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I desperately hoped my tormenter had gone but then I would see her as she stood in just her powder blue thong in front of her mirror retouching her hair and make-up.The sight only deflated me further, glowing slightly she looked as beautiful as ever, perhaps even more so. Looking at her it seemed the whole incident may never have happened but anyone only had to glance at me to realise it clearly had. Barely able to stand my bruised and aching tits heaved as I tried to get some air into my lungs while my silky hair matted to my face. I could imagine my make-up destroyed by the sweat, tears and God knows what else.I could feel myself tearing up again as she looked over to me sneering, “How are doing over there sweetie, you did realise this was a beauty pageant didn’t you, ‘cos even by your standards you’re looking pretty rough” she asked with mock concern.Despite my condition her insults still got to me. I tried to respond but could only stammer incoherently although as she turned. They came from the section, headed:PROPOSALS OF MATRIMONY(From a Gentleman, to the Lady of his Choice.)"Miss (Insert Surname) Or, may I be permitted to call you (InsertChristian name) It cannot have escaped your attention that, for sometime past, I have entertained towards you feelings of more than merefriendship. Could you but place your little hand upon my heart, youwould sense the fires of deepest and sincerest love that burn andburgeon within me." Have you not seen, etched here, upon my most unworthy countenance, themany passionate desires and longings that I hold so dear for you.Give me your heart, I beg you; and let it entwine with mine."(The Gentleman should now unfold a clean silk handkerchief, spread itupon the ground, and place one knee upon the same) "Miss (Insert name) Ikneel down before you, in deepest devotion; my heart here - here in myhand. My Darling. My Own and Truest Love. Will you marry me, and make methe happiest man in the land."Apparently this was guaranteed to.
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On the third morning, my maidservants, who wished to console me, bade me accompany them to the river, where they would do the laundry and laugh and gossip. But I wished to remain alone with my thoughts. It was a beautiful spring morning, and so I took my father’s kaya-wood Go table from the house, and sat by the carp pond, idly playing with the white shell and black slate stones, placing them in ornate patterns on the wooden Go table. I chanced to look up, and there stood an old beggar. I hadn’t heard him approach, he startled me. His head was encased in a straw cage like a beehive. He carried a big walking stick of bamboo. He was bent, with age I thought, or perhaps from the weight of the huge pack he carried on his back. Although I had never seen one before, I recognised him from the descriptions I’d read in books, he was a Komuso, a travelling beggar monk. ‘Hello, young miss,’ he croaked, ‘is your master home?’ Still shocked by the suddenness of his appearance, I answered him.

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