What Maiko remembers most is how plain the girl was, yet how much effort she had put in to surmount all that. She hadn’t much to go on. Her head seemed too big for her body, her shoulders too rounded, as if she shied of her own being and was forever pulling inward on herself; her feet turned in, the right more than the left – how she even managed to support her own skinny frame and that large head was something of a mystery; she looked as if she was on strings and controlled by a puppet master, loose and floppy, and seemed always about to collapse in a heap should those life-strings get cut. Small dark brown, almost-black dots or moles, which she called beauty spots, were scattered all over her face and body, and Maiko tried to touch each one of them, counting, accounting for them, wondering why such things existed in the first place – a flaw in the makeup, or just something to focus on, and the thin-limbed slip of a thing duly moaned under the curious touch of her tips. She made such an effort that girl, such an effort to please and be pleased, her thick lips moue-d to be kissed.
So little to go on. So little. No beauty. But her eyes were made up and they shone. And her hair glistened. And her cheeks blushed with the perfect amount of rouge – someone must have taught her how, so expert was her glow. And the small breasts, with puffy nipples that seemed too large, too showy to be there, rings for attention, they hardened to it, hardened to the slightest attention. Standing. Erect.
Maiko moans to the memory.
Betimes Books 
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