Chapter 8: 8. Getting Some Tongue

“Wait,” said the golden-eyed woman.

Jiro stopped. This was not a request, he knew, but a command. He was beginning to wish he had never picked up Aya’s bikini bottoms. Or even come to Japan at all.

“What is it?” he said slowly.

“Look at me.”

“Pardon?”

“Turn and look at me.”

Jiro obeyed.

“Now come closer, into the light.”

He walked, slowly, with no sudden movements, until he stepped onto the slab of stone. Next to the woman lay the man, fast asleep, breathing softly, and (to Jiro’s dismay) entirely naked.

“Closer.”

He took a few more steps, until he was within arm’s length of the woman. Or within biting distance, thought Jiro. A stream of sunlight cut right across her face. The scales of her swimsuit glittered in rainbow patterns. Except, it probably wasn’t a swimsuit. Kaori’s words, spoken what felt like ages ago, bounced around in his head like a ping pong ball.

The guests … they’re not entirely human.

Jiro swallowed another peach core. The woman was studying him. Her irises darted up and down his body. The woman’s hair was a dark green, like the color of seaweed. It was also intricately braided: long, thin braids that ran back along her skull and dangled down behind her, wavering slightly in the cavern breeze. But there was something strange, Jiro thought, about how the hair wavered. They were moving out of sync with the wind … Like something else was pushing them.

Then he saw them. The scales on the woman’s body ended in a ring around her neck, like a high collar. Above them, were marks of some sort. He had thought them tattoos, but they were not. No … They were slits, and the slits were moving. Six slits, three on each side, opening and closing, almost like they were breathing …  Jiro shivered.

“Those are some interesting head attachments you have,” he said, desperate to end the silence. “They kind of look like fins. Is that the fashion in Japan these days? Scaly fish headbands? I, uh, don’t follow these things you kn—”

“What is your age?”

“What?”

“I said what is your age.”

 “Ninety-four,” he said without hesitation. “Basically just skin and bone you know. No nutrients to speak of. Not even any blood really. Low testosterone. Low Vitamin D. Probably venereal disease too. I taste like ash. It’s a miracle I’m still alive …”

The woman narrowed her eyes.

“Those teeth of yours,” Jiro rambled on. “Did you file them down to a point? I must say I don’t know the next thing about oral fashion … And that tongue … Plastic surgery, yes? We’re not that advanced where I come from … We stop at tongue pier—”

“Silence!” The woman leaned in closer. Her tongue slipped slowly out from between her lips, snaking toward Jiro’s face, the twin heads scissoring up and down, up and down … He closed his eyes. Then he let out a ragged breath. The tongue had touched his cheek. Two hot, wet buds of soft flesh stroked his face in an alternating rhythm.

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He tried not to think about what had happened to the sleeping man. Or about what was about to happen to him. Had this woman put Aya and the others to sleep? And once she was done playing, what did she plan to do?

“Do I know you?” the woman said, slurring the words. Her tongue was exploring the region between Jiro’s mouth and upper lip.

“I … I don’t think so,” Jiro croaked. “Unless we, um, met in a nightmare. But my nightmares aren’t usually this, um, exciting.”

The woman leaned in a step closer. Her tongue ran down Jiro’s face to his neck, leaving a tingling trail of saliva in its wake. Then down further, to tug at the collar of his shirt. He could feel something warm, like a breath, coming out of the openings in her neck.

“You seem familiar somehow …”

The tongue wriggled down his collar and slowly slithered down his chest. Jiro sucked in a sharp breath. It had stopped to prod his nipple.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” murmured the woman. “All you humans taste the same …”

The tongue poked its two heads out from under his t-shirt. It paused slightly, as if to sniff the air. Jiro sucked in another sharp breath. He could feel the tongue, warm and wet, tugging against the waist of his bathing shorts.

“Um,” Jiro said airily. “Could we talk about this. About what is about to happen? I’m a believer in mutual consent and …”

“Shhh—” said the woman, her tongue fluttering. “Quiet now. Soon you will be asleep. A sleep with dreams where the most wonderful things come true …”

Jiro gulped.

The tongue wriggled its way underneath his waistband. He could feel it sliding down his thigh, leaving a hot tingling trail. It stopped. And then, ever so slowly, it turned, and began to make its way toward his groin …

“Um what are you— Ouch!” The tongue made an abrupt movement. He felt something prick him. Like the sting of a jellyfish. The woman leaned closer, her gills breathing hot air onto his shoulders.

“Now go to sleep little human,” she whispered. “And sweet dreams.”

Jiro felt something hot rising within him. A tremendous desire, a lust stronger than he had ever felt before. He began to shudder uncontrollably. The woman’s thin irises had widened almost to circles. She leaned forward, scaly fingers reached for his t-shirt and began to tear the fabric away—

“Sheena!” A sudden voice called out from the direction of the entrance.

Surprised, the woman let go of Jiro’s shirt. He fell to the rock with a thud, nearly cracking his head on a stalagmite.

Only then did his body react. Jiro felt his body convulse in a tremendous sneeze. Then another. And another. Each one snapped his body around like a rubber band, sending cave water and bits of lichen flying up into the air. When the sneezing finally stopped, Jiro saw the woman was looking toward the newcomer. He turned his head.

Across the pool of water, he saw a woman standing there, with her arms crossed under the curve of her breasts. Light summer yukata. Pale white skin like that of a doll. Hair, brown and wavy. And, of course, the know-it-all attitude of a woman with experience.

It was Kaori.

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