by Troy Conway
“Unfortunately, no.”
He nodded thoughtfully. I was certain he was turning over possibilities of .getting Priscilla alone and talking her out of the scrolls or taking them away from her by brute force. His wizened body could not apply that force, but four goons like the men I’d left on the street easily could.
I lifted out my Luger. I put the barrel under his now. He stared at it in horror as I said, “In case an accident happens to her in Hong Kong, I’ll come back hers and blow your goddamned head off:”
He glared at me in utter hatred, but he nodded. There are men who only understand force and brutality. Pak Dong was one of them.
We showed ourselves out.
As we walked toward the taxi, we saw a crowd about the four goons. There was a Hong Kong policeman, taking notes. We skirted the crowd; I respected Priscilla’s wishes for no publicity, though I personally felt some publicity might help her once she got inside the Chinese border.
The taxi took us back to the hotel.
We dined together. Over the dessert and coffee, a man approached the table. He bowed low and handed an envelope to my companion. It contained papers that would see her safely into China and to a village named Hok Tang and back again to Hong Kong.
She would be met at six the following morning.
There went any ideas I might have had about picking up where we’d left off in her Tokyo hotel room. She had to be up early tomorrow morning, which meant she must get a good night’s rest. I shrugged, kissed her good night and good-bye at her door.
I went into my own room and switched an the light. There was a girl in a blue silk dress sitting in the one easy chair. She opened her eyes at sight of me and smiled with full red lips.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Good evening,” she caroled. “1 am Ip Chung”.
“I must recommend the Hong Kong Hilton to my many friends,” I commented, making a little bow. “Are you my hostess for the night?”
“I am not from the hotel. I come from Mao Tse-tung. I have been sent to find out if you are the Professor Rod Damon the great leader is expecting to come to Tin Song.”
“I am, I am. Believe me.”
I was in no mood for any tests. I was too worried about Priscilla Saunders and her corning trip to Hok Tang. The girl smiled and shook her head.
She was a beautiful thing. Her skin was soft smooth, and tinted a very faint gold. Ha thick black hair was set very tastefully, curved above her high forehead and hanging down her throat to her shoulders and the small of her back. The dress fit her like a wet bathing suit, outlining rather full breasts for a Chinese, with nipples that made sharp dots in the jacket. Her thighs seemed plump, her legs shapely. Where the slit in the side opened, I got a look at those legs from her slippered feet almost to her buttocks.
I opened the door. “Good night,” I said, smiling.
She shook her head, also smiling. “I am not permitted to leave without testing you, Professor. Please accept that fact.”
Her English war flawless. She must have been educated in an English school, perhaps a missionary school. She spoke with the faintest hint of an English accent, but from her it sounded good.
“All right,” I surrendered. “Ask away.”
I moved across the room to the dresser, yanking at my tie and beginning to unbutton my shirt. I took my coat off and hung it in the closet. I dropped the tie on the dresser top. Then I pulled my shirt-tails out, before turning to the girl.
She was standing, bending a little and gripping the hem of her dress with red-nailed fingers. The Chinese garment was coming up her leg, slowly and with deliberate laziness. She lifted her head, challenged me with her eyes.
“The test does not consist of questions, but of deeds,” she breathed. “You have the reputation of Wig a great lover. I am here to test that ability. If you can tire me out, then I shall say you are the real Professor Rod Damon.”
“Just like that, hey? Maybe I don’t want to make love. Did your bosses ever think about that?”
“Then you are not the real Rod Damon!”
I did not feel like making love, at least not with this Chinese doll. With Priscilla Saunders—well, maybe. Not that I was any prima donna, you understand. I usually grab my loving where I can get it. I rarely turn down an invitation. But I did have Mrs. Saunders on my mind.
My sprit may have been willing to turn down Ip Chung, my body was something else again. She was holding her hem about her upper thighs and my manhood was telling me how much it enjoyed the sight of her shapely leg by swelling with excitement.
She saw the bulge, and laughed.
“You are the professor!” she cried. “I am glad. I have not wasted my time.”
“That’s settled, then,” I nodded. “Now you can go.”
“Oh, no!” She looked horrified. “I have not really tested you, as I have been instructed. You have just given me proof that you may be the man whose name you use. No more.”
The skirt rose slightly.
I felt my mouth getting dry as my eyes took in the shaven mount with its deep pink dimple. Her mons veneris was high, plump. It was larger than the normal Chinese motte, which made me think this doll might have Causcasian blood in her.
She laughed softly, reading the expression on my face. I have a very low boiling point where a pretty women is concerned. My physical make-up, my priapism, is to blame for this. I forgot all about Priscilla Saunders. I’m afraid. This golden honey-pot, this Ip Chung, was really getting to me.
I lifted off my shirt and tossed it. My fingers went to my belt buckle, loosening it. I shoved down my neatly pressed trousers and let them lie where they pooled at my feet. I was down to my boxer shorts.
Her red mouth made a moue at sight of my manhood standing there and shoving out my shorts, making a tent. Upward went the dress above her deeply naveled bowl of belly. Just under her breasts it paused. She was sin incarnate.
“You ht,” she hinted.
I grinned. Down went my shorts, up went my phallus.
My feet carried me forward until my flesh was nudging her pudendal dimple. She was breathing faster, her eyelids dropped so that her eyes were mere slits. Her belly moved in and out, firming outward, then hollowing.
Very slowly, she began a rhythmic swinging of her naked hips. I felt something hard growing in that dimple and knew it for her clitoral bud. Ip Chung was stimulating herself with her movements, just as swiftly as she was stimulating me. Her heavy red Lips were parted to aid her breathing.
I leaned forward, put my open lips to hers. She whimpered, mouth opening in turn to accept my darting tongue. I kissed her for long minutes, relishing the manner in which she moved her mouth around mine, the way in which her teeth bit my tongue gently.
She was one accomplished babe. She knew all the little nuances. I had thought making love to be a lost art in Red China She was out to prove me wrong.
My hands went to the dress rolled up to just below her breasts. I drew back a little, lifted the garment. Her heavy golden goody-globes bounced into view. They were big and jutting, the nipples almost an inch long and tinted a very dark red.
I kissed down her throat and onto her left breast. She cried out, “Ho t’sai!” This is a cry of approval in the Chinese. In other words, she damn well enjoyed the touch of my tongue and lips on her jiggling breast and the way I was licking all around her stiffened nipple.
“Do more, do more,” she wailed.
I did more. I gathered that nipple into my mouth and sucked it wetly, hungrily. She gave little cries and low moans that aroused me still further. She was no female to stand there and let herself be adored without response. Her perfumed breath panted above my head, her soft palms were sliding around and over my naked shoulders.
I was impatient. So was she. Her right foot planted itself on my left, as she lifted her left leg high, adopting the position of vrikshadhirudha, the climbing of a tree, as depicted on the Indian temple carvings at Khajuraho. It was an easy matter to slide into her.
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Her hips began a circular movement, ending in a little jerk. The pleasure of this motion is indescribable, when done properly. Ip Chung did it properly, all right. If I’d been any ordinary man she would have finished me in three circles and three jerks.
Instead, her body was the one that convulsed in the sweet death. Her fingernails bit into me, her head hung limp so that her black hair fell down her back to her behind, while her hips thumped and worked and swung. She went off three times like that, yelling out her pleasure every pulsation-packed second.
Her long black eyelashes rose. She stared at me in something like worship. “You have not—burst your cloud!” she exclaimed.
I did not explain anything to Ip Chung, I just hauled her in closer and kept on going.
She sagged against me, after a time, but she clung with her arms and with her hua-hsin, her vagina, called flower-heart.
“My leg is tired,” she complained. “Please, let us get comfortable. On the bed.”
My own legs were a bit shaky so I nodded. I freed myself from her erotic embrace and moved toward the big bed. The covers had been turned down by a thoughtful maid, but Ip Chung ignored them. She plopped herself on her back and raised her thighs, spreading them.
“Come and burst my cloud some more, you wonderful man!”
I slid between her legs. My yang slipped into her yin. Instantly her hips were up and circling around and around in that movement the French name donner du corps. Ip Chung had added her own little trademark to the donner du corps motion, however, that little bump and grind at the end of the circle. It was enough of a fill up to make me shake with ecstasy.
“You never learned that working in a factory.” I grinned down at her. Her eyes were closed, her tiny white teeth were sunk into her lower lip. She shook her head from side to side without looking at me.
“No. I learned in house of happiness.”
A brothel. “I thought they were outlawed under the wise guidance of Mao Tse-tung?”
She missed the irony. She panted, “Certain ones for—privileged few—still exist. Not known about in decadent outside world.” Her hands were running up and down my sides, and from time to time her long red fingernails scratched my flesh.
“You now—burst your cloud!” she howled.
She was in the orgasmic throes herself, bouncing all over the bed and taking me right along with her. I figured she would be one pooped poppy when this series of yin chu yangs were over. She would want to sleep.
I was tired myself. It had been a long day.
My eyes glanced at my traveling clock on the bedtable as she clung to me and her body responses slowed. We’d been at it for an hour and a half. She would be ready for some sack time, too.
No such luck. Her hip motions slowed, but they never quite stopped. And when she realized that my own excitement was still in readiness for another bout, off she went, dancing with her hips and uttering crazy little cries.
If she was out to kill me, she couldn’t have done any better. Enough of this four-legged frolic can kill a man. I’ve known of cases where it has happened in my sexual researches. But my fourpenny cannon was still booming strong. and Ip Chung loved it.
At three in the morning, I pushed her away from me. We’d been going at it since eleven. “I’m beat,” I growled at her.
“No! No,” she screeched, hands grabbing for me.
I slid away and made it to the floor. My legs were so weak they would scarcely hold me up, so I tottered to the telephone.
“What are you doing?” she asked, lying there with her legs parted lewdly.
“Calling room service. I need sustenance. Especially a drink.”
“There’s water in the bathroom.”
“Water?” I howled.
Funny. She got an odd look on her face, as if she’d made a goof. I take it that she’s been carefully taught how best to appeal to a western man, but the Chinese boys who taught her had never been nearer a bar than the Yangtze River. They just didn’t know about Old Charter bourbon and all the rest of the bottled stuff.
She closed her legs a little shamefacedly and sat on the edge of the bed. A frown marred her pretty face. “You are not to eat and drink,” she stated flatly, as to a lesson well learned.
“The hell you say, honey!”
She got off the bed and ran to me, dropping on her knees. Her soft hands reached for me. I guess she thought she was a real succubus, all right, because she refused to let go. until I slammed the back of my hand into her face. I must have hit a cheekbone, because her face was hard beneath her skin.
I said into the phone, “Bring me up a couple of club sandwiches, a bottle of bourbon—make that Old Charter—and a bucket of ice.”
She was lying on the carpet at my feet, staring up at me unbelievingly. She did not rub her face. It was as if she had not felt my hand. There was no bruise, either, no swelling of the flesh.
What kind of bimbo had I latched on to?
I said, “Relax, baby. There’s no need to rush. You can have some of my bourbon, if you like, even one of the sandwiches.”
She shook her head very determinedly. “No, no food, no drink. Just love.” On her knees, she began to crawl toward me.
I raised my fist. She halted.
Two tears welled up in her pretty eyes. “You do not like me. I do not please you.”
“Sure you please me. Hell, you know that from the way I responded. But man doesn’t live by bread alone, honey—nor by screwing. There are other things in life. Like eating and drinking. I’m going to eat and drink.”
“No!” she cried, and leaped.
I went backward onto the bed. She was on top of me, her hand scrabbling for my manhood that was still in its proud position. She sought to drop down on it but I twisted away and using a karate chop, caught her across the throat. She fell off me, but she came back strong.
For ten minutes I fought her off. She was inhuman in her animal strength; she was like a female Samson. Her body was not muscular—it was sweetly curved and with all the feminine appendages-but she could scrap like a holy terror.
I had to grab the Venetian blind cords and use them to tie her hands behind her back and her ankles tight together. She still wriggled around but she was forced to lie on the bed and watch me go to the door to get my sandwiches and drinks. Not wanting to let the bellhop see her tied up, I took the tray from him at the door. I dropped a Hong Kong bill for one hundred dollars into his grimy little paw. Or seventeen dollars and forty cents, American.
“Keep the change,” I told him.
He bowed almost to the floor.
I went back to the bed, sat on its edge, and began to munch the sandwiches. I ignored the dagger looks Ip Chung was giving me, and the tongue-lashing that went with them. I was called everything from a eunuch to a fag. My manhood was compared to a drooping flower that was dying of old age.
I ate on unconcernedly, but I knew that my temper was gathering strength. When I was halfway through the second sandwich I leaned over and clobbered her left buttock with my hand. She jumped and threw a glance over her golden shoulder at me.
“You want to beat me?” she asked eagerly. “I will let you.”
“Forget it,” I muttered wearily. “I just want to eat.”
I finished half the Old Charter before I figured she was ready to be untied. You might have thought that lying in that cramped position would slow her movements, but no. She whirled and leaped for me, head h t and mouth open.
Her moist mouth caught my male flesh. For one awful moment I was afraid she was going to bite. No again. Her soft warmth enveloped me, her tongue went to work and in seconds I was back in the balling business.
There was no denying her this time. Maybe I did not want to, maybe she had gotten to my priapic pride by naming me a eunuch and a fag. I decided to show her I was a sexual superman. She helped with her lips and tongue. She roused me up and then she let me take over.
I began the various positions which Aloysia Sigaea mentions
in her Dialogues. If I was going to knock out this babe with some knocking up, I might as well have a plan of action. Flat on her back with my hands under her soft rump, I made her adopt the Kentucky posture, with her hips on a pillow and her golden behind raised to my stare as she knelt at the edge of the mattress. I made her turn and lie obliquely across the bed, with her leg to one side, as Caviceo did with Olympia.
I thought I might forget a few positions, but dawn crept through the windows and I was still going strong. The sunlight showed Ip Chung on her side, with me on my side but caught between her thighs. We were going at it hot and heavy, anybody would have thought that it was our first bed bout, rather than about the twentieth.
An hour later I was copying Ovid, having gone through Aloysia Sigaea. My companion was inhuman, I began to think. I had never met a woman who could take the pudendal punishment this one could; usually they collapsed about the fifth or sixth bout. Ip Chung went on and on, slavishly, begging for more and more.
At noon I was almost exhausted,
I was working on the Erotic Postures of Astyanassa, who was the maid of Helen of Troy, at the moment. I don’t know whether Astyanassa got her information from that lady or not, she but had them all down on parchment, and I copied them faithfully in the flesh.
At two-in the afternoon, I collapsed. I just lay there and let Ip Chung climb on top of me and ride me until I fell asleep.
I admit it. She was too much for me.
For the first time in my life, I had been outdone by a female. For the past sixteen hours—not counting the time I’d spent eating my club sandwich and drinking half a bottle of Old Charter—I’d been in her saddle, cantering and posting up and down, back and forth and sideways. Even my spirit was pooped.
I slept and snored until ten o’clock that night.
When I woke up, Ip Chung was sitting in an easy chair staring at me. I yawned and stretched. “Haven’t you slept?” I asked.
She shook her head.
She asked, “Are you ready again?”
“For God’s sake,” I howled. “Will you get lost?”
She pouted. I turned over and lay face down so she wouldn’t get any ideas. “You aren’t human.” I told her. “Any ordinary girl would have been up here with me, snoring away.”