by Paul Kenyon
"Your turn, darling." She got him to his knees, then dipped her face toward the fleshy turret protruding from the leather laces. A grateful sob escaped him as she pursed her lips over the acorn tip. She moved the firm plum in and out, while the tip of her tongue probed for the little opening at the end. Her hand felt for the pouchy mass visible through the breeches. He was breathing harshly now. She grasped the root of his cock and rubbed its rubbery end over her cheek.
His knees were digging into the softness of her breasts. She moved her torso around, letting the rubber and steel rub against her. The harsh sensation was exquisite. It was like making love to a machine. The waves of warm pleasure were becoming too urgent to deny. She rolled over on her back and opened her legs to receive him.
He was still on his knees. He inched forward and pushed his hips between her thighs. She reached down for his mast and plunged it deep inside her. He arched his back and, taking her hips in his big hands, began to move her back and forth along the length of his poker-stiff rod. Penelope grasped his legs like twin exercise rods and helped to ease the hard shaft in and out.
They moved together in a smooth rhythm, like a single pulsating machine. It got better and better. Penelope's lips parted in an ancient smile. The motion at their joined pelvises grew more complex. She watched him with a glow of affection, the big, bulging figure with the oversize shoulders that straddled her. The bands of steel across the face looked like a great metal grin; the jersey with the enormous 99 was like a mythic vision. They increased their speed slowly, by stages. The four previous couplings had made them patient to wait for a high, high peak this time. A warm wave of ecstasy washed over the inner surfaces of her consciousness. She kept it from spilling, making it wait for the final giant flood. Brian was on the same long voyage. Four times he stopped and waited for a few moments before continuing. She stopped with him each time and held herself poised over the abyss.
The flood crept higher. Its pressure was insistent, intense. Penelope could feel the warm joy pressing within her, threatening to burst. She moved faster. Brian had become remote, generalized, as the primitive frenzy possessed her. She heard harsh little cries that she knew were her own, deep-throated growls from the man astride her. She was full to bursting, but she held out, squeezing the last moments out of it.
Then, with a great shuddering moan, she came. It was a long, drawn-out explosion of unbearable intensity that had her up off the rug and trying to press all of Brian inside her. He continued thrusting, his motions frantic with his own approaching peak. And then he made it, in a violent convulsion. She could feel the hot semen spilling out within her, and she reached up and grasped the uniform sleeves to pull him down on top of her. They remained joined another minute or two, moving his still-tumid pole around her spasming vulva to touch off a whole series of little pleasurable releases.
He climbed to his feet, the pole rapidly turning into a hose again. A thick syrup dripped from it, staining the thigh of his breeches. He removed the helmet and tucked it under his arm. The faceless machine turned into a grinning man, the craggy features flushed and perspiring. He stuffed the hose back inside the pants.
"You play a great center, Baroness," he said.
She stood up to face him, cupping a hand under her crotch to keep from staining the Oriental rug. "I'm going to put you on the bench awhile, darling. Then we'll see what else you're up to." She looked at her watch, the only thing she had on. "We still have five hours of playing time."
Five hours later she pulled his taut and livid organ out of her entrance and gave it an affectionate pat. It was rubbed raw from its eleven workouts. She dismounted and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
"It was fun." she said.
He unclasped his hands from behind his neck and reached out lazily for her. "What's your hurry? It's not even dawn yet. We've got a whole day ahead of us."
"Sorry, Brian." She sat down at the dressing table and began brushing her hair. "I've got an appointment."
"Let it wait," he said comfortably. "Where do you have to go that's so important?"
She gathered up her clothes and headed for the shower. "Hong Kong," she said.
The fat man floated in the tub, his pumpkin of a head buoyed by an inflated air pillow. The tub had been custom-made for him; it would have qualified as a pool for a normal-size person. It was nine feet in diameter, sunk in a floor of pink-veined marble. A thermostat kept it warmed at precise body temperature. Its circular rim was lined with rubber bumpers.
It wasn't possible for him to sink. Adipose tissue floats. His four hundred pounds bobbed in the water like an enormous cork, a vast globe of baby-pink flesh. There was a peculiar furrow running up the underside of the huge belly; if you looked closely you could see that it was an erect penis, as fat as a zucchini, pressing itself deep into the yielding blubber of the sagging paunch. Its rosebud tip winked slyly at the ceiling like a second navel.
The naked Chinese girl who hung suspended above the tub in a canvas bosun's chair was smaller in girth than one of the fat man's thighs. She couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds. She wore only two things: a shower cap and a plastic identification bracelet like those used in hospitals. She stared fearfully at the floating island below and at the half-buried penis.
"Come, come, Sun Lu-chu," the fat man said. "The controls are quite simple. Don't keep me waiting."
The girl looked flustered. "Right away, Mr. Sim," she said.
She thumbed a button on the harness of the bosun's chair. It glided forward on its overhead track, overshot, then slid backward as the girl compensated. After four or five tries, her pale bottom, protruding through the canvas, was suspended exactly over the whalelike belly.
"Very good," Mr. Sim said. "Now press the other button to lower yourself. Gently, gently."
The girl reached for the control in the harness above. The gesture was clumsy. She knocked off her shower cap. It fluttered downward and landed in the water beside the stupendous mountain of flesh.
"Careless, careless," the fat man said. "You got it wet."
The girl raised a panicky hand to her scalp. A platinum wire was growing out of the top of her head. It was connected to a matchbook-sized transistorized circuit, fitted with two penlight batteries, attached to her hair with a bobby pin.
"Forgive me, Mr. Sim," she said nervously. "I'll get another cap immediately."
The fat man's face grew red, apoplectic. "Do you know what you've done, Sun Lu-shu? You've spoiled one of life's precious moments. It can never be recalled. The pleasure you give me later cannot make up for the pleasure you deprive me of now."
Sun Lu-chu's expression looked like that of a whipped dog. "Please, Mr. Sim," she whispered. "Don't be angry with me."
He heaved in the water and raised his colossal head. Waves lapped at the edges of the tub. "And now you dare! You dare to show me an unhappy face! When you know that I demand that my surroundings always be pleasant!"
The Chinese girl began to tremble. The bosun's chair swayed like a pendulum.
The effort of keeping his head in the air proved too much for Mr. Sim. He let it sink back on the air pillow. "You understand that you must be punished, Sun Lu-chu? There are rewards and there are punishments, just as there are for Dr. Jolly's laboratory rats. But how shall you be punished?" His globular face frowned in concentration. "You have deprived me of pleasure, therefore you yourself shall be deprived of pleasure."
The girl shook with fear, the little teacup breasts quivering. She opened her mouth, but was unable to speak.
"Yes, that's it," Mr. Sim said, his good humor restored. "The punishment will fit the crime. I shall have Dr. Jolly disconnect you for a day."
9
"We were notified about your visa, Baroness," the British customs officer said. "Ordinarily they insist you get it in advance from our consulate." He stamped her passport and handed it back. "All perfectly in order. I hope you and your party have a pleasant stay in Hong Kong."
Penelope smile
d distantly, wondering what the customs man would say if he knew that she had a .25-caliber automatic tucked into her bra. She'd been given the VIP treatment; whisked through customs. They hadn't even bothered to open her luggage.
Beside her, Wharton, wearing a rumpled seersucker suit, said, "Our reservations are at the Peninsula Hotel on the Kowloon side. You get the Marco Polo Suite."
Skytop and Sumo were struggling with the trunks and cases that carried the photography equipment and designers' exclusives. Eric had gone to look for a porter. Paul, looking like a show biz celebrity in his white silk suit, was talking to the three girls.
Around them, Kai Tak Airport was bustling. It was a kaleidoscope of types: Penelope could pick out the faces of the Chinese and British businessmen, vacationing Australians, jet setters from Europe and South America, American GIs on leave. And a small army of darting Chinese who were hustling them.
She turned to the glass wall facing bayside and looked out at one of the most beautiful harbors in the world. It was crowded with vessels. There were Chinese sailing junks with their bamboo-rigged sails, luxury cabin cruisers, sampans. There were some big ships moored farther out: an Australian aircraft carrier, an American cruiser, a British passenger liner. Little motor launches plied among them. Beyond, across the harbor, was the Victoria side. The shoreline was crammed with skyscrapers and modern apartment buildings. Victoria Peak and Mount Cameron rose steeply in the background. Penelope studied the mountains. Petronius Sim had a villa somewhere up there.
"Baroness St. John-Orsini?"
Penelope turned. The man who had spoken was right out of some Errol Flynn movie about Bengal Lancers. He was tall, leathery, marvelously British with a long aquiline face and clipped military mustache. He had a spectacular tan. He was dressed in crisply pressed khakis.
"Yes, that's me." She noticed with amusement that Wharton had moved protectively closer to her.
"I'm Major Pickering. Nigel Pickering, actually. The resident aide assigned me as liaison for you and your party."
"Liaison? I don't understand."
"Yes. Well. Actually, I'm supposed to smooth things out for you, don't you know."
Wharton interposed himself. "We haven't requested any help from the British resident aide."
Pickering turned. "You'd be Mr. Wharton?"
"That's right. You seem to have us identified."
Pickering gave a hearty laugh. Penelope listened closely. Was there something a little false in it? "My dear chap," Pickering said, "that's my business. I'm a policeman, don't you know. Been one all my life, one way or another. When that business came through from your business manager in New York…"
"John Farnsworth?" Penelope said.
"That was the name. When he said you hadn't had your visas issued by our consul general in New York, naturally all your names crossed my desk. I hope you've been treated satisfactorily, by the way?"
"Fine," Penelope said. "Major Pickering, we appreciate your courtesy, but we've already arranged everything. We're used to it. Would you please thank the resident aide for me?"
The last thing she wanted was a policeman trailing along after her.
"Hmm. Yes." Pickering fingered his mustache. "Well, seeing that you'll be taking pictures on location and such, possibly I might be of help with the necessary permits, things like that, what?"
Was there a veiled threat there? Penelope couldn't decide. Pickering was thoroughly charming, but he wasn't about to take no for an answer.
"Permits? I wasn't aware that I'd need any permits."
"And besides," Pickering continued, ignoring the remark, "Hong Kong can be a dangerous place if you don't keep to the usual tourist paths. I don't know what backgrounds you might choose for your pictures, but we have some really fearful slums, don't you know. A very high drug addiction rate. It comes over from Red China. So we're rapidly developing a high crime rate." He smiled disarmingly. "Not as high as the States yet, thank heaven, but enough to worry us when an important and well-known celebrity like the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini comes over for a visit."
"Major Pickering, I've shot pictures in the slums of Mexico City, the favelas of Rio, and the mountains of Calabria. My crew and I aren't a bit worried by Hong Kong. After all…" She gave him a brilliant smile."…it is a British Crown Colony."
"Quite, quite…" He spoke faster, as if he were aware that he was saying too much and wanted to get finished quickly. "Well, your pictures will be in the nature of good public relations for us, don't you see, and we want to make sure things go as smoothly as possible."
"Major, I…"
She was interrupted by the arrival of Eric, followed by a procession of eager Chinese porters. There were eight of them, with handcarts.
Pickering said, "Now here's an example of what I was talking about. You won't need these fellows." He spoke in rapid Chinese to the porters. "Pu shift. Ch'u ch'u fan." They looked disappointed. A couple of them shuffled uncertainly. "Ching ch'a!" he said, clapping his hands sharply. The porters walked quickly away.
"Hey!" Eric said, "I had a hell of a time rounding them up."
"Just bear with me, dear chap," Pickering said. He gestured to somebody at the far end of the terminal, then turned to Penelope. "The Peninsula keeps eight Rolls Royces to meet its more important guests at the airport. I took the liberty of requisitioning four of them for you."
Four liveried chauffeurs marched toward them. Each of them was flanked by two perspiring porters with handcarts. The lead chauffeur approached her. He was a portly, middle-aged Chinese with a dignified expression. He touched his cap. "Miss St. John-Orsini? The management sends its compliments."
The porters were already loading their luggage on the handcarts. Wharton scowled and took a step forward. The Baroness stopped him.
"Major Pickering seems to have thought of everything, Dan. I think we'll accept his help."
She'd made up her mind. If Pickering was determined to keep his eye on her, putting him off wasn't going to help. It would only guarantee some sort of the surveillance from the shadows. This way, at least, she could keep her eye on him.
Besides, Pickering was a thoroughly attractive male. She liked the smell of leather and tobacco that came from him. And that marvelous sense of knowing exactly who you are that British men seem to have a monopoly on.
She switched on the charm. "Major Pickering, this is Joe Skytop, my photographer… Tom Sumo… Dan Wharton you've already met…"
Pickering was correct and reserved with the men, gallant and attentive with the three girls. But she could tell, with infallible instinct, that his attention was on her all through the introductions. It was a body thing, glands and skin and subtle odors just below the level of awareness. The attraction was mutual. Policeman or not, friend or enemy, she and Nigel Pickering were going to share a bed together as surely as two magnets of opposite polarity must come together.
The four Rolls Royces were lined up at the curb, dark green and sparkling with fresh wax. Penelope and Pickering climbed into the first one; the others and the luggage shared the remaining three. Pickering leaned forward and opened the little pull-out bar. There was a choice of spirits and a tiny refrigerator with ice cubes, a concession to American habits.
"Sherry?" he said. "Or something stronger?"
"Sherry will do fine. It's a bit early in the day."
He poured them both a full-bodied sherry, not too cloying. He raised his glass. "We call this a shooting sherry," he said.
"Oh?" she said. "Do you do much shooting in your job, Major Pickering?"
"A bit. Actually I was thinking more about your job."
She arched an eyebrow.
He said quickly, "The cameras and all that, I mean."
She sipped the sherry. "Just what department do you work for, Major?"
"See here," he said. "This won't do at all. You must call me Nigel."
He seemed very sincere. He'd also managed to evade her question. She said, "My friends call me Penny."
"Very well, then. I'll anticipate. Penny it is."
The driver was taking them down a long, twisting canyon of a street, maneuvering around other traffic and scurrying pedestrians with considerable skill. Both sides of the street were gaudy with tall narrow signs in Chinese characters — marquees and advertisements. An orange «Gulf» sign perched incongruously above the throng, and a little farther on there was a round «Pepsi» emblem. They were bumping over trolley tracks, dodging double-decker trolleys festooned with bright posters. The inertial guidance monitor in Penelope's subconscious told her that their route was unnecessarily circuitous.
As if he were reading her mind, Pickering said quickly, "Thought I'd take the long way 'round; show you a bit of the local scenery."
Then the driver jammed on the brakes. Penelope was thrown forward. Pickering threw out an arm to catch her. For a moment her breasts were pressed against his forearm. He kept it there a moment longer than necessary, smiling frankly at her, then withdrew it to point at a white-shirted youth who was leaning on the fender, jabbering in Chinese at the driver.
"Demon-chaser," Pickering said. "Local superstition. They jump in front of moving cars to exorcise evil spirits. This chap's thanking the driver for running over his demon."
The demon-chaser stopped chattering and turned his gaze first on Pickering, then on Penelope. He stared at her insolently for rather a long time, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the swarming crowds.
"Cheeky devil," Pickering muttered without much conviction. The car moved forward again.
The Rolls turned into a magnificent circular drive with a huge spouting fountain in the center. A fleet of limousines was parked in the courtyard. A flight of steps guarded by stone lions led to a tall glass entrance.
"The Peninsula," Pickering announced. "Bit of sad history for us — this was where we surrendered to the Japanese on Christmas Day 1941."
Penelope locked glances with him. "You British aren't awfully fond of surrendering, are you?"
"Depends on who we surrender to," he said. He didn't touch her, but Penelope felt as if he'd placed a hand under her dress. His expression showed that he was fully aware of the phantom caress.