Zhu gave a curt command to one of the maids. She spoke fast and Violet had
A thick, heavy cloud of mist arose from the heated tub in the open air pavilion
obscuring the features of its occupants. General Wang Ku, despotic ruler of a fifty mile
stretch of the Yangtze River, was soaking up the almost scalding water, luxuriating after
three days of fasting and prayer. He was not at his 13th century stone fortress situated
in northern Hunan Province. He was at the mountain monastery that he subsidized, some 65
miles away. He had gone there to rejuvenate his soul and to propitiate the gods for their
delivery of good fortune to him.
It had been a difficult time prior to his arrival. Through the vagaries of fate, he had
almost lost his most prized possession, the English whore he had kidnapped off of the
streets of Shanghai. Although her formal ranking in his seraglio was lowest of the three
remaining after he had married one off to his senior commander, Major Won, she was the one
who had captured his soul.
It wasn’t just her beauty. She was alluringly thin with long, firm thighs and heavy,
round breasts. She had hips that were seductively wide, just enough to give her torso a
gracious, hourglass form. Her face was more than pleasant. Her lips were plump and when
drawn together formed a luscious pout. She had starry eyes that, depending on the light,
appeared either light green or a slate blue. Her dark, brown hair, which had been a
trifle short when he had enslaved her, had grown to a more luxurious and pleasing length
in the year and a half since she had become his whore.
Yes, she was beautiful. But so were his other concubines. Pu Wei, his remaining Chinese
concubine was appropriately dainty and lithe. The Russian whore, the one now temporarily
elevated to Whore Number Two by the emancipation of the former Whore Number One, Me Ling,
had an innocent, heavenly face, one that invited violation. Her breasts were large and
fluffy and her bottom full and round, just made for the whip. Both were younger than his
English whore who was now two years short of 30.
No, it was not her beauty that had captivated him. It was something else. She had a
deep soul, an inner strength. He had sensed it from the start, when he had first taken
her to his bed. Her fiery eyes had conveyed her inner revolt even as she submitted meekly
to his invasion of her three heavenly gates. To his astonishment, she had learned to
speak a rudimentary Chinese and even to play the liuqin, a Chinese mandolin, and sing
songs made up of ancient Chinese poetry. She held herself nobly at all times, even when
confronted by the imminent use of a whip. And when she lolled in post orgasmic bliss,
clutching languidly to his own spent form, it was like being in the arms of a goddess.
When he had last seen her, she was standing naked on the execution platform, preparing
to meet her ancestors for the crime of being compromised by an invader to the seraglio.
Although there was no evidence that she had led on the daring lieutenant from his own
army, she had proffered him her sexual services in order, at least at first, to save the
life of her maid. Worse, she had enchanted the man who had come to attack her and spent
the night boisterously coupling with him. For this sin he had condemned her to lose her
head after the lieutenant and the maid, who had fallen asleep on duty and failed to raise
the alarm, had first lost theirs. A concubine should always prefer death to betraying her
lord. So, whatever her motives, the mere fact that she had not resisted the lieutenant to
the death was cause for her to forfeit her life.
His heart was wrenched by the sight of her climbing the execution platform. He had
grown more than enamoured of her, having fallen under the same spell that had bewitched
the lieutenant. When she turned towards him, radiant and beautiful despite more than two
weeks of abject confinement and torture in his dungeon, he could not bring himself to
utter the words to halt her execution. It was only when the axe was raised high and
beginning its downward arc that he found the strength to shout out, “Stop!” It had been
just in time.
Despite his immersion in the hot, oily water of his bath, he shuddered just to think of
it. It had been a close run thing. He had not seen her since that moment, having
morosely trudged back into his fortress after giving the command. He had secluded himself
in his private salon, numbing himself with scotch whiskey. He believed that he had lost
face, shown weakness before the crowd who he had summoned to witness the execution by
giving into his sentimentality. Li Pao, his eunuch, had convinced him otherwise. He had
termed it a great victory, having shown a human side to his subjects while, at the same
time, revealing to all the inestimable beauty of his possession, the English concubine.
The gods had been gracious to him, the eunuch told him. He needed to go to the temple he
subsidized way up in the mountains to demonstrate his gratitude to them. And so he did.
Three days of fasting and prayer had been almost too much to tolerate. Several times he
had been tempted to jump up, call the whole thing off and call for some whores and the
setting of a sumptuous feast. But he had overcome his urges and endured the chanting, the
incense, the hunger pangs. Now, it was over. He had feasted with his two wives in the
monk’s main dining hall, but he had been careful not to allow himself to become overcome
by food and drink. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had gone three days without
pussy and he would be damned, if you would pardon the expression, if he would miss out on
it tonight.
General Wang was not alone in the elegant bathing pavilion. To his right, kneeling by
the side of the steaming pool was a beautiful, languid, temple whore. She looked about 24
or 25, had long, silky, black hair, dainty breasts and an enticingly beautiful face. She
had soaped his body dutifully while the whore to his left, a smaller, more voluptuous
wench, had sucked his cock. She had not brought him to fruition, but had teased him
unmercifully and then guided him down back into the soothing water.
A third whore, an older woman, a little over thirty perhaps, naked like the others, was
playing a lute and singing soft, mournful songs. Her dark, black hair was piled up on top
of her head and held in place by a golden spike. The music soothed him while, at the same
time, it deliciously abraded the wounds of his soul. He knew that he could hope for the
melding of hearts with the English concubine that she had achieved with the now deceased,
lowly lieutenant.
He had not felt such an ache for a woman since his days as a youth when love seemed the
most important thing in the world. He had been a student in the British School in
Shanghai, just 19 years old. She was an elegant courtesan, the prize whore of a refined,
exclusive house. He had first seen her as she promenaded down Banyon Street in the
International Zone, on her way to one of the fine restaurants there. He had been walking
from the school to his uncle’s house. He had fallen in love with her at once.
For weeks he pined away for her, waiting always on the same street corner for a glimpse.
She was always dressed in fine silks, her hair bedecked with flowers, her neck surrounded
by jewels, and in the custody of the formidable matrons and bodyguards from her bordello.
For him, the poor nephew of a middle class merchant, she was unattainable. That did not
stop him from dreaming of possessing her.
He had saved up his meagre allowance. He found the courage to enter the sumptuous,
palatial house where she reigned. He had polished his aged and worn shoes, perfumed
himself with cologne stolen from his aunt, borrowed a starched, white shirt and silk suit
from a friend. When he entered the establishment, he was so frightened that he almost ran
right out. His courage kept him going. He looked around and saw her seated at a small
table, kneeling on a pillow, laughing and drinking tea with some of the lesser whores.
He almost froze when she cast her gaze on him. He trembled as he approached. The other
women grew silent as they watched him come near. He had bought a bouquet of purple
orchids to present to her. As he knelt down next to her and proffered her the flowers,
she looked at him, their eyes meeting for the longest time. And then she laughed. She
turned to the other women and made a rude, caustic comment, wondering why the school boy
was dirtying their floor. All the other women laughed. “Go away, school boy,” she said
to him, “and come back when you are a man.” He ran out, tears streaming down his face.
He did come back, eleven years later. He had just assumed control over his present
duchy, having ousted his predecessor in a coup. She was past her prime by then. He
purchased her contract from her madam, brought her back to Hunan province and turned her
over to his troops. After a month, when his men were through with her, he had her brought
down to his dungeon and strangled while he watched.
Since that terrible day in the bordello, he had sworn off love. Now, it was rearing its
ugly head once more and the object of his desires was as unattainable as that courtesan
had been so many years ago. Not her body, of course. Her body was his and he had used it
innumerable times to his great delight. No, it was her inner self that was beyond his
reach. It made his heart ache to think about it.
As he listened to the soft songs of the temple whore, he pushed these memories away from
him. Love was the last thing he needed. He was here to relax, to celebrate the
providence of the gods that enabled him at the last minute to save the English whore.
The trials and tribulations of ruling 500 square miles, over 250,000 souls, were far
removed for him tonight. His body felt refreshed by the three days of abstemiousness.
His vigour was renewed. Tomorrow, he would return to his fortress castle overlooking the
Yangtze River. There would be petitions to read, judgments to render, miscreants to
punish, loyal followers to reward. There had been recently increasing pressure from the
nationalist government in Nanking for him to subject himself to its rule. The warlord who
ruled the southern half of Hunan province, Lu Chen, was a constant irritant, jealous of
his access to the broad, fertile waterway and demanding special rights for his goods to
pass through the port of Yuenying, which sat at the virtual centre of General Wang’s small
empire.
And there was the English whore to deal with. He would need to impose his mastery of
her all over again. She was sure to know that he was bedevilled by his desire for her.
He could not allow her to use that knowledge as a weapon against him. She would need to
be put in her place.
But that was not what was really bothering him. It was the fact that she allowed the
now deceased lieutenant access to her inner self, a place that was barred to him. Every
time he thought of fucking her when he returned to his fortress, and he had thought of
hardly anything else over the last three days, four if you count the day it took to travel
here; he knew that he would never really possess her, that her soul would be shut to him.
He was the absolute ruler of a quarter of a million subjects. He held the power of life
and death over all of them. They would cower and quake at his presence, make his every
wish a command. But her, she would never surrender to him.
Wang reached out and picked up the small, ceramic cup of heated rice wine lying next to
him and downed its contents. A sudden surge of lust passed through him. What did he care
about the soul of one powerless Englishwoman? He owned her body, she was his slave. She
would succumb to him or suffer, that was all there was to it. He would take joy in her
knowledge that she was his whore, to do with as he pleased, that she would always be a
whore and nothing more for as long as she lived. He would whip her and beat her until she
cried for mercy. He would invade her body, take his pleasure there. She would never love
him, he knew that, but she was his nonetheless.
Wang gave out a great groan and stood up, signalling to the temple whores that he was
done with his bath and ready for some fucking. The two who had been kneeling next to him
leapt to their feet and rushed to dry him off. He climbed the four steps out of the pool
and stood at its top, his legs and arms spread while the two delectable women rubbed his
body with soft, cotton towels.
He was fifty one years old, and, if not at his peak of physical prowess, damn near to
it. He had not allowed himself to grow fat and indolent like so many of the men who had
seized empires as a result of the decline of the Manchu Dynasty. He stayed fit and trim.
His army was small, a little over 450 men now, he had let it grow in the past year, but
it was crack and efficient. He had studied war and tactics. He had four French 75’s,
machine guns and soon, as soon as it could be delivered, he would even have an armoured
car with three .30 calibre machine guns. His wealth was astounding, even to him. He had
six factories back in Shanghai and was hip deep in the opium trade. He received tribute
from every vessel that plied the Yangtze in his domain; he taxed all commodities that
flowed through his port, collected taxes from each farmer, tribute from each landlord. He
was awash with gold. He had no reason to be glum.
The night air was chilly. Having gotten out of the steaming tub, he could feel the cold
breeze that was wafting through the pavilion. It was almost November and soon the
freezing winds from the north would sweep his duchy. December through February would
bring snow and ice. It was a good time of year. He could hunker down in his fortress and
enjoy its delights without worrying whether one of his neighbours had launched an attack
against him or that a regiment of nationalist soldiers was marching on his domain.
The temple whores led him into the enclosed portion of the pavilion. It was a large
room, 20 by 30 feet with candles glimmering all around. The floor was covered with a soft
tatami mat and a wide, plush mattress lay in the middle. One of the whores lit incense
and soon a sweet, gentle aroma filled the room.
They laid his naked body down on the bed and two of them lay down next to him, pressing
their soft, perfumed flesh against him. The third, the one who had been singing, knelt
between his spread legs and brushed her gentle hands along his thighs. She smiled at him,
a smile of desire, a promise of exquisite joy. She took hold of his stiffening cock,
brushed her painted lips against it and then subsumed it into her mouth.
The warlord groaned with pleasure as he felt the heat of the temple whore’s mouth on his
cock. Her tongue washed along its surface, her hand gently resting on its stem. Slowly,
languidly, she suckled him while the other two, younger whores kissed and stroked him.
His mind rolled over into an energized yet blissful state. The gods were good to him. He
recited the little prayer of thanks he made on occasions such as this. There was no
logical reason why the son of a cobbler should have risen to rule 250,000 souls. It could
only be because, for some reason, he was favoured by the heavenly powers. As a result, he
did everything he could to stay on their good side. He knew, though, that change was the
one constant of life and that bad usually followed the good as rain followed sunshine. He
prayed that the day when he would have to balance out the ledger would be delayed as long
as possible.
The whore between his thighs slid her lips along the length of his stiffened shaft and
descended to his large, tender stones. Her soft hand stroked his cock gently while she
took his sac into her mouth and probed the vulnerable balls with her tongue. A wave of
ecstasy flowed through him. His back arched and he groaned. The whore on his right took
possession of his mouth, inhaling his tongue and laying her own against it. The one on
his left dragged her lips and tongue across his chest and played with his nipples while
stroking his belly with her soft, nimble hand.
Wang rubbed his hands along the backs of the whores nestled into the crux of his arms,
luxuriating in their soft skin. When the whore between his thighs took possession of his
rampant tool again with her mouth, his brain seemed to short circuit and all thoughts but
that of the wondrous sensations from the bodies that encompassed him fled.
His lust grew higher and higher. The mouth on his cock began to stroke him in earnest.
The women to his right and left seemed to accelerate their pleasure bringing activities.
His need grew stronger and stronger. He arched his back. His hands took hold of the
flowing, soft hair of the women kissing and stroking him, gripping tightly as if he had a
need to anchor himself. He felt the surge of his fluids. The mouth on his cock withdrew
momentarily, teasing his cock’s opening with the tip of its tongue while holding on
tightly to his steely rod. His body shuddered and he groaned loudly.
When she engulfed his prick again, he could hold out no longer. It began to jerk and
throb. He thrust his hips up towards the mouth that was milking him of his essence. His
eyes were tightly shut. Fierce jolts of pleasure shot through him.
Four days of his stored up, manly fluids jetted from his cock. The whore, giving out
moans of pleased satisfaction, drank it down. When his orgasm finally waned, his body
collapsed into a satisfied, satiated state.
It would not last. After letting him snooze for a while, tender hands brought his cock
to attention once more. He had taken the potion the whores had proffered to him at the
beginning of their evening together and it was having its effect. He lost himself in a
whirl of passion, fucking each one of them in her turn, lapping at their heavenly gates,
caressing breasts, thighs, asses. The most memorable moment had been when the older, more
experienced whore had straddled him while he lay on his back. She was crouched over him,
her legs spread wide, and the only point of contact between them was his tall, thick pole
and her luscious, steamy cleft. She raised and lowered herself over him slowly, clenching
his tool with her inner muscles. It was exquisite.
Later, as he drifted off to sleep, the whores’ bodies pressed against him, just as he
was about to descend into oblivion, he thought of his English whore once more. Tomorrow,
he would see her again.
| 
