Young Lady Attempts Prostitution in Osaka's Tobita Shinchi

The night air of Osaka was thick with humidity and the distant hum of pachinko parlors. Lin Xueying stood at the window of a cheap rented room, staring at the neon glow bleeding across the Tobita Shinchi district. Two weeks ago, her father had jumped from the twentieth floor of a bank building. The note he left was soaked in watered-down whiskey and shame: *The business is gone. I have failed you.*

Now the debts were hers.

She heard the door open without a knock. She had stopped locking it. The heavy footsteps of Yamada Ryuichi filled the tiny space, followed by the clink of a metal briefcase. He set it on the tatami mat and clicked the latches open.

“Your father,” he said, his voice flat, as if reciting a weather report, “owed my organization thirty million yen. You have inherited his debt. The contract is here.”

Lin Xueying turned slowly. She had once worn silk gowns to charity galas in Shanghai. Now she stood in a wrinkled blouse and skirt that smelled of secondhand stores. Yamada Ryuichi was a compact man in his fifties, gray creeping into his slicked-back hair, his eyes dull and cold like two black stones.

“I can’t pay that,” she whispered. “I have nothing.”

“You have your body,” he said. “You have your youth. And you have a younger sister, I believe. Studying at university in Tokyo?”

Her blood turned to ice. “Leave her out of this.”

Yamada pulled a photograph from the briefcase: her sister, smiling in front of a campus gate. He laid it beside the contract, then placed a pen on top.

“You will work in my establishment in Tobita Shinchi,” he said. “You will service customers, and every yen you earn will go toward your debt. Interest accrues monthly at twenty percent. If you fail to make payments, I will find your sister. I will put her to work in a different kind of establishment. The kind where they chain girls to beds.”

Lin Xueying’s hands trembled. She thought of her sister’s laugh, so bright and innocent, still untouched by the rot that had swallowed their family. She thought of her father’s body hitting the pavement. She thought of the shame already blooming in her chest like a bruise.

“If I work,” she said, her voice cracking, “if I do what you ask… you promise she will be safe?”

“I promise nothing,” Yamada said. “But you will have a chance to keep her safe. Sign.”

She picked up the pen. Her fingers felt foreign, numb. She wrote her name in Chinese characters at the bottom of the contract. The ink bled slightly on the cheap paper.

Yamada smiled, a thin, reptilian expression. He took the contract and placed it back in the briefcase. “Good girl. You start tonight. Sato will meet you at the shop. Do what she says. Do not argue. Do not cry. The customers don’t like tears.”

He left without another word. The door clicked shut.

She stood alone in the silence, the photograph of her sister still lying on the tatami. She picked it up and pressed it to her chest, then folded it carefully and tucked it into her bra, close to her heart.

---

The entrance to the sex shop was unremarkable: a narrow door wedged between a convenience store and a soba noodle joint, lit by a single pink lantern. The sign read *Lotus Flower* in faded Japanese, with a hand-painted lotus beneath. Lin Xueying hesitated at the threshold, heart beating so loud she was sure the passersby could hear it.

A woman’s voice called from inside. “Come in. Don’t block the doorway.”

She stepped into a small, dimly lit parlor. The walls were lined with red velvet curtains, and the air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. Behind a low counter sat a woman in her forties, her hair pulled into a tight bun, her face lined but not unkind. This was Sato.

Sato looked her up and down, appraising, then sighed. “You’re thinner than I expected. And paler. The customers like some color. We’ll need to work on that.”

Lin Xueying stood rigid, her hands clasped in front of her. “I don’t… I’ve never done this before.”

“I know,” Sato said, lighting a cigarette. “That’s why you’re here with me. I’m going to teach you how to serve a man. How to please him. How to make him leave satisfied and willing to spend more money. The first lesson is simple: you belong to him for the time he pays for. You don’t have a name. You don’t have a past. You are a body, and a body does what it’s told.”

The words hit Lin Xueying like a slap. She wanted to scream, to run, but her sister’s face flashed in her mind. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

“What do I have to do?” she asked, her voice flat.

Sato gestured to a door at the back of the parlor. “Come. I’ll show you the room. You’ll start with basic service tonight. Only oral. Nothing more until you prove you can handle it.”

Lin Xueying followed, her footsteps heavy on the creaking floor. The room was small, barely larger than a closet, with a futon on the floor and a small lamp casting a sickly yellow glow. On the bedside table sat a tray with tissues, a bottle of lubricant, and a stack of condoms.

“Your first customer will be here in twenty minutes,” Sato said. “His name is Jack. He’s a regular. He likes it when the girl seems nervous. Don’t disappoint me.”

Sato left, closing the door. Lin Xueying sat on the edge of the futon, staring at her hands. She had once played Chopin on a Steinway grand piano. Now her hands would learn a different kind of skill.

The minutes passed like hours. Then the door opened.

A man filled the frame—tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, with a shaved head and gold chains around his neck. He wore a leather jacket and jeans, and his eyes were already hungry.

“You’re the new girl?” he said, his English thick with an accent she couldn’t place. “Sato said you were Chinese. From a rich family, right?”

Lin Xueying nodded, unable to speak.

He laughed. “Good. I like rich girls who fall. Makes it sweeter.”

He stepped inside and locked the door behind him. The click of the lock echoed in her chest.

“Get on your knees,” he said.

She hesitated. Her whole body rebelled, every nerve screaming at her to stand, to fight, to run. But the image of her sister, smiling in the photograph, was seared into her mind. She lowered herself to the futon, then to her knees, her head bowed.

Jack walked around her, circling slowly. He reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair, forcing her chin up.

“Look at me when you work,” he said. “And smile. I paid for a smile.”

Her lips curved into something that was not a smile. It was a contortion of fear and shame, but it was enough. He grunted in approval.

“Good,” he said. “Now show me what that mouth is good for.”

She closed her eyes. She thought of her sister. She thought of the debt. She thought of the contract signed in her own hand. And she began.

The tatami mat smelled of stale tobacco and cheap perfume. Lin Xueying knelt in the center of the small back room, her knees pressed into the worn straw surface as Sato circled her like a hawk inspecting wounded prey.

"You are worthless like this," Sato said, her voice flat but cutting. "Stand up."

Xueying rose, her muscles aching from hours of repetition. The madam had been drilling her since noon, and the sun had long since set beyond the paper screens.

"Watch me." Sato lowered herself to the floor with practiced grace. Her movements were fluid, almost beautiful, as she placed both hands flat before her, then lowered her forehead to the tatami. Her palms faced upward, fingers spread in surrender.

"Dogeza," Sato said, her voice muffled against the mat. "The highest form of apology. Of submission. When a customer enters your room, you will do this. Not because you are sorry. Because you are beneath them."

She rose in one smooth motion, her knees not even creaking.

"Now you."

Xueying knelt again. She placed her hands on the tatami, feeling the rough fibers against her palms. She lowered her head, but her back remained stiff, her shoulders tight.

"No." Sato's hand pressed between Xueying's shoulder blades, forcing her down. "Lower. You must press your forehead to the mat. Your entire body must say 'I am nothing.' "

The pressure increased. Xueying's forehead touched the tatami. The smell of old straw and dust filled her nostrils.

"Palms up," Sato commanded.

Xueying turned her hands over, exposing her wrists. The position felt naked, vulnerable. Like offering her throat to a blade.

"Now stay."

The minutes crawled. Xueying's knees began to ache, then burn. The weight of her own body pressed her face into the mat until she could feel the individual strands leave impressions on her skin. Her back screamed from the unnatural angle.

"Think about what you are," Sato said, her voice coming from somewhere above. "You are not Lin Xueying anymore. You are not the daughter of a wealthy house. You are not educated. You are not refined. You are a vessel. Nothing more."

Tears pricked at the corners of Xueying's eyes, absorbed instantly by the tatami.

"Your family's debts are three million yen. Every day you do not work, interest accumulates. Every day you resist, you owe more. Every time you fail to please a customer, his payment is deducted from your earnings. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Xueying said into the mat.

"Louder."

"Yes, Sato-san."

"Good. Rise."

Xueying pushed herself up, but her knees screamed in protest. She swayed, nearly falling, catching herself on one hand.

"Do it again."

Three more times. Then five. Then ten. Each repetition stripped away another layer of resistance. By the time Sato called a halt, Xueying's knees were raw, the skin red and angry beneath her kimono. Her forehead felt bruised. Her hands trembled.

"Remember," Sato said, handing her a cup of lukewarm tea, "you will do this before every customer. Every. Single. One. If I see you omit it, you will be punished. If a customer tells me you omitted it, you will be punished. If I even suspect you omitted it, you will be punished."

Xueying nodded, her throat too tight for words.

"Now rest. You have your first customer in two hours. Yamada-san arranged a special guest for your introduction."

Xueying's stomach clenched. "Who?"

Sato's eyes held something that might have been sympathy, or might have been warning. "An American. He requested someone new. Someone... fresh. He enjoys making girls cry."

The door slid shut, leaving Xueying alone in the small room. She touched her forehead where it had pressed against the mat, feeling the tenderness. A vessel. Nothing more.

She looked at her hands. They had once held calligraphy brushes, teacups at formal ceremonies, the hand of her father as they walked through their garden. Now they would be pressed flat against tatami mats while strangers looked down at the back of her neck.

The tears came then, finally, silently. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, then froze.

Palms up. A gesture of submission.

Even her own tears had to follow the rules now.

She practiced the dogeza three more times before the two hours passed. Each time, it became easier. Each time, it hurt less. Each time, she died a little more inside.

Sato led Lin Xueying into a narrow room at the back of the parlor. The walls were paneled in cheap veneer, and a single fluorescent light buzzed overhead. In the center of the room stood a life-sized mannequin, naked from the waist down, its plastic skin worn and stained from years of use.

“This is your classroom,” Sato said, her voice flat and businesslike. She closed the door behind them, sealing the space into a suffocating hush.

Lin Xueying stared at the mannequin. Its legs were spread in a fixed pose, the molded gap between them smooth and obscene. Her stomach turned, but she pressed her lips tight. She had no room for protest.

Sato stepped beside the dummy and placed her hand on its plastic thigh. “We start with the basics. Immediate blowjob. When the customer enters, you kneel before he even sits. No greeting, no small talk. You reach for his belt and you begin.”

“That fast?” Lin Xueying’s voice came out thin.

“That fast. They pay for speed, for surprise. If you hesitate, they feel cheated. You want them to feel like they own you from the first second.” Sato gestured to the floor. “Kneel.”

Lin Xueying lowered herself onto the thin carpet. The fibers scratched through her stockings. She looked up at the mannequin’s featureless face, at the flat curve of its pelvis.

“Unzip it,” Sato instructed.

Lin Xueying’s fingers trembled as she reached for the dummy’s plastic fly. There was no zipper, only a ridge molded to simulate one. She fumbled against the unyielding surface, feeling foolish and small.

“Faster,” Sato said. “Imagine it’s real. Imagine the customer is already impatient.”

Lin Xueying forced her hand to move with more certainty. She pretended to pull down an invisible zipper, then reached inside the dummy’s hollow crotch. The plastic was cold against her fingers.

“Now take it in your mouth,” Sato said. “Wide. Cover your teeth with your lips. No scraping.”

Lin Xueying leaned forward. The dummy’s plastic phallus was smooth and tasteless, but her mind supplied a warmth that wasn’t there. She opened her mouth and closed her lips around the cold shape, fighting the gag that rose in her throat.

“Breathe through your nose,” Sato said. “Move your head in a steady rhythm. Up and down. Don’t rush, don’t slow. Let him set the pace, but make it feel like you’re eager.”

Lin Xueying bobbed her head, trying to find a rhythm. The plastic clicked against her teeth, and she tasted the faint chemical residue of cleaning solution. Her eyes watered.

“Better,” Sato said. “But keep your tongue active. Lick the underside as you pull back. They like that.”

Lin Xueying’s jaw ached. She counted seconds in her head, trying to distance herself from the act, to turn her body into a machine. But the humiliation burned in her chest, hot and sharp.

After what felt like an eternity, Sato touched her shoulder. “Enough. Now stand.”

Lin Xueying rose on shaky legs. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Sato positioned herself behind the mannequin and gripped its hips. “Now dry humping. Thigh sex. This one is simpler, but it requires finesse. You lie on your back, press your thighs together tight. He slides between them, no penetration. It’s friction, skin on skin, friction.”

“No fluids, then?” Lin Xueying asked, grasping for some technical detail to make the act feel clinical.

“That’s the trick,” Sato said. “You control the angle. If your thighs are too loose, he slides out. Too tight, he can’t move. You want him to feel the heat, the pressure, but never the entrance. He’ll beg for more. That’s when you remind him of the extra fee.”

Sato pointed to a thin mat on the floor. “Lie down.”

Lin Xueying obeyed. The mat smelled of sweat and cheap perfume. She stared at the ceiling as Sato crouched beside her.

“Press your knees together,” Sato said. “Lock them. Then tilt your hips up slightly.”

Lin Xueying adjusted her position. The strain in her thigh muscles was immediate.

Sato held the mannequin above her, positioning it so the plastic pelvis rested against the seam of Lin Xueying’s legs. “Now imagine he’s real. He’s heavy. He’s thrusting. You move with him, a gentle rocking, like you’re receiving pleasure. But you never open your legs.”

The dummy’s weight pressed down, hard and inert. Lin Xueying rocked her hips as instructed, feeling the plastic slide against her inner thighs. The friction burned even through her stockings.

“Faster,” Sato said. “Moan a little. Convince him.”

Lin Xueying let out a low, forced sound, her voice cracking in the empty room.

Sato watched with narrowed eyes. “Again. More convincing.”

Lin Xueying tried again, a soft, breathy noise that felt like a betrayal of everything she had been taught about herself.

The door slid open without warning.

Yamada Ryuichi stood in the doorway, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Smoke curled around his gaunt face. He looked at Lin Xueying on the mat, the mannequin still positioned over her, and his lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Practicing, I see,” he said.

Sato straightened immediately. “She’s learning. Making progress.”

“Progress.” Yamada stepped into the room, the soles of his shoes clicking against the floor. He stopped beside the mat and looked down at Lin Xueying. Her dress had ridden up, exposing her lower belly. She felt the cold air on her skin and his gaze like a weight.

“Get up,” he said.

Lin Xueing scrambled to her feet, smoothing down her skirt.

Yamada took a slow drag of his cigarette. “You’re clumsy. I can see it in the way you move. Tense. Resistant. A man can feel that.”

“I’m trying,” Lin Xueying said.

“Trying isn’t good enough. This isn’t a school. It’s a business.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the tobacco on his breath. “Do you understand the debt you owe? The cost of your family’s mistakes?”

“Yes.” The word scraped out of her.

“Then learn faster.” He turned to Sato. “Double her practice hours. And no dinner until she can complete the motions without hesitation.”

Sato bowed her head. “Yes, Yamada-san.”

He left as abruptly as he had come, the door sliding shut with a soft click. The silence he left behind was heavier than before.

Lin Xueying stood trembling in the center of the room. Sato touched her shoulder, a gesture that might have been sympathy or might have been impatience.

“Back to the dummy,” Sato said. “We have a long night ahead.”

Lin Xueying knelt again in front of the plastic figure. She opened her mouth, closed her eyes, and let the cold shape fill her empty space.

Sato's voice was flat, clinical, as if she were explaining how to fold an obi or arrange flowers. "Rimming is not complicated. You will use your tongue to stimulate the anus. The customer will lie on his stomach, and you will begin at the perineum, working outward in circles. Slow at first, then faster when he begins to breathe heavily."

Lin Xueying knelt on the tatami mat, her hands resting on her thighs. She had learned to keep her face empty, to show nothing of the churning inside her. The small practice room was lit by a single dim lamp, and the air smelled of straw and disinfectant.

"Open your mouth," Sato said.

Lin Xueing obeyed.

Sato held up a small mirror, positioning it so that Lin Xueing could see her own tongue. "You will need to keep your tongue soft, relaxed. Tension will make the customer uncomfortable. Watch."

Sato extended her own tongue, demonstrating a slow, circular motion. Lin Xueying watched, her stomach beginning to twist. She had thought she had already learned the worst of what would be demanded of her. She had been wrong.

"The sixty-nine position is more intuitive," Sato continued, setting down the mirror. "The customer lies on his back. You position yourself above his face, facing his feet. You will perform fellatio while he—"

"I understand," Lin Xueying said quickly. She did not need the details explained. She could picture it perfectly, and the image made her skin crawl.

Sato's eyes narrowed. "I hope you do. Because you will demonstrate both techniques today."

Lin Xueying's breath caught. "Demonstrate?"

"On me." Sato began untying the sash of her kimono with practiced efficiency. "I will lie on the futon, and you will practice until you are proficient. The boss insists that all new women achieve proficiency before receiving customers. It is non-negotiable."

Lin Xueying's hands trembled as she watched Sato's kimono fall open, revealing the older woman's pale, weathered body. Sato was past fifty, her skin loose at the throat and belly, her breasts sagging. She lay down on her stomach on the thin futon, her gray-streaked hair spreading across the pillow.

"Begin," Sato said, her voice muffled.

Lin Xueying crawled forward. The tatami was rough against her knees. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it in her ears, a dull throbbing that drowned out the distant sounds of the street. She lowered her face toward Sato's buttocks, and the smell of soap and salt filled her nostrils.

She pressed her lips to the skin just below Sato's tailbone.

"Wider," Sato said. "Use your tongue. Circle. Don't just press your mouth there like a fish."

Lin Xueying extended her tongue. The skin was warm, slightly damp. She traced a circle, then another. Her stomach heaved, and she forced herself to breathe slowly through her nose.

"Faster. And deeper."

She pushed her tongue against Sato's anus, feeling the tight ring of muscle. The taste filled her mouth—bitter, metallic, unclean. Her throat closed. A wave of nausea rose from her gut, hot and violent.

She jerked back, turning her head just in time to vomit onto the tatami. The bile burned her throat and nostrils. She coughed, gagged, retched again until her stomach was empty.

Sato sat up slowly, her face expressionless. She looked at the mess on the mat, then at Lin Xueying, who was still coughing, tears streaming down her face.

"Clean it up," Sato said.

Lin Xueying wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "I'm sorry. I couldn't—"

"You will clean it up, and then you will try again." Sato's voice was flat, but something flickered in her eyes—not anger, but a tired resignation. "You think you are the first woman to vomit in this room? You will get used to it. Or you will not survive here."

Lin Xueing fetched a cloth from the bucket in the corner. She knelt and wiped the tatami, her hands shaking. The smell of her own vomit mixed with the disinfectant, making her stomach lurch again.

When the mat was clean, she turned back to Sato.

"Again," Sato said, lying down once more.

Lin Xueying crawled forward. This time, she did not hesitate. She lowered her head and pressed her tongue to Sato's skin, forcing herself to ignore the taste, the smell, the humiliation. She circled, she pressed, she breathed through her mouth.

"Better," Sato said. "Now the sixty-nine."

They reversed positions. Lin Xueying lay on her back, and Sato straddled her chest, facing her feet. The older woman's thighs pressed against Lin Xueying's ribs, heavy and warm.

"You know what to do," Sato said.

Lin Xueying lifted her head and took Sato into her mouth. At the same time, she felt Sato's tongue against her, probing, circling. The sensation was so unexpected, so invasive, that she nearly gagged again. But she forced herself to continue, to focus on the mechanical motion of her tongue, to detach her mind from what her body was doing.

"How does it feel?" Sato asked, pausing.

"Uncomfortable," Lin Xueying admitted.

"Good. It is not meant to be comfortable. It is meant to be endured." Sato resumed, and this time her tongue was harder, more insistent.

Lin Xueying closed her eyes and counted. One, two, three, four. She focused on the rhythm of her own tongue, synchronized it with her breathing. She imagined she was somewhere else—the garden of her family's home, the courtyard where she had played as a child. The cherry blossoms were falling, pink and white, swirling in the spring breeze.

A sharp crack against her buttocks brought her back.

She opened her eyes. Sato had pulled away and was holding a thin rattan stick, the kind used for beating dust from tatami. Her face was hard.

"You stopped," Sato said. "You cannot stop. Not for a moment. The customer will notice."

"I was still—"

"You stopped moving your tongue. I felt it." Sato raised the rattan stick. "Turn over."

Lin Xueying hesitated. The stick cracked against her thigh, and she gasped.

"I said turn over."

She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her face into the futon. The straw smell filled her nostrils again.

The rattan stick whistled through the air and landed across her buttocks with a sharp sting. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

"You will learn," Sato said, striking again. "You will learn to perform every service without hesitation, without disgust, without thought. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Lin Xueying whispered.

"Yes, Sato-san."

"Yes, Sato-san."

The third strike landed harder. Tears leaked from Lin Xueying's eyes, soaking into the futon fabric. She did not make a sound.

The lesson continued for another hour. Lin Xueying practiced until her tongue ached, until her jaw cramped, until the taste and smell became almost bearable. Each time she slowed or faltered, the rattan stick found her flesh.

By the end, her buttocks were striped with red welts, and she could barely walk.

That night, she lay alone in her small room, the thin blanket pulled up to her chin. The welts throbbed with every heartbeat, and her tongue felt raw and swollen. She stared at the crack in the ceiling, the same crack she had stared at every night for the past two weeks.

She thought of her sister.

Little Mei was twelve years old, staying with a distant aunt in a cramped apartment in Osaka's outskirts. She did not know what her elder sister was doing to pay off their father's debts. She thought Lin Xueying was working as a hostess, pouring drinks and singing karaoke.

Lin Xueying let her believe that.

If she stopped, if she ran, if she refused—the yakuza would come for Mei. Yamada had made that clear on her first night. "Your sister is very pretty," he had said, smiling. "Too pretty. It would be a shame if something happened to her."

Lin Xueying pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling the sob that rose in her throat.

She could endure this. She had survived today. She could survive tomorrow.

She had to.

The morning light seeped through the thin curtains of the small room, casting pale stripes across the tatami mats. Lin Xueying sat on the edge of the futon, her fingers wrapped around a cup of lukewarm tea she had no intention of drinking. The bruise on her wrist had faded to a sickly yellow, but the memory of Jack’s thick fingers biting into her skin remained fresh.

A sharp knock at the door made her flinch.

Sato entered without waiting for an answer, her wooden sandals clicking against the floorboards. The madam’s face was set in its usual mask of businesslike efficiency, but her eyes flickered with something that might have been hesitation. She closed the door behind her and stood with her hands clasped in front of her apron.

“Lin-san,” she began, her voice low, “there is something we need to discuss. Something you must be prepared for.”

Lin Xueying set the tea aside. “What now?”

Sato exhaled slowly. “Some customers… they will ask to drink from you. Holy water, they call it. It is a request that comes from certain men. Mostly Westerners, sometimes Japanese who have acquired a taste for filth.” She paused. “It is part of the service here.”

Lin Xueying’s stomach tightened. For a moment the word didn’t register. Then the meaning settled like a stone in her gut. “Holy water?” she repeated, her voice flat. “You mean urine.”

Sato did not flinch. “It is what they want. You will have to provide it when asked.”

The cup of tea rattled as Lin Xueying’s hand shot out, sweeping it off the low table. It shattered against the wall, brown liquid dripping down the painted wood. She stood, her body trembling. “No. Absolutely not. I will not—they can beat me, they can starve me, but I will not be a toilet for some pervert’s fantasy.”

Sato took a step back, but her expression hardened. “You do not have a choice.”

“I refuse.” Lin Xueying’s voice cracked, but she forced it steady. “There must be a line. Even in this place, there must be something I do not have to do.”

The door slid open with a quiet scrape.

Yamada Ryuichi stood in the doorway, his narrow frame silhouetted against the hallway light. He wore a dark suit, no tie, the collar open at his throat. In his hand he held a folded piece of paper. He stepped inside, and Sato immediately bowed and retreated to the corner.

“Refuse?” His voice was soft, almost pleasant. “That is a strong word for a woman who owes seven million yen.”

Lin Xueying’s breath caught. “My debt is being paid. I have had over fifty customers this month alone. I am doing everything you ask.”

“Everything?” He unfolded the paper and held it up. It was a hospital invoice, stamped with the name of a private clinic in Osaka. “Your sister’s latest treatment. The doctors say she needs another round of chemotherapy within two weeks, or the tumor will spread to her spine. The cost is eight hundred thousand yen.”

The air left her lungs. “You promised. You said her care was covered as long as I worked.”

“Covered,” Yamada repeated, letting the word hang. “Yes. I cover it. But if you refuse to provide the services my customers request, I may find that I cannot afford to be so generous. Business is business, Lin-san. I run a house of pleasure, not a charity. Every refusal costs me money, and every loss of money must be compensated somewhere.”

He took a step closer, and she could smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. “Do you want your sister to die because you were too proud to let a man drink from your body?”

Lin Xueying’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Her nails bit into her palms. She thought of her sister’s face, pale and thin against the hospital pillow, her hair falling out in clumps. She thought of the machines that kept her alive, the bills that piled like snow, the yakuza who held the keys to both their lives.

Her knees buckled. She did not fall—she sank, deliberately, slowly, until she was kneeling on the tatami mat. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

“Good,” Yamada said. He nodded to Sato. “Her first holy water customer arrives in one hour. Prepare her.”

He left without another word, the paper still in his hand.

Sato knelt beside her. For a moment the madam’s hand hovered near Lin Xueying’s shoulder, as if she might offer comfort. But the hand withdrew. “Drink water now,” she said quietly. “A lot of it. And do not eat anything. It will be easier for you if you are full.”

Lin Xueying remained kneeling long after Sato left, staring at the shattered teacup, the brown stain spreading across the wall like a wound. She whispered her sister’s name into the empty room. The name was the only prayer she had left.

An hour later, she knelt again. This time on a plastic sheet spread over the floor of the service room. The room was small, just a futon and a basin of water and a stack of clean towels. The man stood over her—a middle-aged Japanese businessman with a flushed face and a greedy smile. He had paid extra for the privilege.

Sato stood by the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

The man unbuckled his belt. “On your knees,” he said. “And open your mouth.”

Lin Xueying’s jaw trembled. Her eyes were dry now. The tears had been drained out of her, replaced by a vast, hollow stillness. She thought of her sister. She thought of the machines. She thought of the debt that would never end.

She opened her mouth.

The liquid was warm and bitter, tinged with ammonia. It splashed across her tongue, dripped down her chin, pooled in the hollow of her collarbone. She did not close her eyes. She stared at the man’s shoes, at the scuffed leather, at the speck of mud on the toe.

A single tear escaped. It rolled down her cheek and mingled with the holy water, dissolving into nothing.

The man laughed. “Good girl. You learn fast.”

When it was over, she cleaned herself with the towels. Sato handed her a glass of water to rinse her mouth. The taste lingered, metallic and foul, coating the back of her throat.

“You will get used to it,” Sato said. It was not a promise. It was a threat disguised as comfort.

Lin Xueying said nothing. She knelt on the plastic sheet, her hands in her lap, and stared at the stain on the wall. Somewhere in the distance, she heard music from the street—a tinny recording of an enka ballad, a song about love and loss and the cruel passage of time.

She did not get used to it.

She simply learned to disappear inside herself when the men came, to float somewhere above her body while it endured what must be endured. The holy water became just another humiliation in a river of humiliations, and she drank from that river every day, waiting for the current to carry her somewhere she could no longer feel the shame.

The air in the small room was thick with the scent of stale tobacco and cheap perfume, a cloying mixture that clung to Lin Xueying’s skin like a second layer of filth. She knelt on the tatami mat, her knees already aching from the rehearsals, her kimono adjusted precisely as Sato had taught her. The fabric felt like a cage, binding her breath as much as her movements.

The sliding door rattled open, and Sato’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. “He’s here. Remember everything I taught you. Do not disappoint.”

Lin Xueying lowered her head, her eyes fixed on the worn pattern of the mat. She heard the heavy footsteps of a man entering, the creak of the wooden floorboards under his weight. Sato’s sandals shuffled away, and the door slid shut with a final click that sealed her fate.

“Look up,” the man said, his voice rough with age and authority.

She raised her chin slowly, meeting his gaze. He was in his fifties, perhaps older, with graying hair combed back and a face lined by years of hard living. His suit was cheap but neat, and his eyes held a cold appraisal that made her stomach turn.

“So you’re the new Chinese girl,” he said, settling onto the zabuton cushion across from her. “They said you’re pretty. Not bad.”

Lin Xueying forced her lips into a smile she had practiced in the mirror a hundred times. “Thank you for choosing me.”

“Let’s not waste time,” he said, unbuttoning his jacket. “I paid for the full service. Show me what you can do.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she had no room for hesitation. Sato’s lessons echoed in her mind: *Dogeza first. Show complete submission. It pleases them.* She lowered herself forward until her forehead touched the tatami, her arms stretched out in front of her, palms flat. The position was humiliating, a total prostration that made her feel smaller than dirt.

“Very good,” the man murmured, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “Now come here.”

She crawled to him on her knees, keeping her head down. He reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her face upward. “Look at me when you work.”

She did, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. He guided her head downward, and she knew what was expected. Without a word, she unfastened his belt and trousers, her fingers trembling as she freed his half-hard cock. The smell of sweat and stale sex hit her nostrils, and she gagged inwardly.

But she had no choice. She opened her mouth and took him in, her tongue moving mechanically as Sato had drilled into her. The man groaned, his hand still gripping her hair, pushing her deeper. She focused on breathing through her nose, on the rhythm of the act, on detaching her mind from her body. This wasn’t her. This was a shell, a puppet performing a role.

Minutes passed like hours. He guided her through different positions, making her kneel again while he pressed himself against her from behind, grinding through the layers of her kimono. The friction was rough, the fabric chafing her thighs, but he seemed to enjoy the simulation of intimacy without actual penetration. His hands roamed over her body, groping and squeezing, leaving bruises that would bloom purple by morning.

When he finally finished with a grunt and a shudder, he pulled away and tucked himself back into his trousers. Lin Xueying remained on her knees, her mouth dry and her throat raw. She did not dare to wipe her lips.

“Not bad for a first-timer,” he said, standing and adjusting his belt. “Tell Sato I’ll come again.”

He left without another word, the door sliding open and shut, leaving her alone in the dim light. She sat there for a long moment, her hands clenched into fists in her lap, before she allowed herself to breathe.

Sato appeared a few minutes later, her face unreadable. “He was satisfied. That’s good. You can rest for an hour before the next one.”

Lin Xueing nodded, not trusting her voice. She rose on shaky legs and walked to the small washbasin in the corner, rinsing her mouth with cold water. The taste of him lingered, metallic and sour.

Later that evening, Yamada Ryuichi summoned her to his office. The room was larger, cluttered with papers and bottles of whiskey. He sat behind a low desk, a cigarette burning in an ashtray beside him.

“Your first day went well,” he said, not looking up from a ledger. He slid a few crumpled bills across the table. “Your share. Five thousand yen.”

She stared at the money. It was a pittance, barely enough for a meal. “How much did he pay?”

Yamada finally raised his eyes, a cold smile playing on his lips. “Fifty thousand. The rest goes to your debt. You still owe twelve million, by the way. So keep up the good work.”

Lin Xueying picked up the bills, the paper feeling cheap and dirty in her hand. She wanted to scream, to throw the money in his face, but she had learned already that defiance only invited pain. So she bowed slightly, murmured her thanks, and walked out of the office with the five thousand yen clutched in her fist like a fragile talisman.

Back in her tiny room, she sat on the thin futon and counted the notes again. Five thousand yen. For her dignity, her body, her soul. She folded them carefully and tucked them into the fold of her obi, a secret treasure that felt more like a curse.

Outside the window, the neon lights of Tobita Shinchi flickered to life, casting garish colors across the narrow street. The night was young, and the next customer was already waiting.

Sato held up two hangers, each draped with a different uniform. On the left, a sleek black bunny girl outfit—shiny satin, fishnet stockings, a fluffy tail, and long rabbit ears. On the right, a sailor-style JK uniform: navy blue pleated skirt, white blouse with a red bow, knee-high socks.

"From tonight," Sato said, her voice flat, "you change according to the guest. Some want the innocent schoolgirl. Some want the showy bunny. You'll learn to read their eyes."

Lin Xueying stared at the costumes. The fabric looked cheap, the sequins gaudy. She nodded.

Sato left her alone in the small dressing room. Lin Xueying's fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her plain dress. She slipped into the bunny girl outfit first. The satin clung to her skin like a second layer, cold and slick. She pulled on the fishnet stockings, the diamond mesh stretching over her calves and thighs. The garter belt bit into her waist. When she adjusted the headband with the rabbit ears, she caught her reflection in the dusty mirror.

She looked nothing like herself. That was the point.

A knock at the door. "Ready?" Sato's voice.

Lin Xueying took a breath and opened the door. Sato's eyes scanned her from head to toe. "Good. Now walk like you own the place, not like you're going to be executed."

The main room was dim, lit by red paper lanterns. A few men sat on low cushions, sake cups in hand. Sato guided Lin Xueying to a corner where a tall, broad-shouldered black man waited. He was perhaps forty, with a shaved head and a thick gold chain around his neck. His name was Jack.

Sato bowed. "This is Lin. She's new."

Jack looked Lin Xueying up and down, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Bunny girl, huh? Good." He gestured to the cushion beside him. "Sit."

Lin Xueying knelt, her thighs pressing together under the short skirt. Jack leaned back, swirling his sake. "You know what I like?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Feet. I want you to use those pretty feet."

Her stomach clenched. She had heard about this from the other girls—footjobs, shoe shines, toe licking. She had hoped her first real request would be simpler.

She forced a smile. "Of course."

Jack unzipped his pants without ceremony. His erection stood out, thick and dark against his pale stomach. He extended his legs, leaning back on his elbows. "Go ahead. Show me what you've got."

Lin Xueying hesitated. Then she shifted onto her knees, turning her body so her feet were closer to him. She lifted her right leg, the fishnet stockings glinting in the lantern light. She pressed the ball of her foot against the base of his shaft, then slid it upward slowly.

Jack let out a low hum. "Slower. Use both feet."

She brought her left foot up as well, sandwiching his cock between her soles. The skin of her feet was soft, the fishnet adding a rough texture. She began a clumsy pumping motion, her ankles wobbling from the awkward angle.

Jack's smile faded. "That's it? You call that a footjob? Feels like a baby trying to walk."

Heat rushed to Lin Xueying's cheeks. She pressed harder, trying to find a rhythm, but her legs cramped. The muscles in her calves burned. She adjusted her position, leaning forward to get better leverage, but that made the angle even worse.

Jack sighed. "Sato said you were trained. This is pathetic."

Lin Xueying bit her lip. She remembered Sato's lessons—relax the toes, use the arch for pressure, keep a steady pace. She took a breath, flexed her feet, and pressed the full length of her sole against his shaft. She rotated her ankles, creating a squeezing motion.

Jack's breathing changed. His eyes half-closed.

She kept going, ignoring the ache in her legs, the sweat on her forehead. She focused only on the movement: slide up, squeeze, slide down. The fishnet stockings grew damp from her effort.

Jack's hips bucked. He grunted, and a warm liquid spread across the top of her feet. He exhaled heavily, then reached down and pushed her feet away.

"Finally," he said, tucking himself back into his pants. "Not bad for a first try. But you've got a long way to go."

Lin Xueying lowered her legs. The cum dripped from the fishnet onto the tatami mat. She stared at it, her face burning.

Jack pulled out a wad of cash and tossed it on the table. "Tell Sato I'll be back. Maybe next time you'll use your mouth too." He stood and walked out without a backward glance.

Lin Xueying remained on her knees. The rabbit ears had slipped sideways. She straightened them slowly. In the dim light, her reflection in the polished sake bottle showed a beautiful girl in a bunny costume, her eyes hollow.

She whispered to herself, "Just survive. Just survive."

The low ceiling of the private banquet room pressed down like a weight on Lin Xueying's chest. Thick smoke from cigars and cigarettes coiled through the dim light, carrying the sour stench of cheap whiskey and unwashed bodies. She knelt on a tatami mat that had seen better decades, her silk kimono—Sato's hand-me-down, cherry blossoms fading at the edges—bunched beneath her knees. Around her, a semicircle of yakuza men sat on zabuton cushions, their suits open at the collars, tattoos peeking from wrists and necks like bruises.

Yamada Ryuichi occupied the center seat, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue resting beside him like a throne's scepter. He swirled his glass, ice clinking, and regarded her with the flat, appraising look of a man who already owned her.

"Xueying-chan," he said, his voice smooth as oil on water. "Tonight, you prove your worth."

She kept her eyes lowered, her hands folded in her lap. The silk of her kimono felt cold against her trembling fingers. "Yes, Ryuichi-sama."

He gestured with his glass toward the space before his cushion. "Come. Show my brothers the proper greeting."

The room went quiet. Eight men watched her, their eyes black beads of anticipation. One of them, a scar-faced man with gold teeth, let out a low chuckle.

Lin Xueying's stomach turned to stone. She had learned what "proper greeting" meant under Sato's tutelage over the past weeks—a lesson delivered with wooden paddles and sharp slaps whenever she flinched. She crawled forward on her knees, the tatami rough even through the silk, until she reached the spot in front of Yamada. Then she pressed her forehead to the floor, her palms flat on the mats, her body folded in submission.

Dogeza.

The word echoed in her skull like a bell. She had only ever seen this posture in historical dramas—a woman of no status groveling before a lord. Now she was that woman. Her father's mansion, her mother's pearl necklace, the garden where she had read poetry as a girl—all of it felt like a dream that belonged to someone else.

"Hmm," Yamada said, sounding almost bored. "Higher, Xueying. Let them see your face."

She lifted her head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes still downcast. The gold-toothed yakuza licked his lips.

Yamada set down his glass and unfastened his belt with casual deliberation. "You know what comes next."

Lin Xueying's breath caught. The humiliation of the dogeza was nothing compared to the command that hung in the air. She wanted to close her eyes, to disappear into the dark fabric of her own mind, but Sato had warned her: *If you refuse, they will take it from you anyway, and they will make it hurt.*

She nodded, a single, jerky motion.

Yamada's hand found the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. He guided her forward, not roughly but with an insistence that allowed no resistance. She smelled the salt of his skin, the sharpness of whiskey on his breath. The room tilted around her as she lowered her head.

The first yakuza—the gold-toothed one—leaned forward, his voice a wet whisper. "Open your mouth, little flower."

She did.

Time dissolved into a series of sensations she tried not to feel. The weight of hands on her shoulders, her neck. The murmurs of approval from the circle, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the hiss of ash hitting a ceramic tray. Above her, Yamada's breathing remained steady, as if he were doing nothing more than reading a newspaper.

"Takes instruction well," someone said.

"Yamada-san always picks the good ones."

A different hand pushed her kimono from her shoulder, exposing the pale skin beneath. She felt a thumb trace her collarbone, then move lower. She did not flinch. She had learned not to flinch.

"Enough," Yamada said at last, and the pressure on her head eased. She pulled back, her lips numb, her throat raw. She kept her eyes on the tatami, afraid of what she would see in their faces.

The scar-faced man stood and walked behind her. She heard the clink of his belt. "My turn."

Lin Xueying's fingers dug into her palms. One more, she told herself. One more, and perhaps they would be satisfied. She closed her eyes and waited.

The next hour passed in fragments. Each yakuza took his turn, some rough, some mockingly gentle, one who whispered obscene compliments in her ear as if she were a lover. Her knees ached from the tatami. Her jaw throbbed. At some point, Yamada ordered her to pour drinks, and she did so with shaking hands, splashing whiskey onto the rim of the glass.

"The little thing trembles," said the gold-toothed man, accepting his drink. "Sweet, isn't it?"

Yamada smiled, a cold, thin line. "She learns. That's all I ask."

Lin Xueying pressed her lips together and tasted copper. She had bitten the inside of her cheek at some point without realizing it. She swallowed the blood.

Then the door slid open, and a new presence entered the room.

The conversation stopped. The yakuza straightened, their postures shifting from predatory lounging to something approaching deference. Yamada rose to his feet, a gesture he had not made for anyone else that evening.

"Jack-san," he said, bowing. "Welcome. We were just getting started."

Lin Xueying looked up.

The man who stood in the doorway was enormous. Black skin, broad shoulders, a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He wore a cream-colored suit that must have been tailored by hand, a gold watch gleaming on his wrist. His head was shaved clean, and his eyes—dark and calm—surveyed the room with the lazy confidence of a cat deciding whether to pounce.

"Ryuichi," he said, his English accented but clear. He stepped into the room, and the yakuza parted around him like water. "I hope I am not interrupting."

"Never." Yamada gestured to the empty cushion at his right hand—the seat of honor. "Please. We were about to open a new bottle."

Jack sat, crossing one leg over the other. His gaze swept the room and landed on Lin Xueying, still kneeling on the tatami, her kimono askew, her hair a mess, her eyes red-rimmed but dry.

His brow lifted. "And this?"

"A new girl," Yamada said, his tone light. "Very refined. From a good family, once."

Jack studied her for a long moment. His expression was unreadable—not leering, not cruel, but curious. "She looks tired."

"She is learning." Yamada reached out and touched Lin Xueying's chin, tilting her face upward. "Show Jack-san your manners."

Lin Xueying met Jack's eyes. She expected to see the same hunger she had seen in the others. Instead, she saw something that might have been pity, hidden quickly behind a mask of professionalism.

"Stand up," Jack said, not to Yamada, but to her.

She hesitated, glancing at Yamada. He nodded, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

She rose on unsteady legs. The room swayed, and she steadied herself against the wall.

Jack reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded bill—a hundred-dollar note, crisp and new. He held it out to her. "Go get yourself something to eat. A real meal, not this." He gestured at the whiskey bottles, the trays of half-eaten sashimi.

Lin Xueying stared at the money. It felt like a trap wrapped in kindness.

Yamada laughed, a sharp sound. "Jack-san has a soft spot. Take it, girl. Don't be rude."

She took the bill, her fingers brushing against Jack's. His hand was warm, solid.

"I will come see you later," Jack said, his eyes still locked on hers. "Maybe we can have a drink somewhere quieter."

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. The yakuza exchanged glances. Yamada's smile tightened, but he said nothing.

Lin Xueying bowed, clutching the hundred-dollar bill in her fist. The paper felt like a lifeline or a leash—she could not yet tell which.

As she shuffled toward the door, she heard Jack's voice behind her, casual and light: "Very fine. You have good taste, Ryuichi."

When she reached the hallway, the door slid shut behind her, and the noise of the banquet resumed. She leaned against the wall, her chest heaving, her legs threatening to give out. The hundred-dollar bill was damp with her sweat.

She had survived the night. Somehow, that did not feel like a victory.