Marcus Bentley was the quintessential ugly American: loud, crass, and convinced his money made him a god in the land of the rising sun. He swaggered through Tokyo’s neon-drenched nights, hand glued to a bottle of Kirin, chasing the next weird thrill. Maid cafes? Been there, groped that! Host clubs? It was time to show those pretty boys how a real man partied!

Stumbling out of a Shinjuku alleyway, he spied an unremarkable door guarded by an exquisite raven-haired beauty. “Konbanwa, gaijin-san,” she purred. “You seek pleasure beyond your wildest dreams?” Captivated by her smoky eyes and coy smile, Marcus staggered past her, into the bar…

The hostesses poured charm and sake in equal measure, plying him with flirtation and flattery. “So strong,” they cooed, stroking his ego. “A true man among boys!” Bumbling and red-faced, Marcus never noticed when his drink took on a pinkish tinge, nor tasted the odd cherry blossom note. Minutes later… CRASH! His head hit the tableas oblivion claimed him. He awoke in a gauzy pink nightmare, head full of cotton candy, body weak and wobbly. The fitted kimono, the lush futon, the heart-shaped vanity: all deeply, distressingly wrong. Marcus stumbled over to the mirror and cried out in shock. Although what came out was a truly feminine scream.

The delicate Oriental doll staring back at him had a porcelain complexion, rosebud lips, and almond eyes. Her – no, HIS – body had been nipped and tucked into a caricature of Japanese beauty. “What… happened to me…?” Marcus croaked, feminine voice barely above a whisper. “I happened!” a deep, mocking baritone answered. An older Japanese man in an impeccable suit stood at in the doorway, nose crinkled in cruel amusement. He raised a crystal perfume bottle and sprayed a cloud of pink mist into the air.

The cloying scent of sakura blossoms invaded Marcus’s nostrils, short-circuiting his higher brain functions. Fear, rage, even his very sense of self dissolved. In their place rose an all-consuming need to please, to serve, to utterly submit to the man before him. Marcus sank to his knees, a panting, prostrate puddle of kimono silk and cleavage. “So much better,” the man sneered, finger crooked in a come-hither gesture. “Crawl to me, my blushing servant. Service your danna-sama like a proper geisha slut.”

Inwardly sobbing but outwardly ecstatic, Marcus minced forward on hands and knees, happiness hormones saturating his mind even as a captive corner of his psyche howled in despair. He buried his face in his owner’s crotch, mouthing the hard heat straining against bespoke trousers as a geyser of drool escaped his traitorous lips. Time lost all meaning as he was used – roughly, thoroughly, in every degrading way imaginable – by the man who had stolen his life and remade him as an oriental fucktoy. Each brutal thrust, each splattering of semen on his once-strong jawline, drove his old identity deeper into the recesses of his psyche.

But it never died completely. That was his punishment, his own personal purgatory: to be mentally aware, even as his body betrayed him again and again in ever more debasing ways. Only when he was pumped full of cock and left a broken pile of parts, leaking from every hole, would Marcus be able to surface briefly, a drowning man gasping for sanity. But inevitably, the perfume would spray, his master would chuckle darkly, and Marcus would once again melt into a puddle of compliance. This was his life now: forever imprisoned in silk and sin and sakura-scented subservience.