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The Contract

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The Beat Goes On.
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Oops! Maybe in Episode 10.
:p
 
:D Have Siss and Barb some clothes into their wardrobes ? They're always naked !
Perhaps could we collect for them at CF ?:devil:

Coveralls Messa,coveralls-8327988c49840aa2.jpg but naked underneath. :eek:

Such the wrong pic!
:p
 
Nice
A beautiful talented young woman ... in search of her dreams ... on a trip halfway around the world … come with her to 1966 Japan and find out for yourself!

Siss and I have been working on a new one ... tell us how you like it


THE CONTRACT (part I)

Summer 1966

I lean forward and gaze out the window as my 707 lazily circles before putting down at Tokyo’s Haneda International airport. The Pacific flight was long and tiring, but now I am fully awake and feeling a little giddy with excitement. I am here, it’s happening, I can hardly believe it.

This is my big chance. After working my way through college playing guitar and singing on weekends in small coffee houses and smoke-filled bars, I have finally landed a gig that just might bring me the exposure and recognition necessary for success in the music industry.

It happened quite unexpectedly. After performing one night, a very earnest-looking and well-dressed Asian gentleman offered me a drink and began talking. He said he liked what he had heard and seen, that I had potential. He saw in me a unique cross between Joan Baez and Petula Clark. I just needed a break.

Had I considered going abroad to make a name for myself? He said he worked for an entertainment mogul in Tokyo, man by the name of Kurosawa, who ran a string of night clubs all across Asia … Tokyo, Hong Kong, Saigon, Manila … and wielded considerable influence in the recording industry.

My earnest Asian friend said he was a talent scout for Kurosawa and could offer me a spot performing in the clubs. If it went well, the sky was the limit. There would be plenty of money and backing.

The next day I signed a contract. Before the week was over, I had tickets, visa, and an advance in hand, and was on my way to Asia.

As the plane taxis to the terminal, I slide across the seat and into the aisle, pulling down my carry-on and guitar case from the rack above.

Waiting for the passengers ahead of me to disembark, I check my appearance…. tugging a little at my suede boots, smoothing my paisley hip-hugging mini-skirt, and then fussing with my semi-sheer white gauze top, which has stuck to my back. I notice with a little smile the vague outline of my aureolas showing through the thin gauzy material as a burst of sunlight pours through the cabin window.

Impatient, I drum my fingers on the head rest of a seat to the razzy and tinny sounds of the lame instrumental version of “Winchester Cathedral” coming out of the plane’s PA system.

No one has apparently bothered to open the door yet, and I edgily begin to twirl a few strands of my long brown hair, until the passengers in the aisle ahead of me finally begin to move. I negotiate the aisle with my bags, wave cheerily at the smiling stewardess and step off the plane

The ramp leads directly from the plane to passport control and customs. I present my passport, pass scrutiny and walk on through. Picking up my bag at the luggage carousal, I begin to look around for the promised driver. Nothing at first, but then there he is … a short little man holding out a placard with “Moore” scrawled across it.

I approach, smile and hold out my hand. “Hi, I’m Barbara Moore”

He grunts and reaches for my bag. I let him have it and follow him out of the terminal into a light steady rain, the sun still shining in the distance. We scurry across a parking area to a waiting limousine. He deposits me in the back seat, my hair barely wet but my gauzy blouse soaked through. He hurries around the car and takes his place behind the wheel. We pull out from the curb and head into the city.

He doesn’t say much, and my attempts to engage him elicit only grunts or a nodding of his head. I decide that maybe his English is poor, and settle into my seat. We drive on and on in silence. I amuse myself by looking out the window at this strange and exotic city, and try to ignore the fact that he is staring through his rear-view mirror at the transparent front of my wet blouse.

What a strange little man, I think as I nervously cross and uncross my legs, attempt to pull my mini-skirt down, and roll down the window to hear the familiar and calming doo wop sounds of “Barbara Ann” blaring from someone’s transistor radio.

Finally, we pull into a garage beneath a rather plain looking building. “Where are we?” I ask.

No response. He parks, gets out, opens my door and helps me out. Two other men appear. They take my bags and we head across the indoor garage to a lift. They stand aside. I get in and they follow. I watch as the lift carries us up to the twelfth floor.

The door opens and I am ushered down a carpeted corridor. We stop, a key is produced, a door is opened and I step into what looks like a nicely furnished hotel room. My bags are deposited on the bed; the bathroom door is courteously opened for my inspection.

Then much to my surprise, my short escort, who has done nothing but grunt at me until now, speaks to me in flawless English, “Welcome Miss Moore. This is your room. I trust you will be comfortable here. There is food in the cabinets over there, and you will find plenty to drink in the mini-bar refrigerator. Tomorrow morning I will be here at 9 am to fetch you and take you to see Mr. Kurosawa. And within a day or two, I am sure you will be pleased to know, we will have you performing in our clubs. Now before, I go please give me your passport for safe-keeping.”

A little puzzled, I reach into my bag, fish out my passport, and hand it to him.

“Why do you need it?” I decide to ask.

He smiles graciously and replies, “Formalities, Miss Moore, official things. It’s my job to take care of them for you.”

He nods at the other two men, who leave the room. He follows and closes the door behind him. I hear the door being locked from the outside.

I shrug, and go into the bathroom. I need a shower. I step back into the main room, sit on the bed and remove my suede boots. Standing, I drop my skirt, step out, and then quickly slip out of my still damp gauzy top. My panties follow. I re-enter the bathroom, lean over the tub and turn on the taps. Satisfied, I step in and let the warm water flow over my body.

But as I stand there soaping myself, my mind returns to the sound of the door being locked from the outside. Something very strange about that, I think.

I rinse and dry off, wrap myself in a towel and pad out of the bathroom and over to the door. I try the handle…locked…I look for a way to unlock the door…nothing. I rattle the handle, knock on the door. Silence.

Stepping back, I cross the room to a small table on which there is a telephone. I pick up the receiver and hold it to my ear….nothing.

I walk across the room, reach out and draw back a heavy satiny window curtain … no window … just a blank wall… what the hell?

Now I am feeling very uneasy … how strange … how frighteningly strange!

It’s late. I take some fruit from the table and nibble on it while I sit on the bed and think. Finally, I decide there is nothing I can do about this for now. I pull back the covers, toss aside the towel and crawl into the bed to sleep. Tomorrow he will fetch me, and I will ask questions then.

Hours later I am awake. I look at the clock. It’s 7 am. I get up, open my bag and get dressed… a light blue dress and heels. I want to look nice and not too informal for my meeting with Kurosawa. I rustle up some breakfast from the mini-bar and sit down to wait.

At 9 am sharp I hear a key in the lock, and the door swings open and in walks my escort, with his two henchman behind him.

“Good morning, Miss Moore … I trust you slept well, and found everything here satisfactory.

“No, not really,” I reply, looking at him a bit crossly, “What is the meaning of the outside lock. This is highly unusual, and very unsettling! Am I a prisoner or something, just what is going on?!”

“Oh, no, no!” he exclaims, holding up both hands….I should have explained, my apologies Ms. Moore. “It was for your own security. This is an office building, not a hotel.”

I look at him dubiously.

“In any case, please come with me. Mr. Kurosawa is anxious to meet you. His office is just down the hall.”

“Does he want to hear me sing?” I ask, reaching for my guitar case.

“Yes, of course, please bring your instrument with you.”

Feeling a slight bit better, I follow him out of the room and down the hall ... the other two men trailing behind me. At the end of the hallway, we pass through a double door and into a spacious office with a large teak-wood desk. Behind the desk is a man, probably in his fifties, fit-looking and wearing an expensive suit.

“Allow me to introduce Mr. Kurosawa, Ms. Moore.” purrs my escort.

Kurosawa leans forward, smiles, and says in heavily accented English, “Welcome Miss Moore. I am a busy man. Let’s get straight to business, shall we?”

I nod, looking for a chair…there is none…I remain standing in front of his desk…I can feel the two henchmen sidling up behind me.

“Now then,” he continues, “You sing and accompany yourself on the guitar … do you also dance or perform in other ways?”

“No, I am a folk-singer, it’s a solo act. All I need is a stool and an audience.”

“Yes, well we have many different kinds of performances in my clubs, Miss Moore. We are going to expect you to do more than just sing.”

“But, I signed a contract to sing,” I stammer, “that’s what I do.”

“Miss Moore, I run a string of clubs, located in “redline” districts … they are known as Yoshinara Shinjuki. I also run “blueline” clubs known here as Kabuki-cho. You will start there, and then perhaps move on to Saigon or Manila next. You’ll be a hit with the GIs who frequent the clubs there.

I look at him with a puzzled expression. “OK, what other kinds of things do you expect me to do for you?”

“Serve drinks to our customers, sit with them, dance for them, entertain them with your singing of course, but also with special acts on stage. The clients of my clubs often have peculiar tastes, and each club specializes in different kinds of performances on stage or in private rooms.”

I look at him in disbelief.

“Now, I haven’t much time and I need to see what you look like. Remove your clothing please, Miss Moore.”

“Now just wait a minute. I have a contract. There is nothing about this in my contract. I read it over thoroughly. I did not sign up to be a bar girl, or perform nude and do God knows what in some sleazy club.

“Ah, I take it you did not read the Japanese part of your contract, Miss Moore.”

“What? Isn’t it the same as the English?”

“Now remove your clothes please.”

“No, I am leaving right now.”

“No, you are not Miss Moore. Your contract puts you legally under my complete control for a period of one year; you are not free to leave.”

“That’s nonsense. I will go to the authorities and they will take care of this.”

“We have your passport, and you are officially entered in government files as my indentured employee. They will just return you to me.”

Tears begin to well up in my eyes.

Now remove your clothes Miss Moore, or I will have my men do it for you.”


TO BE CONTINUED
Nice story Ms Moore! So glad that your career is moving in the right directon! I enclose a pic from the first club were you will perform!
 

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I don't understand the fascination with burlap! :confused::p:doh:
 
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