set up an account at an international bank with offices in Tokoyo and Miami to deposit her royalties.  Taro had helped her arrange for the publisher to deposit the funds directly to the account. 

 

Melissa’s flight was finally called for boarding.  She gave Taro a final kiss and a promise to call him as soon as she had an address and a phone.  She pulled away from him reluctantly and cast him one last smile as the boarding tube swallowed her.

 

Taro stayed until her plane left.  He knew his life would never again be the same since Melluchan had met his eyes in that club.

 

 

 

    May 5, 2007     

                        

To Anime-ted                          

To the Florida Universe

To the Fan Fiction Page

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