Tarou jerked away from her touch, although it took every single bit of willpower he possessed after a lifetime of rigorous training to do so. There was nothing he wanted more than to submit to her caressing and more if she offered (the final deed would not be among them, of course; the maidenhead of a geisha as skilled and beautiful as Hikari would be worth more than the average purse on a championship sumo match and would not be thrown away so carelessly, but there were plenty of things a girl could do while preserving her body). This was a woman, however, no matter how perfumed and painted, and he refused to be bent like hot iron to her will.
“You are being paid by my father, but I believe I retain some control over my condition!” he barked out as coarsely as he could manage, all but throwing the strands of black hair out of his eyes. He could not think of a time since maturity that his hair had been loose in the presence of a female not his relative.
Hikari rose, taking a step back and giving so pert a bow Tarou swore he could sense the sarcasm in it. Somehow, her hair was still like a work of art upon her head, shining and perfect, and her ochre kimono was unruffled from the uncomfortably close encounter she had orchestrated. Her makeup was unmarred by beads of sweat or unsavoury expression, nor did she seem the least bit disturbed. The same could not be said for her client, hair tussled and yukata similar.
“As you wish, young lord.” There was no bitterness, no condescending tone in her voice, but he was sure she felt that way. She was not one to give up easily, this one. Had his father requested and paid for a trained temptress…? He would not put it past him to ensure the future of their family’s sumo reputation. “But still, my lord, will you not eat a bit more? It would be a pity and a shame for the food to go to waste. Aita employs only the most renowned chefs from all through the country and beyond, and many say it is the best to be found anywhere. Such gourmet morsels should not be left to the swans and the feral alley dogs.”
Now that she was a distance from him and her perfume was not blinding both his nostrils and his senses, the aromas of the prepared feast set upon him. Piles of onigiri basted in fresh herbed butter, crisp shrimp dumplings smothered in red sauce, yakitori coated generously with its sake and maple glaze, soba noodles as dense as a weaved basket, and a huge platter full of so many varieties of tempura he could not identify them all. At merely the sight of such a meal, Tarou’s ample stomach gave a lurch and a demanding gurgle.
“My father has already paid for your time, it would indeed be a waste of his money,” he muttered, fingering the jade chopsticks before picking them up and plucking up a mass of soba, twisting it and sticking it eagerly into his mouth. It was a rush of flavour; he had never tasted anything quite so rich and filling, and his family was known for its fine cooks. Swallowing, he knew he would not be able to stop, despite how much he wished to spite this trained whore. “My yukata remains on, however.”
“Whatever my young lord wishes,” she smiled, sweeter than any of the pastries littering the table yet as sour as a strong jar of pickled plums. Taking her place beside him once more as he continued to eat, she offered frequently poured cups of sweet yet somehow off-tasting tea, the odd massaging touch or a softly-spoken recommendation, as he consumed more and more eventually taking the chopsticks from him and bringing each morsel directly to his mouth, other hand massaging his ever-tightening paunch. Dumpling after dumping disappearing into his belly and he ate the onigiri directly from her hand like a tame animal despite the fact that his practised yet stretched middle was sending warning pangs. Countless cups of warm tea washed down the large amounts of food.
Tarou barely noticed it, but as he ate his stomach filled rapidly, pressing outwards and through the gap created when his yukata had been loosened by the seductive geisha. Large to begin with, he swelled outwards, globular flesh appreciative of the food and the amount of attention garnered. It grew from soft to taunt, the heavenly food heavy and thick.
Hikari did not allowed herself to appear so, but she was both greatly pleased and amused. She could not account the success entirely to her skills, however; the speciality herb tea had been blended by Madame Ohtor herself, the daughter of a master doctor, when Aita had first began to cater to the sumo wrestlers, at first used to stimulate the appetite to busy the kitchens more and more, but now just as often used to coax the young, unsure men into submitting to their feasts.
When every last crumb had been consumed, Tarou nearly collapsed, ashamed when the geisha helped him ease into a lying position on his back, panting slightly from effort and fullness. He was utterly exhausted and stuffed to the gills, never before having had a feast of that size all to himself, not having to share with his father, cousins, or fellow stable members. His bloated stomach weighed heavily down on him, nearly hard and sore to the touch. The sumo was embarrassed to be seen like this before the beautiful, polished girl, so absolutely engorged and breathing like a labouring ox.
Removing a vial of oil from a side cabinet, Hikari poured a measure of sweet-smelling oil onto his exposed flesh, rubbing his turgid stomach with the gentleness as one handling priceless porcelain plates both to spread the oil and help start his digestion. “This will ease the soreness of the skin slightly, as well as prevent any stretch marks,” she explained softly, keeping her smiles at his unadulterated expressions of pleasure to herself. “It would be a shame to ruin such beautiful skin, especially when everyone will see you and marvel in the ring.”
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