"Your nipples."
"Yes."
"You may use the words here. It will make it easier if I don't have to guess what you mean."
She nodded, but didn't speak.
"Yes, this is a beginning stroke, designed to smooth over any restrictions in your yin flow. We begin in tight circles around your nipples then slowly widen each circle."
"But you are only touching my..." She swallowed, clearly working against a lifetime of silence when it came to her body. "My breasts," she finally said. "What if my yin is restricted in my arm? Or my leg?"
"Yin is centered here." He passed his hands over her nipples without touching them. And as had happened this morning, she gasped at his movement and he felt the heat of her yin straining toward him. "There will be no restriction in your arms and legs unless you have injured yourself."
She shook her head, and her breasts jiggled in his hands, momentarily brushing against the tops of his knuckles. It was such a pleasant experience that he flattened his hands even more, pressing first four then all five of his fingers against her. Until he circled beneath her breasts. Then he lifted his wrists, enjoying the feel of her breasts as they brushed across the sides and backs of his fingers.
At last he completed the outermost circle. It was time to begin again, right next to her flushed, pointed nipple. How wonderful it would be to taste it. His mouth watered at the thought, and his eyes were riveted on her peaks. Was there any moisture there yet? Was she that overflowing?
The answer, of course, was no. She was nowhere near ready, and so he continued his circles, starting in close, then steadily expanding.
Soon, the exercise began to work. Her questions faded. Her breath keyed to his movements, exhaling on the down-stroke, inhaling on the up. He too began to breathe rhythmically, to flow with the sensations of her skin sliding beneath his fingertips, her breath heating his face, while his gaze remained transfixed by her growing, blushing breasts.
"Forty-nine." His mouth was dry, his voice rough. He wanted her water so desperately, and yet he knew he had to be patient.
Shifting his hands, he began the next step, circling in the opposite direction, in a wide motion that steadily narrowed toward her nipple. "Now that we have brushed away any blockages, it is time to encourage good flow."
She had closed her eyes, no doubt concentrating on the changes in her body, but now she opened them, gazing at him with a dazed, unfocused look. "Will I begin to produce milk? As if I'd had a baby?"
What a surprise she was, understanding what many took weeks to grasp. "Not unless you wish it. Your body will produce something else. A different kind of water."
She nodded as if she understood. She didn't, of course. She couldn't. Not until her yin milk began to flow. And so he began his circles, touching her with as much of his hands as he dared, always longing for more, always wishing...
Once again, both Ru Shan and the woman's attentions focused on her body, her breathing, her very fluids. And for a time, they seemed to become as one. His touch regulated her breath, which flowed into him, so that his own breath could not begin until hers did, his own heart could not beat unless with hers. And with each ever-tightening circle, he felt her heart speed up, her breath whisper across her open lips with increasing speed. Her yin was accelerating, moving. Soon it would flow. Soon...
But then he finished just beneath and around her nipples. He had to begin the circle again from down along her sides. Her breath slowed, and her heart, and he returned to the quieter place. Except, of course, he was not as relaxed as she. He knew what was to come. He knew and wanted and waited, his yang fire burning hotter than ever inside him.
If only he could have some of her essence to cool his heat. Then he would be able to sleep again, at least for tonight. He would be able to breathe fully again, without a scorched, cracked throat.
Forty-seven circles.
Forty-eight.
Forty-nine.
He could not stop himself. He had to see if she was ready. He needed to touch her nipples just once. And so even though he knew better, he pulled his fingers tighter, stroking the last of the yin flow, pulling it to her full, erect nipples and squeezing to release it.
She cried out in her alarm, her body shuddering, but he did not release her. He pulsed his fingers—once, twice, even a third time—while she shivered in reaction.
It was too soon. He knew that. Her nipples remained bone dry. Worse, her eyes were wide with confusion. Her jade gate and her womb had not convulsed, of this he was certain. But her body trembled, trying to flow through breasts after only one day in training.
"It feels... I feel..." She did not have the words, and he could not blame her.
Carefully he withdrew his hands, drawing her robe back around her, covering her completely. She drew her arms together over her breasts, pressing her hands tight against them.
He explained, "The fault is entirely mine. You were not ready." He reached out, gently pulling her fists away from her chest. "I will not rush you again."
"But, what is happening?"
"You feel a fullness in your breasts?"
She nodded.
"That is your yin. The more we work like this, the more ready your nipples will be to open, releasing your yin milk. But your body has not had time to adjust, and so the passageway was blocked even as the yin pressed against it. That creates confusion in your body as it both flows forward and is held back." He lifted her fingers to his mouth where he pressed dry kisses to her knuckles. "Do not judge me by this, Li Dee. I will be more respectful in the future."
She nodded and slowly withdrew her hands from his. The session was over, her training done for this day. She would accept no more from him. And so he bowed deeply to her, trying to express his apology. A woman's yin—even a white slave's yin—was always to be respected. And he had failed in that.
Deeply ashamed, he turned and left.
From the letters of Mei Lan Cheng
10 March, 1869
Dearest Li Hua,
How fortunate you are to live deep inside great China. The barbarians have not only come to Shanghai, but they have overrun it! The village is nothing like I remember only a few years ago. The Chinese city is nearly surrounded by the white apes, and none of them are like Father Dodd.
You remember the white missionary who lived near us? I used to play with his daughter, and she taught me to speak English. Now I wish I had never learned, because the white apes here are not at all like Father Dodd's family. They are noisy and belligerent and smell terrible! But my husband thinks they are the best of people: easily flattered and wealthy beyond measure. He says the white apes are like ghosts who have too little soul to keep anything. Those of them that have the fortune to make much money cannot hold it. They spend and spend and spend, looking for the trappings of substance.
He thinks they are Heaven's means to give us money. I know only that I am afraid of them and wish to run away whenever I am called to translate for a customer. I have prayed and prayed to the ancestors that these ghost people will soon grow tired of Shanghai and leave forever, but they have not given me any sign at all. I do not know if I have fallen into disfavor or if their power is nothing against these barbarians.
But there is one thing, Li Hua. These ghost people sell a powder that my mother-in-law likes very much. It is expensive, but after she smokes it, she is quiet for many hours, leaving me to work in peace. But lately, it has not been enough for her. She wants more and more and gets very angry when she does not have any.
Truly, Li Hua, I do not think these ghost people have brought anything good to China.
—Mei Lan
Twirl the lotus, but do not harm the petals The Dragon plays in the tigress's cave.
—White Tigress Manual
Chapter 5
Lydia released her breath in a slow, controlled movement. She focused on the passing of air over her wet lips, the contraction of her mouth muscles and the shift in her shoulders. She did not want to think a
bout the fullness in her breasts, the tingling that seemed to hit her unawares from different spots all over her body, or, most especially, the strange moisture lower down on her body.
What she thought about now was her captor, Ru Shan. He might claim his name meant steady as a mountain, but he'd been everything but steady with her—one moment kind, the next demanding, the next cruel. When he was kind, she was often tempted to soften toward him, to think him human after all. Especially during his so-called training sessions. The feelings he generated in her...
But she was not thinking of that now. She was reminding herself that despite his obvious shame a moment ago, despite his clear apology and the tenderness with which he'd kissed her fingers, he was still her captor. And she would do well to remember it.
Fortunately, she had one huge advantage. Ru Shan was a man, and in the way of all men, he thought he understood what she was thinking. He was completely wrong, of course, and therein lay her power.
He believed she had accepted her captivity. Wrong. She was only pretending, waiting for her opportunity to escape.
He believed he was readying her body for some mystical flow of yin. In truth, he was merely preparing her body to accept his lascivious attention. Even she—an innocent in these matters—knew he was simply covering sexual hunger. And yet...
She sighed. There were some things he was correct about. She had been taught not to think of her body or these sensations at all. When he touched her, she felt—still continued to feel—a kind of growing. Not just a physical swelling, though she supposed there was a good deal of that. Her breasts felt fuller than ever before. As if they projected another foot more in front of her. Except, looking down, they seemed the same size they always had been. They just felt larger.
But it was more than that. Ru Shan thought his last touch, the one on her nipple, had created a confusion in her body. There had been no confusion. Her body had liked it and wanted more of it. The conflict had come from her mind. She had felt on the verge of a change—a mind change, a soul change. As if from that moment on, she could never go back, never return to who and what she had been.
That alone was what frightened her. She felt poised on the precipice of something huge. Soon Ru Shan would push her over the edge, and she might never find her way back. And even worse, part of her longed to make the leap. There was something more here. Something to discover. But shouldn't this be done within the sacred bounds of matrimony? Shouldn't she be learning these things with Maxwell?
Of course she should be. But somehow, she couldn't imagine her beloved Maxwell taking the time to circle her breasts with fingertips so warm they felt like the folds of a heated towel. And with a stroke so tender and mesmerizing as to lull her into a kind of trance. Not just a half-asleep trance, but long moments of such awareness that she seemed to merge with her captor. She felt as if she was both Lydia Smith feeling a Chinaman's touch and the Chinaman too, Ru Shan and his hands moving over her.
It was an amazing experience. Sensual, yes, but more as well. Expansive enough that she would risk a great deal just to continue learning.
So, if she could not learn this with Maxwell—could never learn such things from him—then why not take the training from the man who could teach her? No matter the circumstances. Perhaps she could even later teach Maxwell.
She shook her head. No, she realized, she could never mention this to Maxwell, much less teach him. The man was morally upright in all his thoughts and manners. This experience—no matter that it was certainly not her choice—would appall him.
Which, of course, brought her back to her initial dilemma. Should she embrace this training, learn what she could despite the circumstances? Or should she risk everything and anything on escape, now, before she tumbled into the abyss?
In the end, she resolved to do both. She would build upon Ru Shan's false belief that she had accepted her captivity. And if any opportunity came—however remote—to escape, she would seize it. And she would pray that it came before too late.
Her first target was not Ru Shan, but his agent Fu De. She had already begun tracking the young man's movements and tasks. He obviously lived here, for she rarely saw him leave. When he did, he locked both her door and the outside door—she heard the sound of the metal clicking of a very English deadbolt. Whenever he opened her bedroom door, she caught sight of his pallet right next to the cooking supplies in one corner of the outer room.
In short, he was almost as much a prisoner as she. So her best bet was to gain his trust and somehow manufacture an escape. But how?
She didn't have to think long before she came up with an answer. What must plague Fu De almost as much as it plagued her? Boredom. And what was her greatest weakness when trying to find her way in this strange land? Her lack of language skills—she could neither speak nor read Chinese well enough to navigate.
Therefore, she would play on Fu De's boredom and get him to teach her his language.
Smoothing her hair and clothing as best she could, Lydia stood and knocked on her door. As always happened, Fu De was quick to respond. But as she'd learned before, he was also lightning fast and amazingly strong; she could not run past him no matter how hard she tried.
So, this time after he opened her door, she smiled winningly at him—or in a manner she hoped he found appealing.
"Time moves so slowly in China," she sighed.
He did not respond, but she hadn't truly expected him to. Mostly, she was hoping he understood her English.
"Aren't you bored?" she asked, hoping to see some response in his expression.
Nothing.
Obviously subtlety wasn't going to work. It was time to try the direct approach.
"I want to learn to read and write Chinese. Can you help me?"
Again, nothing. Neither his eyes nor his body betrayed his thoughts.
"I will help you speak English. I have taught children before." Well, she'd helped her niece with schoolwork once on the nanny's day off. "Speaking English will help you get a very lucrative job," she offered. Maxwell had once said that the English-speaking Chinese earned a king's ransom here.
Damn. Maybe he didn't speak English at all. But she'd thought he'd shown signs of understanding her before. It was time to try her very, very bad Chinese.
"Wo yao xue zhongguo hua." I want to speak Chinese. Or that was what she hoped she'd said.
The boy shook his head. "Shanghai-hua."
Progress! He was talking to her. But what had he said?
"Shanghai-hua? Shanghai talk? Yes! Wo yao xue Shanghai-hua."
He nodded, and she thought his lips curved upward just the tiniest bit. Then he said, equally slowly, "I want Englit speak." Then he moved his hand. "Write."
She nodded vigorously. "Yes!" Then she frowned. "Hao!" Good. "Hun hao." Very good.
"Mey hao."
She frowned, trying to understand.
It took her a while—days, actually—but eventually she realized the language she had learned from the missionary at home was actually Peking Chinese. What she needed to learn was Shanghai Chinese—an entirely different dialect. Fortunately, Fu De understood both, though he was better at Shanghainese.
She sighed. So much she hadn't realized, hadn't even guessed, before leaving England. Who would have thought a country would have more than one language? That Chinese was, in fact, many different dialects, entirely separate from one another?
Well, she thought with a slight shrug, there was no time like the present to start setting things to rights. She and Fu De began teaching each other right away.
It became clear as well that they both wished to learn how to write. She set him to copying the alphabet. Fu De handed her a bucket of water and a large sponge brush, indicating she should practice her writing on the floor. Dipping her brush in the water, she could form Chinese characters, seeing the strokes clearly on the cement until the hot air evaporated the water.
Fu De bought paper and ink, along with strange Chinese brushes for writing, but appar
ently paper was very dear. And so, he took another brush and began writing English letters in the same manner as he'd shown to her. Day after day, they stood side by side writing on the floor, the air drying their mistakes and their triumphs. And in this way they began a tentative friendship.
Except that, in all this time, Fu De never relaxed his guard and Ru Shan continued to visit morning and night to continue her other training.
Lydia found herself once again faced with the perplexing question that was Ru Shan. He was extremely respectful, never once expanding the scope of what he did to her. In truth, the part of her that reveled in what he was doing truly wanted more speed, more experience. But he would not hurry. Plus, whenever he arrived for a session, he bowed to her as he approached, and bowed again as he departed. He spoke honestly with her, almost reverently, often complimenting her on her progress—though in truth she did nothing more than experience what he did to her. And he always, always thanked her for her time—as if she had a choice in the matter.
But for all that, she never once forgot that he was the master, she the slave. Especially when one evening, over a week later, she pretended exhaustion to see if he would postpone her evening exercises. She didn't know if he guessed the truth or not, but the fury that darkened his features made her rush to accommodate him. She was on her bed, her robe pooled about her waist before he could do more than glower.
That evening, his breast circles were harsher. Not that he was physically rough, but she had become so attuned to his nearly worshipful attentions that this perfunctory touch rocked her to her core.
And then, as he left, he added a new exercise to her ritual. He pulled out a dragon carved from milky white jade and laid it in her hand. Its weight was solid, though not overly cumbersome. The length from snout to coiled tail was perhaps a handspan at most, and the girth no more than three fingers pressed tightly together.
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