Page 2 of The Dragon 1 (Tokyo Empire #1)

Chapter one

The Erotic Soul Circus

Nyomi

Sex pulsed through the Japanese brothel. It was this intense heat, vibrating through my bones and causing my nipples to stiffen under my shirt.

Don’t forget the book, Nyomi. This is work, nothing more.

In my short life, I’d learned that pleasure came in all sizes.

In Tokyo, they’d discovered the same notion and sold lust in rich boxes for all to drool over and buy.

I can't believe I’m actually here!

Standing in the hallway, I ran my fingers along the warm, smooth tiles decorating the walls.

Piano music mingled with women giggling.

Cigar smoke intertwined with the sensual scents of lit candles outlining the bar.

Art hung on the walls, portraying nude, feminine bodies in the most delicious positions.

Work, not play, remember. Thank God I brought Zo. He’ll keep me in line.

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.”

Tokyo’s underground sex industry was what I had to write about.

My heart and mind craved to drink it all in.

The need burned in my veins. As I stood among these enticing females, watching them lure men and their wallets to the bathing areas-similar to Homer’s Sirens drawing sailors to a rocky death, I filled with energy.

Every detail had to be absorbed, every image devoured until it was imprinted in my memory forever.

Goodness. These women are even more beautiful than the pictures on the website.

All around me, these enticing creatures escorted men to bathing areas. Make-up decorated exotic faces. Jewels glittered along slender necks and dangled from ears.

I spotted dresses that would've damaged my already depleted bank account and inhaled some of the sweetest perfumes lingering in the air.

Men of all different races, sizes, and ages coupled with mainly Japanese women, although I noticed a few blondes and other females with complexions as dark brown as mine.

“Are you sure the manager is going to let you observe everything?” Zo raised a blond eyebrow. “Even the soapy massages?”

“That was the deal.” Tucking a few of my kinky curls behind my ear, I returned to my recorder.

The little machine had seen better days. Scratches covered the sides. Paint scraped the front. Duct tape kept the batteries in.

We headed down the hall and entered another space with marble stairs, lush carpeting, and sparkling chandlers.

Brilliant centerpieces rested on every table, consisting of heart-shaped glasses, platinum beads, and dozens of candles intertwined with flowers.

Tons of half-naked women pampered the men at those tables; massaging their shoulders, pouring them sake even a few singing and dancing in taunting movements.

Their feminine laughter filled the place and even made me a bit giddy.

This is perfect for my book.

It was an adult circus for the dark and erotic part of the soul.

Waiters carried out immaculate dishes with simmering meats and creamy sauces that emitted a heavenly aroma.

A huge fountain of chocolate stood in the center.

I watched two Ethiopian women dunk slices of cake into the sweet liquid and then feed it to the men next to them.

On the far right of the staircase was a full bar.

On the left, a long buffet table where six nude women lounged on their backs.

Pearl masks covered their faces.

Various types of sushi decorated their tan flesh.

Many of the male customers crowded around them. Some men dipped their chopsticks between the women's legs.

Now talk about catering to the senses.

Lust swam inside my core, craving to burst out of my pores and take me over. But I had a book to complete, as well as a writing career and credit score to save.

Pleasure had to wait for another day.

Zo stopped us by the bar, “Okay where’s this manager at?”

“We’re supposed to go to his office.”

“Why didn’t he just meet us at the door?”

“Look, I was happy he was even going to let me come in here and observe. I’d gotten shut down by all the other places in Tokyo.”

Zo glanced around at the half-naked women laughing near the buffet then lowered his voice and leaned in.

“Things aren’t like in the States. Sex is super private here in Japan.

There’s a whole coded etiquette around pleasure.

You don’t brag. You don’t overshare. You just—know where to go and keep it discreet. ”

That made sense.

Not much English literature existed on Tokyo’s sex industry. The culture closed their doors to outsiders, which they called gaijin , literally meaning “outside person.”

Although Zo lived in Tokyo for ten years, he would still be considered a gaijin , even if he stayed in the city for the rest of his life.

Additionally, not many of the kinky spots serviced foreigners.

The few that did, remained silent to sociologists, anthropologists, and basically non-fiction writers like me who were fascinated with the whole scene.

At least money talks here like it does in the states.