Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
My buddy Zo stood on my right with his mouth agape and his attention darting from left to right. We had to be the oddest pair in there—a short Black woman in her mid-thirties with lazy brown curls hanging past her shoulders and a 6'4 white guy with a blond fashion mohawk crowning his head.
Our clothes didn’t help either. I wore army boots, raggedy jeans, and Salvador Dali’s painting “The Great Masturbator” plastered on my black t-shirt.
Meanwhile, a plaid suit was snugly wrapped around Zo’s slim body.
Zo didn't have hot looks like some men, he'd spent his life working with what he had. No one could deny that the man had style.
Let’s hope Zo can help me behave.
When we first entered the brothel, Castle in the Sky, this odd yearning had come over me, as if the owner sprayed sex in the air and hoped to have us all instantly horny.
My heart sped up.
Excitement skittered across my skin, between my legs and warmth rose in my core.
I held the mini tape recorder up to my mouth and pressed the record button. “March tenth. I’m in Castle in the Sky, the third brothel that I’ve visited. However, unlike the others this one is elegant and—”
“Soapland,” Zo whispered dramatically, like he was delivering classified intel.
I blinked at him. “Come again?”
He pointed to a polished plaque beside the door. “It’s not technically a brothel. It’s a soapland. Big cultural difference.”
“Okay. Thanks. So, we’re in a soapland and—” I was mid-sentence when Zo hijacked the recorder, taking it from my hand like we were in the middle of shooting a documentary and he’d just been promoted to host.
He cleared his throat dramatically and spoke into the mic. “This is Zo.”
“Dude, you don’t have to state your name.”
“That’s Z-O, not short for anything, just Zo. Like Cher, but taller and way whiter.”
I folded my arms and stared at him.
He kept going. “We are currently in a Japanese soapland, which is not—repeat, not—a brothel. Though things do get very. . .sudsy.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Wow.”
He dropped his voice a full octave. “Soaplands are unique to Japan. Originally, they were bathhouses. Now? They’re the lovechild of a spa, a massage parlor, and the kind of sexual fantasy you don’t tell your therapist about.”
I bit my lip trying not to laugh.
He was so serious about it. “In a soapland, you pay for the massage. The emotional trauma that follows? Free of charge.”
“Give me my damn recorder back.”
“This has been Zo. Cultural ambassador. Fashion designer and occasional flirt. Out.” He handed me the recorder like he’d just dropped the mic.
I stared at it. “What the hell was that?”
“You asked me to assist. So, there you go.”
I took the device and shook my head.
What Zo failed to mention was that a soapland was as close to a Japanese brothel as one could get without going to jail for prostitution. Women bathed the men and provided sexual services at their request. Most places limited these offerings to hand jobs and oil body rubbing, while others secretly allowed everything else.
Stepping into this place after strolling through Kabukichō alleys was like entering a whole new world.
Kabukichō served as an entertainment and red-light district in Tokyo.
Locals nicknamed it The Sleepless Town, and I could see why. A fluorescent glow of many colors lit up the area. It was an adult amusement park full of kink. Everything could be discovered there, from love hotels to masturbation bars, hostess clubs to pink salons.
However, Castle in the Sky was the district’s diamond.
It reeked of money and lavishness laced in pleasure.
I pressed record again and pointed at him, “Future Nyomi note, never let Zo come along with you on research assignments.”
Smirking, he put his hands up, grinning. “Back to business.”
I continued trying not to laugh. “Correction—Soapland. Castle in the Sky. Velvet walls. Cigar smoke. Sin thick enough to cut with a knife.”
I glanced sideways. “Red velvet curtains, thick enough to smother a scream. Gold tassels swaying slightly, like they’re waiting for someone to pull them shut. There’s a bar to the left—mahogany wood, top shelf bottles, and a bartender in silk gloves. He’s wiping down a glass like it’s a ritual.”
“So poetic.” Zo winked.
A man passed by in a jade robe, followed by a woman in nothing but a pearl thong.
Well, damn.
I turned slightly, not to stare, but to remember and spoke into the device some more, “Most of the women wear lingerie, but a few wear nothing. No shame here. No fear. Just pleasure dressed in luxury and silence.”
Zo let out a soft whistle beside me.
I elbowed him.
“Some of the clients look bored, like they’ve done this a hundred times. But the new ones? Their eyes are wide, hungry. One guy passed us sweating through his suit jacket like he’d been dropped into the middle of a wet dream he wasn’t prepared for.” I paused, catching sight of a door near the end of the hall—black lacquer, a crimson symbol painted across it. “Private room. The symbol is one I don’t recognize. I’ll need to ask Jun later.”