Page 6 of A Dom Vs. Domme Story
As we wrap up the final meeting of our trip, I assume all six of us (because poor Valerie wouldn’t be invited, since she was “the help,”) would head out to a fancy rich people bar to drink cognac and talk about our family histories and personal lives as if it were the common thing to do. I am… kinda right.
We would be partying, but not together.
“Mr. Mathers,” Kunihiro says with the thickest accent I have yet to hear in Japan. If you’re not familiar with Japanese, then you may not know that the sounds “th” and “r” do not exist in the language. Tons of Japanese people can’t say either sound to save their damn lives and you learn to not hold it against them when your name is “Mathers.” Even Ms. Junri could barely wrap her competent tongue around my mouthful of a name. This guy? I don’t know whoMasasurusis but I hope he’s as handsome as I am. “If you are ready, my uncle and I have made reservations for the three of us at a location we’re sure you will enjoy.”
I look to Kathryn, who is likewise approached by Fujiko Isoya with that same girlish look that she had last night when she interrupted us in our room.
So this is a gendered party? Fine. I can play this game. I’ll be back in Kathryn’s company by daybreak. We’re going to spend a couple more days here in Tokyo playing tourist before heading back to America and…
“Here you are, Mr. Mathers.” Valerie interrupts my thoughts when she hands me my work cell phone. “Have an enjoyable night.”
I really, really don’t like how pale her complexion has become as of late. It started before we came to Japan. I hoped to speak with her about it after we got back, but after her nausea last night, I’m thinking we should discuss it sooner.
As if she’s reading my mind, she says, “If you’re available tomorrow, Mr. Mathers, I’d appreciate a brief meeting with you to go over something.”
“Everything all right?”
She smiles. “It will be. Go on. Enjoy your night. I’ll be returning to my room after getting some dinner if you need me.”
I wave her off with another inquiry to her well-being. She assures me once more she’s fine before disappearing down the hallway. After that, I’m in Kunihiro’s hands.
And his uncle’s, but the magnanimous chairman (who still manages to be magnanimous even with his short height) of the family business isn’t going to touch me outside of a handshake. That would be silly.
Instead, he’s going to treat me to how rich Japanese businessmen party in Tokyo. You think you’re prepared, but you never are.
***
Image is everything in Japan. This is especially true if you represent a powerful company that stands to lose face if you act like a git in public. I have a distant cousin who taught English here right after college. The big topic at that year’s family reunion was how her company expected her to be on her best behavior even when she was off-duty from work. The fear was that some parent would complain about seeing their kid’s lovely English teacher getting drunk off her ass with her friends and lose the school a bit of business.
Obviously, these things can translate in America as well, but for the most part, people don’t worry about harmless things they do outside of work getting them fired. Now, amplify this in Japan to a million (for every dollar spent that night) to represent the kind of pressure the higher-ups of a company like the Nippon Royal Hotel were under.
So we were not going to hit up the local bars that most business peons went to on Friday and Saturday nights after work. Nor would we touch Kabuki-cho, land of middle-management playtimes… because then there might be rumors that the Isoyas were friends with unsavory yakuza types that are said to own half the neighborhood. We’re also not going to Roppongi, which is where the foreigners love to party… for a lot of the same reasons. Nope. We’re getting in the back of a private car to head back to Ginza, which is where respectable people of Tokyo’s upper echelons entertain their business associates after a long, grueling meeting.
It’s the three of us. Me, the stoic chairman who looks like his idea of fun is reading the newspaper, and the nephew who is around my age but is too deferent to his uncle to be anything more than a helpful guide as we journey to an upscale gentleman’s club in Ginza.
This is gonna be great.
I don’t dare text my girlfriend to see what she’s up to. That would be rude in present company, even though Akihiro Isoya is glued to his phone, rattling off in Japanese. I think he’s firing someone on the other side of the company until I hear his voice briefly soften in a way I would around my girlfriend.
His wife, hm? Or maybe his mistress? Hey, the things I hear around here…
A Japanese man in a tuxedo awaits us at our destination. He welcomes the Isoyas with superfluous Japanese before saying, “Welcome, sir. Allow me to show you up.”
We go to the top of a tower overlooking the downtown core of Tokyo. From our lofty, transparent elevator, I can see every bright, twinkling light of a city built on sounds and colors. Down below is the rabble of millions of people going about their business with friends, associates, and lovers. As usual, I find myself pining for a simpler life, even if for a night, while I’m stuck on the top floor of some multimillion dollar building hoping I don’t make an ass out of myself. There’s a reason Katie and I had so much fun in Vegas that we accidentally got married.
If only she were with me now. Nothing sucks more these days than going to new places and experiencing new things without her. If this were another jaunt to Vancouver, Canada, that would be one thing. Going to a place like Tokyo, that I barely get to see even with my money and access to a private plane? I should be spending at least part of this night with her.
The gentleman’s club is most assuredly men only. Not counting the women who work there, of course. Gorgeous, talented women who hail from all corners of the earth and dress like the millions of dollars their sugar daddies surely push into their bank accounts. Kunihiro is quick to nod to a Russian beauty who flashes him a dazzling smile that is a mix of careful practice and genuine affection.
A middle-aged Japanese woman dressed in a simple black dress – although those diamonds around her neck are far from simple – approaches us with a respectful bow. Her light, airy voice says something I don’t understand, but I quickly ascertain that she’s either the owner or the manager of the establishment. The other women, at least, treat her with immediate respect whenever they’re in the same vicinity. Sometimes so much so that it comes off as disingenuous.
“Welcome,” she says with an accent I can’t place. “We have a VIP room for you.”
If you think we’re alone in this VIP room? Ha!
I knew the old man in my presence had a semblance of a dick on him, because he and his nephew must have hired the company of every woman in the establishment. From the moment I enter the spacious VIP room furnished with leather and subdued with blue lighting, I’m greeted with Russian, French, Italian, Middle-Eastern, Indian, and even Canadian accents, all speaking nearly perfect English. It feels like a night in New York more than it does a night in Tokyo, a city infamous for its homogeneity even with its foreign population.
“Drink up,” Kunihiro says as a bottle of Cristal flows thanks to the dexterous hands of a blond British woman. “Tonight we relax and enjoy our spoils.”
