It’s fitting. Homura’s name translates as blaze, and she reflects that with each searing splash of pink candle wax dripped onto her big breasts. Gasped syllables that don't even exist in my language bounce off the hotel walls as she arches, fists bunching the sheets.

It takes her a while to drift those slender hips back down to the bed, not helped by me accidentally spilling more wax in a crude cross over her prominent nipples. She twists her torso and cries out as I treat her skin like an artist does canvas, only returning to her prone form when I point. And wait.

The flickering candle illuminates shadows and perspiration on her face between waves of onyx hair. Her bountiful chest rises and falls, peppered with drying wax on top of my handprints.

She's not a traditional shape. Curvier up top than many young women in the region. Maybe the difference is what attracted me. That and the way she settled her eyes on me and then pretended otherwise, when I caught her staring.

The drive across Osaka with her hand in my lap was stunning. Cherry blossom season is almost as beautiful as she is. Almost. Every few miles she'd brush my firm cock through my jeans. If it were anybody else, it could be passed off as accidental, but there's nothing accidental about anything she does. Even from the day we met in the office elevator, three of its glass walls facing the city.

Her delicate, floral perfume carried the promise of spring, yet her focus was downcast for most of the ride to the 18th floor. The structural bars outside interrupted the streaming sun in a steady rhythm, altering only when we slowed at requested floors. Japanese—most shorter than me—shuffled, jostled, nodded acknowledgement, then we continued the ascent.

At each stop, I watched this young woman flick her eyes up to take in another part of me, then refocus on the floor. Like she was assembling a photofit in her mind. As we neared the 18th, she finally made eye contact. It was fleeting, but the intensity made me draw breath.

The tinny speaker announced the floor, followed by a standard message in a language I don't speak. Could have been enjoy the day or watch your step or eat more vegetables. We both paced to leave. I paused to let her exit. She bowed her head and waited, so I went first.

It was only when we both reached the same office and filed around the oval conference table that I realised she was the CEO’s daughter. Her name toblerone on the desk gave it away. My seat was diagonally opposite.

I was on secondment, even though I argued with my boss that there must be more suitable candidates. She didn't listen. Even after weeks of cultural immersion, conversations around me remain an untuned radio. Maybe it'll click. Maybe I'll be home before it does. Fortunately, during this merger process, most of the employees here speak English to some degree.

But not Homura.

Her intent is only conveyed with eyes and gestures.

In the conference room, she was a different woman than in the elevator. Fierce, confident, collected, even argumentative as we hashed out the details of the deals and apportioned responsibilities. I had a small earpiece Bluetoothed to my phone that was providing real-time translation, but it was chaotic and hard to keep up. I interjected when I could, and someone would relay it to Homura and any other delegates who needed my input in their native tongue.

Throughout the meeting, she would throw glances my direction, hold a moment, then look away. At the time, I had no idea whether that was cultural or attraction. She didn't seem to look at anyone else the same way.

It took a few days of eye tennis before events stepped up a notch. She was in the staff kitchen, her back to me when I entered. I stood there a moment, admiring the way she fit her skirt and blouse like they were tailored. Stepping in, I briefly rested my hands on her hips to guide her away from the overhead cupboard. She turned her head, our faces a few inches apart, and allowed herself to be moved.

I let go and reached for the handle, swung it open to retrieve an espresso cup. Paused. Raised an eyebrow and offered it her way. She nodded, so I grabbed a second. Crossed the room and faffed with the overly complicated process of inserting the pod into the machine and setting it chuffing away until it bleeped.

I nearly dropped the full cup when I turned to find her right behind me. Had she undone a button of her tight top or was I imagining the enhanced swell of her chest this close? Her hair framed the cleavage, tumbling effortlessly either side and there was no way I could pretend I hadn't stared.

With a guilty expression, I refocused to find her smiling. She took the cup and raised it in thanks. Turned and swayed from the room, hips, ass, and kitten heels clicking to fade.

Hot wax splashes her feet. Thighs. Belly. She gasps, the fiery sting kissing delicate skin. I draw my initial: capital F. Catch her needy gaze as she writhes. I guess it’s kind of a game, to see how much she can take.

When it dries, she settles, the heat no doubt filtering through her body. It seems to gravitate to her pussy. The tight, dark curls of her thatch glimmer with juice droplets in the dancing candlelight.

I secure the flame in its holder and reach to stroke her temple. Trail my hand down her side and pause to scoot up the mountain, squeeze each breast in turn, and brush the dried wax from them.

She gasps when I continue tracing over her flat belly and below, cupping her wet triangle. I let one fingertip dip between her lips and withdraw it. Paint juices around both nipples and bend to lap them clean. Swooping my tongue in lazy arcs, I capture her cap between my lips and suckle, then introduce my teeth and bite, drawing the peak skyward.

Homura arches with me and moans. I lay my palm on her tummy and press, her nipple snapping free of my teeth. She hisses, hand flying to squeeze and relieve the sting.

I say nothing. Let her draw the conclusion from the shake of my head and wagging finger, her hand slipping away to scrunch the sheets by her side.

Without warning I slap her breast. Grip it, white marks forming where my fingers lace, turning red when I let go.

She squirms when I raise my hand, hovering the other breast. But instead, I take the candle with my free hand and crisscross her flesh with flashes of pink pain. She gasps. Wriggles. Before it's fully dried, I spank her tit to remove it all, like resetting an etch-a-sketch, then paint a different zigzag pattern.

Her cries are throaty. Needy, the wetness of her pussy reinforcing the message.

I wait until she calms. Until her eyes find mine, then drift the candle to pause directly above her tender slit. The flame flickers and I let the anticipation breathe like it had when I stepped into her office a few months ago, the door swinging shut with a soft click.

The only sound was the clock marking the seconds. She lifted her head from the document, swinging her attention to me. I had it all rehearsed, translation app primed, but in the moment between the door sealing us in and her jaw slackening a fraction, gaze unwavering, my script evaporated.

I stood there like a Disney animatronic, mouth opening and closing while no words escaped. I wanted to say that the way she looked at me made my pulse thump like I hadn't felt in years. That her very presence gave me goosebumps. That I craved to kiss every atom of skin and learn how each touch made her feel, inside and out. I'd imagined her cries bouncing off the eggshell walls, overstuffed bookcases and Feng Shui-arranged plants as I sampled her. Feasted on her. Made her scream.

Maybe it was my hesitation. Maybe it was written all over my face. Whatever vibe I was radiating, she received. Stood. Glided clear of the desk. Stepped to within a few feet of me, flicked her gaze to mine, then looked down and crossed her wrists in front of her. 

It didn't register at first. I thought maybe it was a custom; some traditional bow, and I was meant to respond with a ritualistic symbol of my own.

But as she stayed there, unmoving, my heartbeat ratcheted at the realisation it was an offering. The language of submission, it seems, is universal.

I reached out and tentatively brushed the back of her hand. When she barely flinched, I traced up to her wrist. Wrapped my fingers around them both and held them. Blood thundered beneath her skin. She inhaled. I traced fingertips up and brushed hair away from her cheek. Cupped it. Skimmed her lips with my thumb. She tilted her head into my hand and captured the very tip of my thumb in her mouth.

We did nothing else, mainly due to her father calling, shattering the moment. From across the desk, she kept her eyes on me throughout the call.

In the weeks after, she became skittish around him. Perhaps terrified of him finding out. Maybe he wouldn't approve. No doubt it would jeopardise the merger if either company discovered our tryst.

So, as our risky relationship developed, as we fell hopelessly in love, it was always clandestine. Away from the city centre. Never the same hotel. That very evening, I presented my card to pay. She put her hand on mine and produced cash from her clutch bag.

After that, I kept money in my wallet at all times, for whenever the tension grew to the point we couldn't keep our hands off one another. Which was often.

The things we did; the things she let me do to her. My God. Even that first night, we stepped together like we had in the office, her wrists crossed in offering, head bowed. The only difference: she was naked, save for a necklace that scattered lamp light.

I caressed her cheek. She captured my thumb. I ran the wet digit down and circled her nipple, which firmed, drying under the aircon. Her gasp when I pinched the cap was part angelic sigh, mostly lust, becoming a steady moan when I returned my thumb to her mouth and skimmed down to pinch the other breast.

It was two paces—backwards for her—to the bed. Her feet dangled off the edge while I slid the sash from her discarded dress and trailed it over her wrists. Looped. Tied. Watched her expression melt as I sank before her, slipped her bound arms over my shoulders, parted her thighs and kissed my way up to her already slick centre. The throaty vowels increased in pitch as I explored, and her grip tightened on the nape of my neck when she breathlessly came. I swear she even tasted of blossom.

A few nights later, she undressed, crawled onto the bed and presented her ass for a bare-handed spanking. Shortly after, she was cawing as I whipped her rump with my belt until it was criss-crossed with fiery slashes. There was no disguising her cries, even with sodden panties wadded in her mouth. Every crack and howl would be obvious to anyone in adjoining rooms. Moreso when I deemed she was dripping enough, grabbed her mane, tugged her onto all fours and entered her.

Fuck she was tight, despite the wetness. She moaned each time her hot ass clapped against my hips, and I pounded her until we both collapsed in a groaning heap on the bed, spunk spilling from her slit to pool on the cotton between her thighs.

Homura loves to fuck. Hard. Probably more than she loves pain. But I make sure she has plenty of the latter before rewarding her with the former. It makes her wilder.

Hence the anticipation. The flinches of her body when she expects I'm going to tip the candle on her cunt. That beautiful moment stretching between us, elastic, unending, our eyes locked.

I tilt my wrist. She squeals, her pretty pussy peppered with wax droplets. They dry almost instantly and I rub the curls to soothe it. She's drenched, a pool of juices staining the bedsheets between her rocking hips as she tries to let the heat’s memory fade.

Tipping a stripe of wax from thigh to thigh across her thatch makes her whimper. She's much more vocal when it splatters her wet lips and she claps her legs together. Wax drips on her knees and she lets the howl fade before opening them. She knows consequences are due.

What she probably doesn't expect is me to put the candle aside, pick up my belt, stroke her slit then crack the leather against it. She screams. I reach to cover her mouth and lash her cunt again. And again, muffled cries hot in my palm.

Her wriggling breaks free of my grip and she arches her back on the next stroke. I pick up the candle. Paint her soaked slit. Wait for the droplets to harden and the heat to dissipate before flicking the belt to ping the wax away, reigniting the fire between her legs.

By the time I loop the belt around her neck, tug one end to tighten it and slam my raging hardness into her searing slit, she's a wreck. She meets every thrust, using her grip on the bedsheets to rock into me as I fuck the pain away.

It's the first time she's been face up, and the joy that flickers at the corners of her mouth is mesmerising. She sighs, occasionally gurgles as I yank the belt, and I watch her unravel beneath the sheen of perspiration.

Her beauty is somehow amplified with each slam of our hips. Her chest wobbles and she claps her hands over the magnificent globes, elbows digging into the mattress to continue humping against me. I allow the transgression of self-pleasure, watching her squeeze and pinch the flesh in a desperate, rough rhythm, filthy squelches echoing round the room as her orgasm crests, her lips form a wide ‘O’ and she loses control.

Cruelly, I pull out as she stiffens, arched, head thrashing, and she emits a choked squawk before I slam back inside her clenching cunt and witness her falling apart. Fuck, it's beautiful. I groan too, my spunk rocketing inside her and we grind together, lost in the fire of release.

Eventually, my grip on the belt slackens and she gasps, waves of climax still battering her body. Her pussy continues to ripple around my shaft long after I'm spent and we simply lie there catching our breath, hot, sweaty, yet fulfilled in another anonymous hotel room. 

When I roll off her, I prop my head on my hand and stroke her cheek. She's glowing and we lie in silence, somehow connected by a bond that transcends language.

After we've cooled, showered and slithered beneath the sheets, she reaches for the pad and pen from the bedside table. Draws a symbol:

火

I tap her chest and raise an eyebrow. She shakes her head. Draws a second symbol:

炎

Pats her chest. Points at the first symbol and waves her hands furiously, making a pkccshkhffk sound and points at the candle.

I take the pen and draw flames on the next sheet. “Fire?”

Homura nods. Tries to repeat the word as she gesticulates at her body and makes a heart symbol with curled fingertips touching. It comes out as “Fye year,” and I smile. Link fingers with her and shut my eyes. Stroke her digits.

Of course it's too good to be true. A few weeks later I find myself sitting alongside Homura in Mr Kinoshita’s office, like we're two school kids caught smoking behind the bike sheds. Fuck knows how he found out.

He paces. “Homura confesses you are…” he waves his hand, “entangled.”

I clear my throat to speak but he holds up his palm. “Save your breath. I cannot allow this to continue. It is against honour. Against code.” He bridges his hands on the desk and leans forward. “Be thankful the merger continues. But you are relieved of duty. A replacement is on the way.”

I open my mouth then shut it, blood in my hot ears roaring. Cast a wistful glance at Homura and stand to leave.

The animated pleading in her tongue fades, the door swinging shut, and I trudge to the elevator, summoning it. As the car nears, she races up behind me, flings her arms around my waist and sobs. I turn and hold her. The elevator pings. The doors open. Shut.

We part and she presses the scrap of paper with the two symbols into my hand. Indicates to flip it.

A number is on the back. 090 prefix. A mobile. She wipes her eyes and mimes texting. Leans up on tiptoes and our lips brush. Our first kiss. Our last.

I watch her scurry away, turning to cast a tearful gaze, and my heart pounds. There's nothing I can do. It's out of my hands.

Resummoning the elevator, I stare numbly out at the rows of blossom during the descent and lick my lips where we touched. Memories. Scents. That's all I have left. Guess the adage is true: play with fire, you get burned.

The lift pings and I thumb the scrap of paper before exiting to the lobby. Then the street. Airport left. Downtown right.

I breathe city air. We learned a new language through her body. Maybe there's hope.

I should learn Japanese.