Ember And Ashe Ch 1

Chapter One: The Acquisition of Eimi

How long should a man wait to get his dick sucked? I pondered this and other mysteries of the cosmos as I chilled at the Java Joint down on East Hastings and Main. Seven had come and gone three hours ago. Any sane man would have been long gone. Any sane man would be out there trying to scare up some backup pussy.

Instead, I stayed put and shot back another couple of Mochaccinos. Heather had been incredibly sweet, with a great ass and massive breasts. She liked her sex kinky and rough, which suited me just fine. She only got nervous when she discovered that her forays into the Experimental Zone were well blazed trails to me. What she considered kink was my way of life.

I think I scared the shit out of her. I sat at a window seat so I could see her when she arrived. It did not seem likely that she would. Only the lonely, the desperate or the working would be out and about at this time of night. Everyone else should have the sense to stay the hell indoors. Some strange shit be walking on the streets. Like yours truly.

The cashier came over to me then, holding an envelope in her slender tan hand. She looked either Filipino or Burmese; I never could tell the two nationalities apart. She was young, perhaps fifteen, but would grow into a real stunner one day. She already had the thick lips, round breasts and doe-eyes of the fuk-n-suk girl. Man, I love Asian women!

"Excuse me, are you Mr. Grissolm?"

"Sure am. Is that for me?" I was already reaching for the envelope when I saw her flinch. "Hey, it isn't going to explode, is it?" I asked her.

"Who knows! I mean, I don't think so..." She seemed genuinely frightened. A slip of pink tongue kept licking her upper lip as she stared at the envelope in my hand. Man, if she didn't stop doing that, I would have to forget about Canadian Law and fuck this chick right here and now. I sampled some young flesh overseas, and I had to admit, it tasted damn sweet.

"By the way, why are you only giving this to me now? I have been here for over three hours." My voice dropped low, the loud, bass rumble sounding deep in my chest. Her eyes went round and wide, most startling to see in an Asian. I guess she did not want to experience an enraged black man exploding all over her. She was backing off, all the while examining me from my dreadlocks to my combat boots.

"I was told to give this to you at 10:00 or when you got up to leave, whichever came first. The woman paid me $50."

"I see," I said. And I did. Heather must've come in early to set this up. I guess she really did not want to see me face-to-face, but did not want me so angry after that I stalked her around Vancouver. I could almost imagine her panic as she decided on how to handle me. I tore open the envelope and read its contents.

I won't bore you with the details. I was too dark - in a spiritual sense; she liked black men! - too intense, and much too angry for her. I also liked to do some strange shit that she was not down with. She wished me no ill, but did not want me hanging around her anymore. She had quit stripping at Brandy's, and would no longer be at any of her old hangouts. Blah, blah, blah...

I carefully folded the letter and placed back into the envelope, then summoned the girl over to me. She came, hesitatingly. "Was the woman with someone when she gave this to you?"

"The woman? I don't remember."

"Skip it." I paid her, and took my leave. The question was pointless, anyway. If Heather was with someone else, what could I do about it? What should I do about it? Only one thing mattered right now.

I needed some relief really bad. Fuck, was I ever horny!

I split the coffee shop and headed into the alley behind it. There, I unzipped my fly and got ready to urinate. I would piss on the wall like the evening had pissed on me, then I'd flag a cab down. Thank God I lived near Vancouver and not NYC. Here, a dreadlocked, tattooed brother could still hail a ride without too much difficulty. I pulled out my prick, about to piss, when I laid eyes upon the woman who would forever own my soul until my dying day.

She squatted in the alley with her back against the wall. She was taking long tokes from a blunt. Her purple tinted lips nursed that doob with surprising gentleness. I could only imagine what those same lavender lips would do to my cock. She was slim, and gorgeous. Definitely Japanese. Her short wiry frame was packed into a metallic ruby halter with spaghetti straps. The glittering onyx kanji that ran down her side over the left breast read "Fuckable Piece." She certainly was! Purple bra straps were visible on her golden shoulders, but nothing was visible above the low cut halter which proudly displayed the tops of her small, pert breasts. She was wearing a demi-bra, perhaps? My dick pulsed in my hand, throbbing with need.

"I'll take care of that." The woman unfolded herself from her squatting position and came over to me. She abandoned her little joystick for my bigger one. Her small, dainty fingers curled around my member, which twitched with a life all its own. She looked at it in awe. My cock was short; if it measured five inches in length, I would've been surprised. Brothers everywhere would mock me if they knew, I am certain. But man, was it ever fat. It measured well over three inches in thickness, probably closer to four. One of my ex-girlfriend used to call it the tin can. When she said it, she always sounded a little frightened.

More on that, later.

The Japanese girl looked at my squat member, and then back at me. Her almond gaze never left my eyes from that point on. "A challenge," she said. She licked her lips. Such a lewd act from a face as angelic as hers made droplets of precum bead at my cock slit. She gathered up one of the pearlescent drops with the tip of her finger and bore it slowly to her mouth. She placed the droplet on her tongue and sucked at her fingertip slowly, milking it as if it was a little cock caught between her bee-stung lips.

"Mmmm. Sweet, like ice cream."

Her hands ran down her small breasts to her narrow hips, which were sheathed in deep maroon, hip hugging stretch pants with the low-rider waists so popular with girls nowadays. Those pants accentuated the golden globes of her ass cheeks. I could see the tops of them clearly. My palm ran across this second cleavage with a gentle caress. She lay a diminutive hand on my chest, while the other one grabbed my dick and jerked it slowly. The trail of silver buttons down the sides of her pants winked in the dim lights of the alley.

"I charge $150 per half-hour, $75 for a blow job and $50 for a hand job. You want?"

The last sentence jangled in my ears. True, she had the lilting, heavy voweled accent of the Japanese, but she had sounded too western to use such a hackneyed pseudo English expression like "You want." This girl was pretending to be a dim-witted Shibuya fuck slut. Well, if that was the image she wanted to project, who was I to argue? Maybe it was good for her business. But not for business with me.

It was with great regret that I withdrew my aching cock from her gentle vise of a hand, and tucked it back into my pants.

"Sorry, girl. I don't pay for sex. Although," my hand brushed aside a fine lock of raven hair that framed her delicate, angular face, "you certainly do make me want to make an exception. You are so beautiful. What is your name?"

"Yoshikawa Eimi," she replied. I do not know who was more surprised; her, or me. I certainly did not expect her to tell me her name. "You are..."

"Grissolm. Andrew Grissolm." I put out a hand for her to shake. Ludicrous, considering she had been stroking my dick just seconds before, but it felt like the right thing to do. She gave my hand a light squeeze. "Andrew. The name does not suit you, somehow. I must think on it."

The smile in her eyes was infectious. I felt myself grinning like a drunk at happy hour. I couldn't help it. Ms Yoshikawa had touched something deep inside me, something that resonated with her. It thrummed in time with the vibes that Eimi projected. I do not know why.

Suddenly, my nerves were on fire. Senses honed by years spent out on campaign with the military, and later, as a private mercenary had not lost their edge. We were not alone in the alley. My hands quickly tapped the locations that usually held my concealed weapons. Of course, in deference to Heather, I had carried nothing tonight. I cast my gaze around, searching for the interlopers. Eimi looked about her, confused. She was puzzled by my sudden distress.

"Yo, my man. You buying, or just talking?" A couple of fellows lumbered into the alley from the opposite end, kicking the detritus out from their path. Rats scurried away. They chittered at being so rudely disturbed from their evening repast. Ruby eyes glittered from the shadows. Watching.

The two toughs were massive. Each one was my size or larger. Thick slabs of muscle sheathed them in plates more impenetrable than steel armor. The looked like football players gone psycho; they were grotesque in their deformity. Muscle bulked them up so much, it was a wonder that they could walk unaided. I let my entire frame relax, rising up onto the balls my feet in preparation for their next move.

These dolts didn't seem to recognize my actions for what they were. He waited for an answer, all unsuspecting. "Not buying, just talking," I replied. I looked at Eimi. She stared at the two, considering. She had a look in her eyes I had seen countless times before in the streets of many an Asian city or village. She was estimating the amounts of money they carried to within a dime.

"$200 per half-hour. $100 for oral." Her voice was clipped and businesslike, so unlike the merry sing song she used when in conversation with me

"Fine," one of the monstrosities answered. "Pardon me, slick," he said, shoving me aside. I let the rude action pass. I waved goodbye to Eimi and walked down the alley in the direction that the two misanthropes had come from. She was just a whore making her pay, right? Nothing for me to worry about.

So why did I?

Her soul called out to me, begging for protection. She had wandered for years in this lonely place, looking for her companion. "Don't leave me, not so soon," it pleaded. My heart replied in kind. "I have searched for you my entire life. I will not leave. Now, or ever."

My mind shouted at my heart, ordering my feet to continue walking away, but in vain. I skulked back to the lip of the alley, and cautiously peered down it like some kind of pathetic voyeur.

Eimi was squatting in the alley with a slab of dick meat in each of her hands. Her long, tapered fingers were curled in supplication around each cock as she jerked them back and forth, in a smooth, continuous motion. Her golden hands were a study in synchronicity. Not once was her rhythm thrown off by their thrusting hips or their grasping hands. Suddenly, her head turned towards the spot where I was hiding. My heart crashed against my ribs. I had made no sound. My stalking techniques, especially in urban environments were nonpareil. Were they still alive, many of my assassination targets could vouch for it. How had she known where I was?

On closer inspection, I saw that her eyes were closed. Thick ebony lashes shielded her delicate mind from the contempt of the men she serviced. Was it a tear that trickled down her face? Impossible. From this distance, I would be unable to make out that kind of fine detail. Despite that, I was certain. Eimi was crying, if only within her own heart.

She began to fellate them. Fellatio. Such a clinical, dry term for the savagery of the attack she mounted on their vulnerable pricks. She dove upon them like a kingfisher upon a sardine, taking one into her mouth all the way, then the other. Even from here, I could hear her lewd smacking as the cocks plunged in and out of her throat. Moans of pleasure came from the two men as she worked them over. While one was ensnared by her lips, the other was treated to expert digital manipulation. Her dexterous fingers nimbly thrummed, caressed, kneaded and pulled on the excited member, making its owner squirm with helplessness. It was hard to tell which man enjoyed her services more; the one lodged deep within her face, or the one trapped in her silky, iron grip. My own cock strained painfully against the fly on my black slacks. I had passed this up? Fuck. Time to reconsider my hard-nosed stand on whores. It was not as if I had never used them in the past. When had I suddenly found religion?

The storm broke. Sprays of semen pelted her like sheets of rain in a monsoon. The skin of her beautiful face was covered in gobs of sticky come. That angelic face, defiled by the foul seed of those cretins. Eimi scooped up the ejaculate and flung it from her. From her small purse she withdrew a moistened napkin. She daintily scrubbed the spunk from her face like a matron would cleanse her hands prior to eating supper. Dirt had to be cleaned. That was all. I shook my head in amazement. She was the most fresh faced, innocent looking whore I had ever laid eyes upon. The baby slaves plying their trade all over India and Thailand had nothing on her. It was not a question of physical age. It was one of seeming vulnerability. She knew what she had to do it order to survive, and she did it with an impressive skill. But her soul. It lay in tatters because of it.

"So what," my common sense told me. "Her choice. Her fate. Not your problem."

"Help her," my soul countered. "She has been searching for you her entire life. Will you now forsake her?"

Sorry, soul. Cool reason had kept this black man alive through several hells in the past. Emotion got one killed right quick, if one was careless. I would heed reason. I dismissed Eimi from my mind and turned away. She would be okay. This was her job, after all. She didn't ask for a chaperone.

A scream from the alley behind me changed all that. I was flying down the alley before I knew it. "Stop, you dread-headed idiot! What the fuck are you doing?" my mind shouted.

"What he must," my soul answered with satisfaction. "What he was born to do. He will protect her."

Eimi lay unconscious on the ground. A livid purple bruise shone from the side of her battered face. Blood dripped from a nostril on the side where the ham-fisted bastard had struck her down. He was bent over her, mauling her petite breasts while his mate clawed at the top of her hip-huggers, peeling her like a grape. It was slow, difficult going, but the pants were coming off. I took into everything with a single glance as I careened into them. Take out these assholes, but be careful not to further injure Eimi. That was the plan, at least.

Fuck. I’d just wanted to blow my wad and then go home. Instead, I had become embroiled in a fight for my life. Typical shit, in the saga of my fucked up existence. Ms Yoshikawa's sweet ass had better be worth all the hassle.

***

In the end, it was no contest. Those yahoos were big, but totally unskilled. Besides, like sharks, they were busy feeding on an immobilized victim, mired too deep in their blood frenzy to mount much of a defense. A solid kick to the front of the kneecap effectively took care of one lout, while an elbow to the throat sent the other sprawling to the filthy pavement. They gurgled and retched while I liberated their wallets from them. It had taken mere seconds.

I pulled the would-be rapists from Eimi and looked at her. She seemed so small lying there in the alley. Small, and vulnerable. My instinct to protect her warred with my desire not to get involved. Leaving her here would be for the best. The problem? I was already involved. My heart had belonged to her the moment I first laid eyes on her. When was that, all of ten minutes ago? It seemed much longer, somehow. Like a lifetime. I picked up the unconscious woman, treating her like a sculpture of spun glass as I carried her from the alley. Eimi Yoshikawa. That name might be the name of your body, perhaps, but not of your soul. Like mine, it did not fit you. God willing, we would have the time to discover your true name.

I wanted her, I realized. Needed her, really. But what did she feel for me? I was only the trick who had passed her up. This was an important question. That, and how in the hell was I going to flag down a cab hauling a cold-cocked Asian woman? The cabbies in Vancouver were not that liberal. I pushed the problem aside as I looked into Eimi's delicate face. I gently kissed her bruised cheek. Eimi. You could stop worrying. I had finally arrived.

***

The Yellow Cab rolled along the dusky streets of North Vancouver, heading out into the suburbs. Way out. I lived almost an hour out of city limits. Close enough for my business dealings, but far enough out so I could get some land attached to my property that I would not have to sacrifice my right testicle for. Land prices in the city center were steep, to say the least. Having millions didn't make the property more appealing, either. In North Van, every second person you met had a mil stashed under their pillow. That, or had a hand under yours. Lions and Hyenas both wandered Vancouver streets. Who was to say which animal was more dangerous?

The car sluiced through the curtains of light that washed down the streets at regular intervals. Orange, then dark. Over and over, without respite. Like some kind of strobe light stuck permanently on slow. Eimi twitched on my lap, shifting herself into a more comfortable position, I'd imagine. I continued to idly stroke her silken hair as I looked out the window at the quickly moving landscape.

"Where are we going," she asked. She had not budged. Her eyes remained closed, as if opening them would impart no useful information. She did not sound alarmed. Only curious.

"I'd expect you to want to know who it is you are with."

"I know that already." Eimi pushed herself off of my lap and leaned her back against the door of the cab. She regarded me with a flat-eyed stare. She seemed soulless. I wondered what kind of things she saw what he looked at me.

"I haven't been raped, so I figured I wasn't with those two goons. Besides," she squeezed my bulge with her nearest hand, "I recognize your smell. Spicy, like cloves and cinnamon."

"I see," I said, though I didn't, really. She did not seem to care that a complete stranger was with her in a car going off to parts unknown. Weird. Weird, but exciting. "Well, I'm heading home, and I figured you'd like a place to crash. You need to get that face looked at." I touched the bruise, careful not to cause her excessive discomfort. She flinched at the contact, but did not brush away my caress.

"You want to fuck me."

Perceptive. "Of course I do. But that's not why I am taking you home." Not the only reason, at least. "I could've had your ass back in the alley. All the hard work was already done for me."

"You're not that type."

"You think not?"

"I know not," she said. She ran a slim, well manicured finger over my full, thick lips. "Your kind craves excitement. Both the thrill of the chase, and of the kill. You are not interested in someone else's leftover carrion."

"Pretty smart, for one so young. What are you, eighteen?"

"Twenty. Young in years, but old in life." She ran a hand over my broad chest and rock-hard abs. There was nothing sexual in the contact. She was a blind woman, trying to formulate an impression of me by her touch alone.

"What have you been doing? You're horribly scarred."

Fuck. She could feel that through two layers of clothing? Who was this chick?

She laughed at my surprised expression. Her hand ran down my left arm. She traced the bulge of my rippling bicep with her mauve-tinted fingernails. She seemed to be taking inventory of my veins and tendons. "My touch is my business, Andrew. Just as yours is to fight."