Hotel Iris by Yōko Ogawa Read Free Book Online Page B

an anus. He caressed me, moistening each part with his tongue, tasting me with his lips.
    I closed my eyes. That way, I could feel the humiliation more deeply. The vinyl on the couch rubbed against my back. I should have been chilled, but I started to sweat.
    His mouth probed between my legs. Even his breath made my nerves cry out. I felt as though I was being tornapart, split between fear of what he would do next and the desire to be shamed even more. But out of the tear, pleasure came bubbling like blood from a wound.
    He opened the folds one by one, his tongue playing over the tiny seed under the last layer. I cried out and tried to twist away, but he refused to release me. The little mound twitched nervously in the damp pleats.
    His fingers ventured into me. It had started at last. There, between my legs, everything seemed to be coming to pieces. I tried to close myself, terrified that everything would disintegrate, fly apart from the pleasure. But the cords held me fast.
    He pushed deeper into the darkness, touching places I had never reached myself. His fingers twisted between warm folds of flesh.
    “Stop!” I screamed at last. He slapped me, flooding my head with a new kind of pain. I thought of Marie in the stable, the riding master, the riding crop.
    He wiped my cheek with the fingers that had been inside me a moment before, streaking it with something sticky.
    It was hot outside but cold here, not because I was naked but from the dull chill in the room. The south-facing window had been left open, and the curtain fluttered from time to time, but the hot breeze never reached me. The scene outside the window seemed to come from a distant world— the painted deck, the lawn, the sea spreading out beyond. We were alone.
    “Do you like it?” he asked. I moved my chin, not surewhether I did or not, and past caring. “I’m sure you do,” he said, suddenly forcing four fingers into my mouth. I gagged, trying to keep from vomiting. “Does it taste good?” he said. Saliva dribbled from the corner of my mouth. “It’s so good you’re drooling!” I nodded. “Slut!” he muttered, slapping me again.
    “It feels so good,” I said. “Do it more, please.”
    He grabbed my hair and dragged me to the couch. I tried to cover my head with my arms, but he was quick and strong. Mother’s neat bun fell in my face, the pins sticking out here and there.
    “Don’t resist, understand?” Despite the pain, his voice thrilled me. I tried to nod, but I could barely move my head. “Answer me!”
    “Yes,” I managed to murmur.
    “Louder!”
    “Yes, I understand.” We repeated this exchange over and over until he seemed satisfied.
    He didn’t seem to trust me yet, though I had given up trying to get away and did exactly as I was told. He was determined to strip me of every last trace of freedom.
    “Why are you trembling?” He took hold of my chin, but even this slight motion caused the cord to tighten and bind. I needed to give him the answer he wanted, but I could only manage a sigh. He pulled harder on the knot at the back of my neck, sending a wave of pain through my body.
    “I’m sorry.” Roused by the pain, I managed to speak at last, but he didn’t relax his grip. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”They were words I had said over and over to my mother since childhood. Though I’d had no idea what forgiveness meant, I had cried for it nonetheless. But now, finally, I understood. From the bottom of my heart I wanted to be forgiven. “Forgive me, please. I beg you. I won’t move again. I’ll be quiet.”
    He looked down at me, studying my body with his unblinking stare. In this room where everything was arranged in perfect order—from the dish cupboard and bedspread to the desk and the tiny characters in the notebook—I was an affront to order. My dress and underwear were strewn about, my ugly body was draped over the couch. Reflected in the glass, I looked like a dying insect, like a chicken trussed up in the