“NO!” bellowed the yokai through the Daimyo’s voice.White light burst from my shide. It had gone all wrong. Mitsuko-hime wasn’t possessed. The power surged into her. She screamed out in pain. The energy hit me and—“Miko,” a voice groaned.Something shook me. “Wake up, miko.”My eyes fluttered open. Smoke roiled across the ceiling over my head. Fire crackled, orange light dancing on the red, blistered face staring down at me, swaths of hair burned from the temples along the side of his head.“Samurai?” I groaned. It was the warrior who had fetched me to the Daimyo’s castle for the exorcism.“What ... did you ... do... ?” the man coughed.“I...” My head throbbed. I blinked, staring around the room. Devastation abounded. The woman who was infected with the yokai’s lusts, driven to suck my cock and ruin my exorcism ritual, sobbed on the ground, cradling a mangled arm. “Mitsuko-hime?”“Gone,” the samurai growled. “Fled. You ... killed him...”His hands grasped my throat. Iron fingers squeezed,. The power of the anatomy inside my mouth and between my fingers is almost overwhelming. Although I am typically a fiercely-independent woman well on her way up the corporate ladder, the sight – or even the mere mention – of this anatomy causes me to swoon. Here I am, a member of the majority, kneeling before a member of the minority, yet I feel – deep in my heart, I absolutely, positively, undoubtedly KNOW – that this is where I belong: on my knees, between these thighs, adoring and even worshipping this anatomy. Between my fingers and between my lips, I feel the twitch again as the blood within ebbs and flows, as its power penetrates my soul. It triggers many memories of blissful violence: particularly, the initial stab which painfully obliterated my internal barricade, but also the several painful knocks at my rear entrance, and also the countless explosions of white both within and upon me. Only because of the force of his palms against my temples do I realize that while being.
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