Chapter 13 Tempted into Cruelty
Later that evening George Chan was seated at a Louis XV escritoire in his
richly appointed study, his hand flashing across the counters of an abacus
almost faster than the eye could follow, when his son, Chiang Chan, tapped at
the door.
"Professor Leung is here, father."
"Thank you, my son. Show him in."
A moment later George Chan drew in a shocked breath as his son ushered his
professor into the room. For it was no ordinary man of fifty or thereabouts
that stepped into George Chan's study; it was a grotesque figure who stood no
taller than George's collarbone, his spine horribly twisted by some congenital
malformation. Chiang had told him that his professor of philosophy and history
was crippled, but the warning had not prepared George Chan for this contorted
hunchback with an over-large head, a prognathous jaw and wild unruly hair.
Nature had been doubly cruel to the strange professor; he was the only
person in his family to survive a terrible outbreak of smallpox that had ravaged
the city some forty years earlier. Not only was he skeletally deformed, but his
face and body were cratered with the repulsive pock-marks for which the disease
is known.
Notwithstanding his bizarre physical appearance, Professor Leung had the
reputation of being one of the most learned men in China. He had, it was said,
committed the Analects of Confucius and the eighty-one poems of Lao-tze's Tao Te
Ching to memory. In his classes he spoke of the monarchs and philosophers, the
poets and painters of ancient dynasties as if they had been his familiars,
seeming to know every detail of their lives, and every thought that they had
ever recorded.
Leung was noted for being a man of incorruptible character; an ascetic, he
lived very simply on tea and rice. Once a month, on the day following the full
moon, he allowed himself half an orange -- giving the other half to a beggar --
and a small glass of rice wine.
"Chiang, please have one of the girls bring us some tea. And then tell the
staff they may have the night off."
"Green tea, for me, please, if you don't mind."
"As you wish, professor."
Chiang Chan bowed and stepped out of the room only to return a moment
later. George Chan rose from behind his desk and bowed to greet the newcomer.
"Professor Leung, it is indeed an honor to meet you."
Leung returned his greeting coolly, bowing in turn. His host gestured for
the strange little man to take a seat, and the professor, clad in a drab gray
robe, scuttled sideways across the floor, looking around him in wonder like a
crab washed up on an unfamiliar beach.
George Chan's den, no less than his brother's, was that of a man of great
wealth. But whereas the Black Pagoda had been full of historical artifacts and
beautiful objet's d'art, the home of George Chan was merely crass and opulent, a
showplace of ostentatious display.
George, beaming as always, studied his guest carefully while Chiang Chan,
his good-looking twenty-one year old son stood expectantly on his father's
right. Professor Leung looked around the room with quiet disdain, clearly
unimpressed by the rich furnishings. Crystal and silver and jade were
everywhere; a wide, eye-catching golden curtain, embroided with a depiction of
some epic battle, stretched across the room behind George's desk. The
professor's glance passed over these evidences of his host's wealth quickly. His
eyes did, however, seem to linger on four erotic paintings, one Japanese, one
Indian, one Persian, and one Chinese that graced the walls on either side of
him.
A few moments later a pretty young housemaid tapped at the door and entered
bearing a tray with tea for three. It so happened that she crossed the room
with her eyes down, not glancing at the visitor. When she did look up she was
so startled by the sight of his repugnant visage that she screamed softly and
nearly upset her tray.
"Miss Teng! Please be more careful," George Chan scolded, noting that his
guest was flushed with embarrassment and anger; the reddening of his face only
served to enhance his grotesqueness.
"Professor, please accept my apologies," George Chan began, as Miss Teng
fled the room. But before she had closed the door behind her, the threesome
heard a whispered conversation with a fellow servant, followed by a series of
high-pitched giggles. "Women can be very unkind, can't they?" he continued.
Professor Leung was the picture of humiliated misery.
"Professor," George started in, attempting to change the subject, "You are
probably wondering why I have invited you here this evening."
"Not really, Mr Chan. I believe I know the reason for my summons. Your
son is in my class at the University."
"Yes, of course. He has told me many times how edifying he has found your
lectures. Have you not, my son?"
"Yes, father," Chian responded dutifully in a bored voice. His instructor
regarded him with interest; the boy clearly had done nothing of the sort. The
young man looked as indifferent tonight as he did in his classroom each day.
"Professor, there has apparently been some sort of misunderstanding; my son
tells that he may not graduate next month; that you are not going to give him
credit for his work in your course."
"Work?" the red-faced professor answered disdainfully. "With all respect,
your son has not worked, Mr Chan. He and a handful of other sons of wealth
spend their nights drinking, whoring, and gambling, rather than with the texts
of the ancients. And now you complain to me that his graduation is in jeopardy?
It is he who has chosen his path, not I."
"Well," George beamed amiably, trying his best not to gape at his guest's
unsightly face or his ungainly hump. "Boys will be boys, Professor Leung.
Surely you sowed some wild oats in your youth?"
The misshapen hunchback looked sharply at his host. "Look at me, Mr. Chan.
Do I give the appearance of a man who has 'sowed some wild oats'?"
It was, in fact, not easy to take one's eyes off the grotesque little man.
It was not only his twisted body that attracted one's gaze; his eyes were those
of a man who had taken little joy from life. There was sadness there, as well
as anger and resentment.
"Perhaps not, professor, perhaps not. But surely you understand my
family's position, our place in the city. My son would lose face, should he not
graduate; I would lose face."
George Chan's facial expression was deadly serious. 'Losing face' in
nineteenth century China was the greatest of calamities. As Professor Leung
well knew.
"I am sorry, Mr Chan. As I said earlier -- your son chose this course, not
I." The little man rose clumsily to his feet. "Will there be anything else?"
"Surely, Professor, we can come to some accommodation. I am a very
wealthy man..."
Professor Leung turned away as if he had been insulted. He took a deep
breath before speaking. As he tried to regain his composure, his gaze returned
once again to the Japanese painting on the wall to his left; the painting showed
a lovely young courtesan, clad in an elegant kimono that had been partially
stripped away, being pursued through a forest by three malevolent-looking
horsemen. The painting had been skillfully rendered; the terror on the girl's
face and the eager rapacity of her pursuers had been brilliantly captured.
After a long pause, Leung returned George Chan's inquiring look. "Can your
money straighten my spine, Mr Chan? Can it remove the scars from my face?" he
asked sardonically. When there was no reply he added, "I thought not. Good
day, Mr Chan." And Professor Leung rose, bowed awkwardly toward father and
son, and turned toward the entrance.
"Professor! Please do not be angry. We are all gentlemen here; I'm sorry
if I offended you. Before you go, if you have another moment, I have a book I'd
like to show you."
At the word 'book' the hunchbacked scholar hesitated and then turned back
to his host. "I would be greatly surprised if you have a book with which I am
not familiar, sir."
"All the same, I doubt that you have seen this, professor. It is quite a
rare volume; in fact, I believe that there is only one copy. And it did not
come into my possession until just a few days ago. Please, tell me what you
think of it."
With that George Chan reached into a deep drawer in his escritoire and
removed a large tome, perhaps a foot square and an inch or so thick. He turned
the book toward his guest and opened the cover.
Curious, Professor Leung turned the first page and recoiled with a start.
"The book was illustrated by a mysterious Japanese artist named Nakamura.
Almost nothing is known of him." George Chan waited while his visitor slowly
turned over another few pages. "Do you not like it, Professor?" George Chan's
voice was hushed, conspiratorial.
Professor Leung turned another page, his hand shaking.
"The illustrations are magnificent, are they not? Have you ever seen
anything like it?
"N-no," the hunchback responded nervously, as he turned another page.
"It's a fairy tale of sorts you see, professor. But hardly one for
children. It is the story of a beautiful Japanese princess who unwittingly
strayed into the domain of an ugly, one-eyed giant one day."
At the word 'ugly', the professor flushed again. Chan regarded his guest
closely; his lips were dry, his hand shook slightly. All was going well.
"Now, the giant was not evil by nature, but when she saw him, the princess
was repulsed by his appearance and reviled him with cruel and abusive words ..."
"La Belle et la Bete," whispered the scholar under his breath.
"What's that?" When Leung waved his hand indicating that his remark had
been of no importance, George Chan went on. "The haughty princess scornfully
called the giant a disgusting monster. And worse."
Transfixed, Professor Leung continued to slowly turn the leaves of the
book, an unholy glint in his eye growing brighter with each illustration he
examined.
"The giant, much offended by her disrespectful words, made the young
princess his captive and took her to his dark fortress." George's voice was
little more than a whisper now.
"Where he proceeded to exact his revenge on the impudent young beauty."
George studied his guest for another long moment before continuing. "Do you
like this one professor? The giant has stripped Princess Yuki's silken gown
from her body and tied her to the whipping post in his courtyard. Look at the
way the artist has captured her beauty! Have you ever seen flesh tones so
warm?"
Leung nervously put one hand to his pock-marked face, and then as if driven
by an overpowering compulsion turned the page.
"Ahh, I love this one, professor -- look at the marks the lash has left on
Princess Yuki's perfect buttocks! One can almost hear the fierce crack of the
whip."
Leung nodded breathlessly, and turned the page again. And once again was
greeted by the voice of temptation.
"Isn't she exquisite? What firm young breasts! Doesn't the painting make
you want to crush them in your hands? And those nipples! So taut, so
responsive."
"Y-yes," choked the professor, who moved to conceal the growing erection
that pushed aggressively at his simple robe. George Chan noted with
satisfaction the fire in the hunchback's eyes. He had judged his man well.
"Ooohhhh, this one is a favorite of mine -- Can you not see the embers of
rage burning in his eye, the expression of conquest on his ugly face? Notice
the tendons in the giant's forearm as he flogs her. The brutal musculature of
his biceps. See how Nakamura has captured the princess's agonized expression,
as the whip slices into her tender breasts. Magnificent!"
"W-why are you showing m-me this?" the professor stammered as he
hypnotically turned the page once again.
"You do me an injustice, professor. Since my son told me of his problem a
few weeks ago I have had my ...associates keep an eye on you."
The hunchback looked around in a panic. "Then you know..."
"May I tell you a story, professor?" George Chan sat back in his chair and
looked upward as if he were addressing the ceiling. "It is about a man who was
both blessed and cheated by nature. The goddess of nature gave him one of the
finest minds of his time; but she cursed him with a face and a body hideous
beyond belief."
Leung covered his face with his hands for a long moment.
George Chan went on. "As a young man he no doubt had all the instincts,
all the passions of any other man. He surely must have made a few abortive
attempts at female companionship; but each was doubtless met with mockery and
derision. Frustrated, this poor soul sought out the company of prostitutes, but
even the most common of streetwalkers were repulsed by him and refused to take
his money."
The hunchback, his head bobbing up and down in wordless despair, emitted a
strangled sound.
"As the years went by, the young man's natural affections hardened into
hatred for everything young and beautiful. Late at night, after his studies
were concluded, he would haunt the neighborhoods of the brothels of the city,
hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the young beauties who worked there. In
hopes of taking some pleasure, if only from a distance, from the sight of a
beautiful face or a graceful body -- those charms of which his cursed fate had
deprived him.
"One night, many years later," George continued, as he moved forward in his
chair again, his voice growing more intense, "this man stood, huddled in his
cloak, outside the House of Madam Wong, the finest bordello of the city. He had
learned to take enjoyment from watching the pleasure-girls file in, each more
beautiful than the last; on one such night some months ago, he crept a little
too close to the entrance and a few of the girls saw him lurking in the
darkness. When the full moon emerged from a cloud and illuminated his face and
body, the girls rebuked him cruelly, called him names, and summoned two of the
black-garbed 'enforcers' of the brothel. They proceeded to beat him soundly and
threw him in a ditch.
The hunchback's body shook with shame and remembered rage.
This time it was George's turn to turn a page in the book, as professor
Leung looked on. "Ahhh, this is a nice one -- see how Yuki's body is contorted
with pain as he pulls the cord tighter around her breasts? It is only fitting
that the beauty should suffer for condemning his ugliness, is it not?"
Professor Leung's cock throbbed with lust as he examined the picture
carefully. His protruding jaw worked spasmodically; his disfigured face was a
study in wrath.
"Where was I? Oh, yes ... the man in my story was lying half conscious in
a ditch behind the House of Madam Wong. As he regained his senses he heard
cries of pain coming from the bordello. As it happens the ditch was only a
short distance from a 'punishment room' which was situated in the rear wing of
the brothel. A young woman, no doubt one of the pleasure-girls, was being
beaten. The man listened eagerly to each blow as it landed on soft female
flesh, followed momentarily by a plaintive cry for mercy from the victim."
George Chan looked at his guest. From his gloomy, shame-faced countenance,
it was clear that his 'story' had hit its mark. After a moment he continued, "I
suspect that the man tried to guess which of the girls was being whipped; no
doubt he visualized one of the girls who had treated him badly as being the
victim. I imagine that he stood there in the shadows, taking righteous
satisfaction in each fall of the lash, each cry of suffering."
George turned another page of the book. "Ahh! Here we have the giant
raping Princess Yuki from behind while he crushes her luscious breasts in his
powerful hands. It appears that his mighty phallus will split her in two, does
it not?"
The grotesque little man's eyes were glowing with perverse desire, and his
fists were clenched with cruel resolve as he drank in the illustrations
depicting the violation of the lovely Japanese princess. His manhood rose
ardently from his crotch, as hard as an ingot of iron.
Continuing his story, George went on. "The man of whom I speak fell into
the habit of returning to that lonely ditch each night. The windows of the room
from which the screams came were obstructed by thickets of brambles, so he could
see nothing. But each night at midnight one or more girls were disciplined,
either for some petty wrongdoing, or merely to satisfy the perverse pleasure of
some sadistic client. Each night, regardless of the weather, he would repeat
his illicit ritual, standing alone in the darkness, listening with rapt
attention, always imagining the victim to be one of the girls who had mistreated
him. After a time, no doubt, he learned to discern the difference in sound the
various implement of torture make when they are used on a soft female body."
Leung was a picture of a man in the throes of lust. "Bamboo is the
best..." he stammered, "... a sharp, smacking sound when it strikes the flesh
... it must be very painful ... the cries ... exquisite..."
After a momentary pause, George continued, "And each night, no doubt, he
dreamt of what it might be like to have a beautiful young woman at his mercy."
George sipped from his tea, as he watched his guest continue to turn the
pages of the erotic volume with frenzied fingers.
George Chan flipped yet another page over. "Ah...Look here. The one-eyed
giant has forced the young princess to take his monstrous organ into her
virginal mouth." Turning the page quickly, "And here, see how his plum-sized
testicles smash into her pretty chin with every thrust?"
"Well, professor, what do you think of my story? Do you think such a man
would be willing to bargain an insignificant grade in a philosophy class, for a
chance to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh? To spend an hour with a woman whose
beauty would eclipse that of most of the pleasure-girls of Madame Wong?"
Professor Leung writhed miserably, indecisively in his chair. His pitted
face was damp with perspiration as his eyes devoured each illustration.
George turned another page. "Ahhh, and now she's taking the monster's cock
in her sweet young ass. What about it, professor? Are you not tempted by such
a prospect? Are you not anxious to fulfill your own fantasies?"
"Yes!" The professor slammed a fist on the desk. "Yes, though my soul be
cursed for it! Where is this woman you would offer me?"
George, smiling, signaled to his son who stood at one end of the
full-length golden curtain behind him. Chiang pulled on the draw-string of the
curtain and the ornate tapestry slowly parted, revealing a small room beyond.
The room seemed to contain only two objects; a narrow table, covered with
a black velvet cloth, had been placed on one one side of the room. Far more
striking was the thick circular post that rose from the tiled floor in the
center of the room. It was an eye-catching cylinder of polished obsidian, some
nine inches in diameter and standing about four and a half feet high -- eye
level for the professor.
Magnificent as the post was, it paled into insignificance when compared to
the nude, kneeling, blindfolded woman who was lashed to it, facing the three
men. The slender wrists of Erika Weiss were tied together with tight white cord
and tethered, with less than a foot of slack, to a gleaming brass ring that
protruded from the top of the post.
"Come closer, professor. Take a good look." George Chan winked knowingly
at his son, as the deformed savant stared at the exotic vision before him.
Erika had been freshly bathed since her afternoon ordeal; her freshly washed and
dried blonde tresses were a golden storm on her bare shoulders. Even from
several feet away he detected that her perfectly sculpted body had been scented
with the tantalizing tincture of clove. The short tether held her wrists
imprisoned above her head, and forced her kneeling body to remain upright, the
front of her body only an inch or two from the stout post.
Professor Leung approached the blindfolded girl hesitantly; he felt as if
he were in some strange dimension, midway between dream and reality. The
gleaming black post obstructed his view of much of the girl's ripe body until he
approached to within a few feet of her. When he got close enough to see her
tanned figure in profile, he marveled that the first woman he had ever seen in
all her nude loveliness was this most exquisite of creatures. Moments later he
heard the sibilant, serpentine voice of temptation again.
"By the way, Professor Leung, the curtain through which we have just passed
is very heavy; Erika, here, could hear nothing of our conversation earlier.
Well? What say you? Do we have a bargain, professor? Isn't an hour with her
worth a bit of compromise?"
The grotesque little man's blazing eyes feasted on the nude vision before
him. The long tanned flanks, the ripe curves of proud breasts and rounded
buttocks; upon hearing voices in the room, the young woman's body had nestled
closer to the pole in at attempt to shield her sumptuous pleasure-mounds and the
golden fringe of her pubic hair from their view.
"May I," the diminutive visitor grunted, his voice thick with lust, "touch
her? Just for a moment?" The blindfolded blonde's shoulders shuddered
slightly in apprehension.
"Certainly you may, professor," George responded pleasantly, as the crime
lord slowly edged toward the center of the room. When Leung began to sidle
clumsily toward Erika, he added, in a much less pleasant tone. "As soon as you
agree to my condition. Have we a bargain?"
"Yes, damn you, yes!" The professor moved closer to the girl, his face
florid, the legion of lesions on his face having grown even more unsightly as a
result of his perspiring profusely.
"Excellent, professor, excellent!" George Chan observed as he moved behind
Erika. "It is customary, I'm told, to begin a courtship with a kiss."
Trembling, the professor approached the naked young woman. Standing, his
face was on a plane with that of the kneeling girl. Slowly, slowly, he bent to
touch his scabrous lips to her luscious ones.
The professor's face was only inches from hers when George Chan stripped
away the blindfold, permitting Erika to see the hideous face of the man bending
over her.
Erika screamed and screamed and screamed again, as Professor Leung recoiled
in shock and anger. George Chan smiled to himself; it was good that he had
dismissed the servants. Especially since he was quite confident that these
would not be the last of Erika's screams this night...
Alarmed by Erika's deafening screams, the professor had backed away and
bumped into the narrow table. Those screams of fear and disgust, which echoed a
hundred past rejections, caused something in him to snap. In that moment the
professor changed from a timid pedant into a man bent on avenging a lifetime of
indignities.
"I am appalled by Miss Weiss's behavior professor; fortunately tonight you
do not have to suffer in silence." George moved toward the hunchback, who was
staring at the blonde with thunderbolts in his eyes. George reached toward the
small table and drew back its black velvet cover.
The hunchback looked on with wonder at the array of implements displayed
that had been hidden by the black shroud. Three types of whips, two bamboo
canes of varying diameters, a yard-long polished wooden rod, an evil-looking
leather strap, and an ominously thick black paddle.
"Here is your chance professor," George remarked softly as he and Chiang
Chan moved toward the curtain. "To avenge every affront, every humiliation you
have ever suffered at the hands of women. Make good use of it. My son and I
have an important meeting; we will be back in an hour or two."
George had almost pulled the curtain behind him when he turned back and
addressed the quivering blonde, who had finally stopped screaming but was
regarding her grotesque captor with dread. "As for you, fraulein, perhaps this
next hour will teach you not to dishonor me by displaying insubordination in my
brother's house.
"But I didn't ...I di..." Erika cried desperately. But it was too late.
The Chans were gone. And the horrible hunchback had picked up a
frightful-looking four-thonged whip, and was inching slowly toward his sexual
scapegoat in a strange crab-like gait, a fanatical hatred born of years of
suppressed rage burning in his eyes...
