Grand Caldera

Osaka was humid. Everything was orderly. We boarded the Haruka Express, and the train glided away silently. I looked out at the flat suburbs, at lines of pale daylight stretching across the city.

*

Direct flight to Kumamoto. We waited at the gate. The travelers moved as if held in a quiet spell.

The Dreamliner lifted off. Below us, Honshū shrank into a patchwork of rooftops and rivers. I sat by the window, watching the sunlight trace the wing. The cabin was hushed, almost solemn. Green tea and a simple meal were served. I took them as if it were a ritual—an offering for the journey ahead.

You slept for a while. I remained awake. A sense of connection, untethered from place or time, washed over me. Silent reassurance, or perhaps mere imagination. Perhaps memory. Soon, I could see the Seto Inland Sea, a mosaic of tiny islands shimmering between the water.

We reached Kyūshū. The western coastline unfolded beneath us, and I recognized Mount Aso. Flying over Kumamoto’s shore, the ocean stretched endlessly, deep blue, the Pacific draped like a velvet cloth. The pilot announced our descent. Kumamoto was shrouded in mist.

*

Grand caldera formations shaped the landscape. Geological upheavals had produced sudden depopulations, leaving picturesque ruins in their wake. Tourists reveled in the decay. A fascination with ruins swept the area. All paths seemed to lead to burial mounds from the Shōwa era.

“The Shōwa period… refers to the reign of Emperor Hirohito, the third emperor of modern Japan, from December 25, 1926, to January 7, 1989.” — Wikipedia

We checked into a luxury love hotel. In our imagination, we were married, celebrating a honeymoon we had never taken after the wedding. We wanted to go beyond the familiar. The setting collapsed a few times. The tremors of my reliability as a partner in language and desire unsettled me.

In the end, this story worked. It had unfolded exactly like this weeks earlier, on another continent.

The Black Scarf

I was wearing a knee-length cotton dress—cream-colored, light enough for the tropical climate, elegant enough not to look like a mass tourist stumbling off a plane. Your gaze slid over me; yes, this was how you wanted to see me. Goodbye, Outback-backpacker chic. You had become remarkably decisive in shaping my life. Just thinking about it, I felt desire bloom at my core… The sun stood high above the Esplanade, tropical heat pressing down on the city. It was waterboarding for the senses.

We wandered aimlessly past galleries, boutiques selling fluttering dresses and trinkets. You stopped in front of a tiny shop tucked into a side street. No striking display, no loud colors—just a simple sign: Loom & Light – Fine Textiles & Objects.

A cool draft surprised us as we stepped inside. Bolts of silk and linen were offered for sale, handwoven scarves, artfully folded cloths from India, Japan, Vietnam. A woman with a silver-gray, concrete-still hairstyle greeted us with a nod, then discreetly disappeared among the fabric rolls.

You picked up a plain black silk cloth. I frowned.

“For you,” you said simply, and I laughed softly.
“A black cloth? I’m not a vampire.”

You held it to my cheek. It felt weightless. Then you looked at me. With a distant note of anticipation in your voice, roughened by arousal, you said,
“You’ll see. Or rather—not see.”

You touched the back of my neck. Your desire caught my breath short. I saw and felt your hardness and didn’t ask another question. I was curious, certainly, but not suspicious. I wanted you to want me—fiercely. It wasn’t until the hotel room that I understood.

The fan traced slow circles above us; somewhere, geckos chirped and clicked. I was just taking off my earrings when you stepped up behind me, the cloth in your hand.

“Do you trust me?” you asked.

“I trust you blindly.”

You tied the cloth around me. I didn’t know what you would do next, but I was so aroused my legs could barely support me. The silk veil… your breath at my ear. Time stood still, heavy with warmth. My skin became a landscape; each of your touches was wind, rain, fire.

Clearly, this was how you wanted me. I was still wearing my skirt and top. Perhaps it was a directorial error. Or perhaps it served the dramatic tension. You guided me to the bed. I didn’t know where your hands would go next. I dissolved into anticipation.

Led by your will and my surrender… I began to grow accustomed to the idea. More than that—it charged me with desire. You were so tender, even in your guidance. I heard what you had not yet dared to say. Of course, you could have found a willing partner at any time, someone who would have met you with overt consent from the start. But I delighted in the fluidity of your maneuvers. Your focus. Your resolve.

You wanted to take me completely. To possess me. I was meant to be yours.

P.S.
Dear readers, I won’t conceal what you already know anyway. I have enjoyed the cloth fetish with various lovers. Each of them believed himself to be the first—and therefore the only one—in that role. The truth is that again and again, I have begun anew, becoming the woman who enters a new fetish because the man wishes it so.