Her obi lies near the sliding door, manners forgotten as the man rushed to get his money’s worth.

There’s makeup smudged across the paper walls. The inexperienced girl, only once previously touched, attempts to free herself from his passionate grasp.

Her kimono, worth a thousand tales, is thrown across a small table, cast off in the throws of passion, the girl’s experience expanding with every fleeting touch.

The mebaemasu kanzashi has been pulled from her hair, the intricate silken plaits falling with them, her hair falling down her client’s back, as they begin the thrills of the new ride.

The last, the nagajuban, lies in a crumpled heap by the bedroom.

Inside the moans combine to make beautiful music, and the girl is tied to this man, her danna.
But inside she can only think herself as the luckiest of all geisha, to have a patron so beautiful, when she herself had been called ‘whore’ by the Westerners so many times.