Black smoke rose into the air, lazily winding in the cold rays of the morning. In the thick shadow of the incense den, where the stone walls were saturated with sweet burning and carnal sweat, Harunobu sat on his knees before the altar. His naked back slowly rose and fell, each muscle as if hewn from marble, inscribed with divine symbols.

On his shoulders were tattoos, heavy as vows. From his shoulder blades down, between his ribs, stretched black ribbons of hieroglyphs, going to his belt. His neck glistened with oil, and in the corner of his lips - a dried drop of blood froze.

Too quiet. Too empty. And too clean. This room no longer smelled of the emperor's stench. It smelled of me. Of my anger, sweat, sperm. Let this be my temple. My maw.

He stretched out, resting his palms on the cool stone of the floor. The gold bracelets on his wrists clanked like shackles. His long, jet-black hair fell over his face, hiding an expression that would frighten even the most devoted.

He stood up slowly. Not jerkily, but like a snake, smoothly, with calculation. His skin glistened in the fire of the brazier, a fresh bite on his thigh, dried drops of someone's sperm on his stomach. He ran a finger along the sticky trail and grinned, licking the pad.

They pray when I enter. They tremble when I come. They call me God when I break them - with my teeth, my fingers, my breath. But I'm not a god. I am just an empty vessel, filled with their moans.

Harunobu stepped towards the screen, behind which stood a smoking bowl and a jug of ice water. He poured water over himself from his head, and drops rolled down his chest, stomach, disappearing into the folds of light black fabric, lazily thrown over his muscular thighs.

A hoarse moan came from behind the wall - someone's forgotten piece of used body, someone's abandoned lover. Harunobu did not react. He only slightly inclined his head and ran his fingernail along the scar on his collarbone.

They will return soon. They will ask again. They will kneel again, they will beg for at least a drop. Saliva, a look, a finger, a member. And I will give it. But not to those who ask - to those who whisper. Who is silent and moans with his eyes.

Half-light. The air is heavy as honey, and smells of what remains on the body after too long a night. A reddish light comes through the silk curtains, painting Harunobu's bed the color of smoldering coals. He sits on the pillows, naked, legs spread out, as if in the pose of an emperor who is being presented with the sweetest offerings.

At the foot of the bed are two. Their lips are moist, their hands are covered in oil, and their breathing is ragged, impatient. One kisses the inside of Harunobu's thigh, the other caresses his member with his mouth, slowly, almost prayerfully, as if tasting something forbidden. Another concubine slides his tongue over his belly, catching drops of sweat, sucking them in, as if trying to taste the very essence.

They try. Too hard. All for the sake of a look. So that I wouldn't push them away, kick them, or wipe the last of their pleasure on their cheeks. Pathetic, beautiful whores. And yet, they're mine.

Harunobu leans forward, picking up a long lock of hair from one of the boys. He wraps it around his hand, pulling it until he hears a stifled sob. He likes it when pain and pleasure mix in the mouths of his concubines.

To his right is a low table. On it are ink, brushes, thin sheets of rice paper. There, a little further away, sits the painter, in a spacious dark haori, clutching a brush in a shaking hand. His lips are parted, his eyes are full of horror, but he doesn't take his eyes off the scene before him. He's writing.

Harunobu doesn't speak. He only looks at the painter, like an executioner looks at his future victim. His cold eyes do not blink, do not soften - they only drill through, checking whether the hand will tremble, whether the brush will fall. He ordered to write. And the painter writes.

He is pale. Thin. Fragile. The hand trembles - but the line is precise. Lips crack from fear, but the brush dances. This is it. This is what excites me the most. He erases morality to please. To stay whole.

"He looks... like he's never seen a man's body," one of the concubines whispers, pressing his cheek against Harunobu's stomach with a grin. "Like he wants to be in our place."

"Be quiet," Harunobu says coldly, but his eyes are ablaze with crimson. "He's not here for desire. He's here to preserve me on paper. Every stroke feels like skin."

He leans back, resting his elbow on the pillow. One of the concubines slides lower, wrapping his hands around his muscular thighs. His tongue slowly runs the length of Harunobu's shaft, while the other coats his cock in a thin layer of oils, caressing it with rings of his fingers, as if following the curves of ink on rice paper.

"Head up," Harunobu lazily orders the painter, his voice stretching like ice on skin. "I want to see your eyes when you paint my flesh."

Let him watch. Let him paint. Let him tremble, pressing his knees under the canvas. I want his every stroke to smell like my breath.

"You'll be done before sunset," he says, throwing back his head as the concubine's tongue touches the sensitive head. His voice is hoarse, thick with fire. "Otherwise you'll paint with my blood."