Ming

Chapter 2

He had made her write out a statement in her own handwriting and sign it in blood. In her own goddamn blood! Made her cut the index finger of her left hand and drain blood into a little candy dish. He produced from somewhere an old-fashioned quill pen and had her dip it into the blood to sign the statement. The blood was for psychological purposes, of course. Ming knew that even then. What she didn't know was that the document was a legal bullet that would prove lethal if she ever betrayed Lyle or the Millennium Group. In it she avowed that she was "fully aware of what went on" at those banquets and that she participated in them of her own free will as a matter of religious conviction. She claimed to subscribe to "an ancient indigenous religion" for which the banquets and all attendant activities were "a vital part of worship."

She had no idea what she was confessing to, what really went on at the Millennium Group. Had she known, she told herself later, she would have backed out. Gone to the police. Turned them all in, Lyle included. But in her heart she knew that was rubbish. She would have gone with him anyway. Bitching and dragging her feet, to be sure, but she would have gone. Because he insisted. Because he had made a bright promise in the shadow of a unspeakable threat. He had promised her his exclusive devotion, forsaking all others, if she would go. He had also assured her that if she did not, he would find someone who would, someone equally as beautiful as she, someone unreservedly willing and eager to please him. Ming had no doubt he would find such a woman. He was surrounded by them! Her resistance, therefore, was minimal, a mere tickle and taunt show intended only to make him beg her with more ardor, convince her with his body. He played along charmingly, nibbling her ear lobes as she drew her own blood, licking the lips between her legs as she signed the spurious confession to a capital crime.

Ming could only hope that the Millennium Group was just another gathering of middle-aged professionals who like to treat themselves and their favorite tart to a fancy dinner followed by some kind of naughty entertainment. The first hint that "illicit" was an understatement came when Lyle insisted on blindfolding her as they drove to the location of the banquet. Time stood still for her during that long period of rolling darkness, but she registered every word of his chatter as the Mercedes hummed along unseen streets and roads. She was told the Millennium Group met three times a year at a private estate.

"How many members are there?"

"Worldwide? Several hundred. For these local banquets, we usually get a dozen couples or so. They come from all over the world."

"If you throw a banquet, they will cum. Is that it?" She made a finger gesture to illustrate the pun.

"That's part of it."

"But not the 'illicit' part."

"No. Consensual coitus is licit."

"So there'll be about twenty-four members?"

"Twelve members. At least twelve. Only the men are members. The women are their guests."

"Oh great. A men's club with bimbos. Or is it doms with their submissives?"

"Neither, exactly. You'll see. The only real purpose of 'membership,' per se, is to keep the contact list as narrow as possible. There's also a certain turnover among the women while the males remain pretty constant."

"Is that because the women don't like it as much?"

"Not at all. You'll see."

"Or maybe it's because the only women there are girlfriends and mistresses. The wives and kids get left at home."

"Could be."

"That way the Members can discard their old females for new models now and then. Bring fresh, younger cunt to the party."

"Now you're showing your insecurities. Honestly, I have no idea why your self-confidence is so low. You're incredibly beautiful! In fact, I'd love to hang that nude photo of you on my office wall, right opposite my desk. The one with you stepping out of the shower. As it is, I keep it in that top desk drawer where I can pull it out between patients and drink in your loveliness over and over."

The flattery would have been more enjoyable if she didn't know that his examination of the patients between claimed peeks at her photo were far more intimate.

"Yeah, right," she said. "My tits are too small."

She heard him snort in disgust. It was a sore point in her mind, a feeling of inadequacy she couldn't seem to shake. She had been told by plenty of men, including Lyle, that her breasts were firm and perfectly proportioned to her small frame. In fact, Lyle refused to let her wear a bra in his presence, insisting she let the pert nipples poke sexily against whatever top she was wearing. Yet she could not help but compare herself against the full-busted young women he examined every day in his office, women whose boobs were swelling with milk to feed the fetus growing in their tummies. Boobs he would carefully examine with fingers and eyes on every visit.

"Don't be absurd. Your tits are exactly right," he scolded for the thousandth time. "Your nipples are among the world's seven wonders! I never tire of flicking them and sucking them." He reached over and demonstrated by pinching her left nipple affectionately. "Your breasts will still be firm and perfect years after all the big-boobed babes who brag about their size D's are drooping and sagging to their waists. I love your tits and you know it! I love all of you, my darling Ming. I love you so much it's hard to sit here and drive and not jump over there and ravish you. You can't begin to know what it means to me that you've agreed to do this, to put your trust in me, to love me so much you would even sign that paper in blood. Now I know you're really mine and I can concentrate all my love on you."

These were words she had signed her name in blood to hear. But the comfort of the words began to wane once more as the miles and hours of darkness behind the blindfold wore on. She made sporadic attempts to relieve her doubts with talk.

"How long have you been a member of this group?"

"The Millennium Group? Five years."

"So you've brought other women?"

"Not since I've been with you. I've been waiting for the right moment to ask you."

"What was the right moment?"

"When you had proved at the Club that you loved me enough to submit to my wishes without complaint, even suffering pain if it pleased me. The ultimate proof of your love and submission was allowing me to loan you to others. That showed that you truly think of yourself as mine. Mine to love and even to loan to my friends if I wish. By unfailingly submitting to my will in order to give me pleasure, you have proved yourself the most perfect mate a man could hope to have. You are my ideal love partner. And you're proving it again right now by trusting me, sitting there blindfolded, not knowing where we're going or what will happen when we get there. God I love you!"

She basked in his words. Groped for his hand on the steering wheel. Found it and squeezed it in her own small hand. Brought it over and pressed it against her breast. After a while he slid his fingers out from under hers and combed them through the short black cascade of her hair, gently grazing the soft bronze of her cheek and neck.

"You'll mess up my hair," she said automatically as she leaned her head into his fingers.

"I love your hair."

"Most men prefer blondes."

"Most men are asses. Blonde can't compare with the soft natural luster of jet black hair. And I love the cut, the way it curves around your cute little face, frames it like the work of art it is, with those sexy black eyes and flawless skin. You have the clearest, silkiest skin it's ever been my pleasure to see and touch.."

And you've seen and touched plenty! she thought. Another unbidden reflex from the well of her insecurities. But it was true. An ObGyn gets to see and feel lots of tender feminine flesh. Despite her love for him, Ming couldn't help but be skeptical about his insistent dismissal of the endless daily flow of impregnated women as "mere clinical objects, young female animals of the human persuasion" who meant nothing more to him than the pictures in his medical texts. Trouble was, Ming knew from experience that he could never look at a woman with mere clinical objectivity. How could he do so when he was between their legs every working day, up close and personal with their vaginas, breathing in the natural perfumes of their sex, probing inside their sacred, grottos with his thinly gloved and lubricated fingers. How could the horny Lyle she knew not be aroused when he was feeling those innumerable breasts for prenatal lumps, kneading the milk-swollen mammaries for long, extremely attentive minutes. Did he really need to pinch and pull on the nipples to test their readiness for nursing? Did he really need to stand behind them, cup both breasts in his hands and knead them for two minutes to check for "asymmetrical anomalies?" She knew he did these things because once, in an unguarded moment of levity, he'd laughed about it, at how naïve they were, these sex-deprived baby carriers.

Ming had seen her hunky boyfriend around enough women to know how easily they fell under his spell, how they reacted to that magazine model face with its curly black hair and steel blue eyes. She had observed him in action many times at the Iron Feather Club, diddling those bosomy, oversexed subs for whom he had swapped Ming's services. She saw how readily they accepted their fate, how lustily they got into the spirit of being fucked by the incredibly good-looking doctor. She had also watched his eyes at work in stores, on the street, in malls, in restaurants, at the beach — every place where young women flaunted bare midriffs, precarious cleavage, tanned thighs and pretty faces. He never missed an opportunity to take it all in. She could see his mind working behind those sharp blue eyes: undressing, caressing, perhaps tying up, definitely entering one of their juicy young holes.

She felt she was in constant competition. Hell, she knew she was! And with only the most fragile of assets: her exotic beauty and a bright yet submissive mind. She was arm candy with a UCLA degree and a kink. She was a safe escort who would not embarrass him at social gatherings; a wanton slut who would not disappoint him in bed; a pliant sex-slave would not disobey him at the Club. Beauty, brains, submission. Those were the assets that had won him. Were they enough to hold him? Was Lyle really ready to embrace monogamy?

"Let's not waste the trip just talking," he was saying. She heard the telltale zip. His hand closed on hers and drew it over to the front of his trousers. "Pull it out for me," he told her. "I want to feel your warm fingers wrapped around me."

She knew he wanted a lot more than that, but the gearshift and armrest between their seats made it too awkward. He had lamented that obstruction in the past, although not enough to have traded in this zesty little sports model for an uncool sedan with a bench seat. Rather, he had learned to make do with the magic she worked with her neatly manicured hand.

Not that she herself didn't want to deliver the full treatment. Amazingly, before she'd begun dating the hot Dr. Lyle Bach she had been too shy to touch a boy's "thing," much less take it into her mouth. Looking back, she was appalled at how shy she was. A social mongrel, she was two-thirds California girl, born and schooled in the wilds of L.A., and one third Chinese, raised in the conservative home of a couple from Taiwan. How on earth she had managed to land the astonishingly sexy Dr. Bach, even as hordes of buxom blonde starlets and pheromone-drenched nurses threw themselves at him? Was she more beautiful than they? Hardly. It had to be the one-third of her that reflected her Chinese mother's unswerving subservience to Daddy. It had to be that she, more than any of his other open-thighed admirers, was willing to subordinate her own needs to his. She was his fawning Asian beauty, happily groveling at his feet, letting him rule the roost.

One aspect of their relationship still bothered her, however. What if she were to become pregnant? He kept "loaning" her to Club members. Few of them deigned to wear condoms. Would he accept a child of unknown siring? She had asked him, of course, but he only waved it off.

"Don't worry about it. When the time comes for us to raise a family, you won't be screwing anyone but me."

When the time comes? What did that mean? Aborting every conception until he's ready to settle down? The possibility made her sick to her stomach. But she dared not press the issue. There were all those gorgeous blondes ready to step in an take her place. Besides, she liked to assume that the other half of "you won't be screwing anyone but me" was that he wouldn't be screwing anyone but her. So she went along with the program. Whatever it was.

Including this trip to the mysterious Millennium Group. Whatever it was.

Lyle popped a CD into the Mercedes' sound system and hummed along with it as he hardened to Ming's touch, riding the slow buildup of the rush, Ming's experienced motions taking him in carefully managed gradations to the ultimate crest. She was ready with a tissue to collect his sperm at the climax, protecting his suit from the spurting. She hoped he would be satisfied with that. But, of course, he was not.

"Come on, my darling. You know how to finish."

Without a word she placed the tissue in her left palm, opened it up, raised it to her mouth and licked up the puddle of semen, swallowing it down.

"Good girl," he said. "Before this day's over, I'll do the same for you."

At the thought, an electric current surged up from her clitoris. It grew more urgent when he leaned over and kissed her ear.

She squeezed his cock to show her appreciation for his affection.

This was going to be a great evening, she decided.

Which just goes to show how naïve a girl can be.