The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

The cold water would liven his pulse, lash at his
chest with its transparent whip, thousands of silver
needles would stab at his skin. He would take it
against his back for a time and turn to face it again.
His heart had still not quite made friends with it. It was
as if a sheet of iron were pushing at his chest, as if his
naked flesh were encased in a tight suit of armor. He
twisted and turned, like a corpse dangling from a rope
of water. Finally his skin had awakened. Young skin
stood there regally, turning off the drops of water. At
that moment Tōru raised his left arm and looked down
at the three moles like three shining black pebbles in
a cascade. They were the sign of the elite, visible to
no one, hidden under a folded wing.
He dried himself. He breathed deeply. His body
was flushed.
It was the duty of the maid Tsuné to bring his
breakfast the moment he called for it. Tsuné was a girl
he had picked up in a Kanda coffeehouse. She
obeyed all his orders.
It was only two years since he had first known a
woman, but he had quickly learned the rules for
making a woman serve a man who did not love her.
And he knew how to spot instantly a woman who
would do what he told her. He had dismissed all the
maids likely to follow Honda’s wishes and hired