The Hell- Bound Mistress (STORY) 4: The Red Pool of Gorgeous Filth

Some how, the famous figure found herself swaying in the garden path.

As if having a mind of their own, the itching wet leaves brushed the Mistress's naked legs as she drunkenly sailed through the garden with her naked body. It was a fair of dancing colors, and its stone lanterns shimmered with wind tossed candle glow. The slow croak of a few garden frogs sang one after another beside the night pond's edge.

Night's balmy breeze played upon her crusted cheeks, rustling the tendrils of her lover's seeds as if it was a spider web of shamisen strings. The garden was precisely what she needed. She need it cool her throughout, from naked foot to her opium dazed head. With one hand she gathered the cool night dew the leaves spilled upon her long legs and smeared it over her burning face. Tasted it and giggling, she imagined herself a nymph who was born from sweet dew itself.

Then she heard it, a splash of water beneath her naked feet, like a pebble breaking the surface. Then another.

When she peered down, a dozen red and white and gold carps were watching her, from beneath the surface of the night pond. Lastly, after several thoughts, she realized she was beside the famous carp pond's pier. The owners of the establishment wouldn't mind, a frequent lover after all, actually both the father and son. But she found herself looking back at the watching carps. They were so cute, she thought, how they broke the placid surface, one after another in an eager school, clambering over each other's wet colorful scales just to gulp yawning bubbles at her naked feet. As entranced and enthralled as wolf packs of her lovers.

“You like that don't you?” She whispered,

though she didn't think they would respond back with words.

“Perverts”

But she was smiling. Smiling down at their wide yet unblinking eyes. Which were all riveted upon her every move. Amused, she imagined they thought she was one of them, wrapped in bright red and moving above on the mirror world to their dark pond.

Amused, she stuck out one expensive white leg over the night water's sloshing surface. Like a wand, immediately, an impatient school of red and gold and white carps raced beneath her naked leg, popping bubbles as they watched her from beneath. It was as if the whole pond was there, layer upon layer coiling over each other.

She laughed. Then made another, sudden move by skimming her hovering leg over the surface, barely breaking the surface for a second. The school of dancing carps flew to that rippling ring and fought over the mark she made.

And for several long minutes all that was there was the sound of the naked woman and her laughing. Was it because somehow they were her only friends? A rare thing indeed, laughter from such a black Hell- bound heart.

By the end of the play, both sides beneath the woman's famous white legs were wet with the pond's water. Yet, she was remiss from leaving alone all of those spellbound watching eyes.

Instead, a sudden inspiration came to her.

“Don't blame me for leaving, my Sweets.” And the Mistress catered her exposed and feathery sex to the edge of that low pier. Drawing in the whole schools of attentive bubbling carps. With one feverish hand, which splayed opened the ruffles of her flower, the Mistress pissed out a long mighty jet, thin violent spritz of caustic yellow, pressurized with waxy trapped seeds all her lovers within that exhausted ass. A dozen, then, a hundred ripples broke over the night pond's inky black surface.

Instantly, the pond's carps were sent into a wild frenzy. An exploding orchestra of splashing and spraying ripples. Suddenly, leaping, fighting carps recoiled up in an insane simultaneous dance of madness around all the areas where her squirt had pierced the water. Feverishly burying after one another in order to chase after barely visible thin ribbons of swishing white.

The Mistress laughed, and she mused if any real tadpoles within such a pond would mind her own gift of unwashed tadpoles from feverish lovers, bitter sweet tadpoles which~ if they would have grown up surviving childhood, and bore names so high they would be kowtowed to as the Shogunate's inner most Cabinate. Alas, now a buffet for her new favorites.

She didn't even hear the figure approach on naked feet until she turned her head.

And suddenly, as she beheld a face, a face which was meant for her, many of her unanswered question- which had so vexed her these weeks were answered at once. And also instantly, the dream-like haze of her opium vanished as if it was blown away by an unseen wind.

“I should have seen it coming”

was all the Mistress~ compromised by her splayed naked legs and still-dripping folds could muster.

“Most don't,” The figure behind her replied, “so there's little point in chastising yourself.”

The Mistress squinted her eyes, but in reality, she was blaming them, for how much they saw, but did not see. What's more, was the abundant clarity that Piss Pot was definitely working with this one for quite some time.

“I do mean the part about chastising yourself. Most believe we are demons in the shadows.”

“Im afraid the truth is more boring, we rather prefer the plain sight.” the confident voice of the ninja actually sounded assuring...Despite its likely homicidal intentions.

“I am however sad to relate that I am here for your punishment.” The concerned voice then added, “But you were expecting me were you not?”

“The idea of me coming after you, that you went to the temple those fortnight ago, and spent all those gold on all those prayers for your soul? That you procured one foreign delicacy every new night, and drank from all those men dry each night, hoping their lust-stung bodies would sooth your crackling nerves. And beat your maid in so many bouts just to steal back a measure of life?”

“Yes.” the Mistress spat out wryly, straightening up her red painted lips and for the first time that night noticed it still tasted of their unwashed, piss- stained crowns. “It would seem you are my Hell.”

“Indeed” and from the figure's back was produced a long sheathed blade- perfect for decapitation. Upon its lacquered scabbard bore the ornate mon of the offended house.