Chapter 50 Mila the Slave-Dancer - and Her Dance of Pain
Chapter 50 Mila the Slave-Dancer - and Her Dance of Pain
After leaving Qieu to the tender mercies of his ill-favored new
dungeon-master, Richard Chan quickly ascended the circular staircase that led to
his suite of rooms on the second floor. Upon his arrival there, he was not
overly suprised to find that Mai-Lee was taking longer than expected to choose
from among the extensive collection of finery that he had showered upon his
number one concubine.
Richard Chan's elderly manservant assisted him in donning a fresh robe,
this one of silver trimmed with a green of precisely the same color as the
superb pendant Mai-Lee would be wearing tonight in her delicious decolletage.
His stunningly beautiful Eurasian concubine was equally resplendent in western
or Chinese garb, but when wearing western gowns, she preferred daring French
fashions which allowed her to show off her splendid cleavage, to the more sedate
styles of the Victorian British.
Having finished dressing before his annoyingly dilatory mistress,
Richard Chan reposed himself in his favorite armchair, a sturdy and comfortable
piece of furniture upholstered in midnight blue velvet, and mentally reviewed
the whirlwind of events that had swept through the Pagoda in the preceding
thirty-six hours. The discovery that Ci-ci had stolen the Golden Dagger and her
subsequent punishment and banishment to the Pit -- he reminded himself to speak
to his nephew Chiang Chan on the morrow to make sure that she was servicing his
men properly; the setting and springing of the trap for Li Chang; the abduction
and torture of Liu and Ming-tsu's clever ruse to discover Li's wherebouts ; the
taunting and branding of Li Chang; the mysterious death of Feng, Liu's suicide,
the death of Wen-chi and the disposal of their bodies as well as Li Chang's.
All capped off by the suprising discovery that the wife of Li Chang's ally, Luk
Yee, was none other than the beautiful Cherry Wu. A fact that made her second
visit to his dungeons and her ensuing interrogation all the more satisfying.
But now all of his schemes had come to fruition. Wen-chi and and Li
Chang were at the bottom of Shanghai Harbor, and it was only a matter of time
before he would be able to lay his hands on Luk Yee and put an end, once and for
all, to the troublesome pack of do-gooders who alone stood between the Brothers
Chan and absolute mastery of all Shanghai and the coastal provinces of central
China.
But there remained one minor annoyance, one trifling uncertainty...
Mai-Lee had been badgering him incessantly all day about the priceless
pearls and diamonds that Ming-tsu had borrowed on the prior evening for the
purpose of bedecking Liu, the petite beauty who had led them to Li Chang. Even
at that moment his brother George was no doubt retrieving them from Ming-tsu --
that was, in fact, the reason that George had been compelled to leave the
session with Miss Wu before it had really warmd up. Ming-tsu, George's
mistress, had doubtless secreted the jewels safely away somewhere -- but still,
it was odd that she had removed them from the Black Pagoda ...
To make matters worse, the impatient Mai-Lee was capable of the
nagging persistence of a colony of termites. If it weren't for her oral
virtuosity and her magnificent body, Richard might well have thrown her over
months ago. But any temptress who could unfailingly bring his
forty-odd-year-old body to a shuddering ecstatic climax twenty or thirty times a
week was a prize not easily cast off.
His brother George, of course, found Ming-tsu every bit as bewitching as
he himself had found Mai-Lee; but while Mai-Lee was both a beauty and a virtuosa
of sexual technique, she lacked the aura of danger and intrigue and passion that
hovered around the equally beautiful Ming-tsu, that was in its own way equally
captivating. Mai-Lee reminded Richard Chan in some ways of Mozart, gifted and
skilled in her art beyond all imagining, graceful and elegant but always imbued
with a certain restraint; whereas Ming-tsu was more like Beethoven,
smoldering, passionate, volcanic, capable of letting herself go with an
animalistic abandon that would have been utterly foreign to Mai-Lee. He and his
brother had been fortunate indeed to possess two such nonpareil paramours.
Speaking of good fortune, Cherry Wu, the girl he had left in the
horrible grip of the Mongolian Nipple Gag was herself quite a trophy. Richard's
lip twisted into a cruel smile. Could there be a more gratifying pursuit than
the sexual torture of an enemy's wife or lover? He rather hoped that the
charming Miss Wu had enough stamina not to let the excruciating gag fall from
her pretty mouth more than half a dozen times or so; if not, a full dozen
strokes, say, from Dow's denxia cane might well do inordinate damage to her
alluring breasts. It was only fitting that beautiful women should be made to
suffer for the erotic pleasure of the Master of the Black Pagoda; but the
despoliation of beauty was a fool's excess.
Richard Chan's thoughts turned to Qieu's sensual gyrations when she had
made her futile attempt to free herself from the vicious nipple clamps. How she
had jiggled her lovely breasts so frantically to escape the inescapable grip of
the screw-clamps. Her shameless writhings reminded him of a most exciting
encounter with Mila de la Vega at the House of Madame Wong a little over a year
ago...
********
A month or two before Ci-ci had come to the Black Pagoda and provided
him with a second convenient outlet for his prodigious lust, Mai-Lee had taken
ill for two or three days, as the result of having consumed a bad oyster. Due
to her indisposition, and his otherwise enforced celibacy, Richard Chan had
taken it upon himself to pay a visit Madame Wong's brothel. The infamous Madame
Wong, not-so-affectionately known to her pleasure girls as the Dragon Lady, was,
of course, a trusted underling of the Chans; Richard's occasional personal
visits to her bordello were half business, half pleasure. On the one hand, he
fulfilled the role of an Inspector-General, making sure that both the service
and the women were of the highest possible quality. But satisfying himself that
both conditions were true was, needless to say, a labor of love.
This particular visit had coincided with Madame Wong's discovery that
Mila, the voluptuous Eurasian beauty from Macao, {see Chapter 6 "Yin and
Yang"} had been keeping a slightly excessive share of her tip money for herself,
thereby cheating Madame Wong and thus, indirectly, the Brothers Chan, of an
infinitesimal incremental addition to their incalculable wealth. Such an
egregious violation of Scorpion business ethics naturally warranted a severe
punishment. The fact that Mila's mathematical ability was inconsequential in
relation to her sexual prowess, and that the error was probably unintended
counted for nothing in the draconian system of justice enforced in the realm of
the Black Scorpions. Justice must be done, and it must be seen to be done, to
prevent other pleasure girls from daring to attempt similar transgressions. It
was Richard Chan's good joss that the pleasure value of the imposition of
'justice' on beautiful young women equalled or perhaps even exceeded its
deterrent effect.
Mila was one of the most popular girls at Madame Wong's; she had an
exotically beautiful face and an alluring olive-gold complexion, the product of
her mixed heritage. She had a pliable disposition as well, and although she was
not, perhaps, overly intelligent, gentlemen rarely came to Madame Wong's
bordello seeking intellectual companionship. Whatever mental shortcomings she
may have had were more than compensated for by a truly breathtaking body.
Richard's visit to the House of Madame Wong had happened to coincide
with one of Madame Wong's occasional 'Harem Nights'. Each of the dozen or so
pleasure girls on duty, -- including the slender, exquisite Peony, the seductive
middle-eastern dancer, Fatima, and sweet-bottomed Binh -- the Vietnamese girl
whose marvelous anal-ytical talents were known to every wealthy connoisseur of
sodomy in Shanghai -- were clad in the diaphanous costumes and golden bangles of
an Ottoman seraglio.
Richard Chan had seen Mila on occasion in the past, but never dressed
in a costume that so boldly displayed her charms. Like the other girls she was
entirely nude underneath her filmy, low-cut halter and gauzy white pantaloons.
The pleasure-girls wore halters of various colors and fabrics that
night, to complement their uniform of sheer white harem pants. Mila's top was
of a nearly transparent cinnamon silk, a shade which brought out the highlights
in the skin tones of her eye-catching cleavage . Her golden midriff, too, was
frankly displayed above the low-slung harem pants which covered just enough of
her rounded womanly hips to conceal the northern end of her fetching buttock
cleft.
But notwithstanding their attractiveness, it was neither her unusual
dark eyes nor her blemish-free golden-bronze skin that made Mila one of the most
sought-after pleasure girls of Shanghai. It was ever, and always, her
magnificent breasts. Mila was short for Milagros - Miracles - and indeed the
size and youthful firmness of her breasts were was nothing short of miraculous.
The skimpy rust-colored top could not begin to contain the majestic orbs, nude
almost to the nipples, which overflowed the silken fabric as surely as the
Yangtze Kiang overflowed its levees in the flood years. As she stood before
him, awaiting his verdict, Mila's every nervous breath threatened to burst the
tiny cinnamon bandeau in two.
Not only did her flimsy garment do almost nothing to cover Mila's
luscious melons, it was unnecessary from the point of view of support. Mila's
temptingly dark-nippled half-domes rode high and firm on her athletic young
frame, beautifully self-buttressed by a remarkable set of pectoral muscles that
supported her awesome mounds in all of their gravity-defying majesty. Mila's
bulging bronze-skinned breasts were naturally close-set as well, and her halter
accentuated her gorgeous cleavage by nudging her succulent mounds closer
together
Mila had had inherited her opulent treasures, it was said, from her
father's side of the family. Pedro de la Vega had been a lusty sailor from
Malaga on the Costa del Sol. This adventurer's mother, grandmother and three
beautiful sisters had all been well-endowed Malaguenas of mixed Spanish and
Moorish ancestry. It was to these numberless generations of busty dark-eyed
senoritas that Mila owed her voluptuous figure .
Facially, Mila more nearly resembled her equally attractive Cantonese
mother, whose charms had seduced the virile Spaniard seaman. Her eyes were
attractively almond-shaped but languourously heavy-lidded like many of the
sultry beauties of Mediterranean climes. Her slightly overlarge pupils gave her
an exotic quality, hinting at her mixed blood, making the irises of her eyes
look brown in one light, and nearly ebony in another. Her lips were full and
sensuous, and like her beautifully concave buttocks, suggested the north African
beauties among her ancestors. Her skin was a burnished gold -- owing to the
strains of Arab ancestry on her father's side and a Polynesian ancestor on her
mother's side. Beautiful wavy ringlets of hair, long, black, and meticulously
curled, fell halfway down her back.
As he sat in judgment of the wantonly dressed wrongdoer, Richard Chan's
eager cockstaff surged to life as he visualized himself stripping the sheer
terra-cotta chiffon away from her proud hillocks, baring her mahogany-tipped
nipples. He pictured his hands cupping the fullness of her breasts, his
thumbnails taunting her bold brown pleasure-buds. In his mind's eye he saw his
mouth descending to anoint her glorious globes with gentle kisses -- at first.
Gentle kisses which soon evolved into more determined mouthings and eventually
into a frenzy of nips and bites. And then, when Mila's pleasure melons were
slick with his salacious saliva, he pictured himself forcing her to recline in a
sea of harem pillows, while he straddled her slim-waisted torso. Then, in his
amorous daydream, he crushed her marvelous mounds together and slid his lengthy
manhood through the deep fleshy canyon of her cleavage until his cock-tip could
endure the sublime ecstasy no longer and erupted with Vesuvian violence,
drenching her bountiful breasts with his seed.
********
Giving his his head a quick shake to clear it of these erotic reveries,
Richard addressed the gorgeous miscreant. "So you imagined, Senorita de la
Vega, that you could steal from the House of Chan with impunity?"
"Please, sire," the dark-eyed pleasure girl entreated him, with tears in
her eyes, falling to her knees before him in supplication, "it was an innocent
mistake. Nothing more. I swear it."
Mila's contrite kneeling posture only served to inflame his ardor even
more. In that provocative position the entire upper contours of her succulent
breasts were naked to his lustful gaze -- including her ardent brown
nipple-nuggets. What a night this promised to be!
"There can be no such thing as an innocent error when my interests are
at stake, wench," Chan chastized the frightened beauty. "Carelessness is as
culpable as criminality."
Richard Chan had paused for a moment to think while his thin-slitted
black eyes raked Mila's tantalizing flesh. Then, nodding his head with a
satisfied smile, he announced his decision, one that promised to extract the
last ounce of pleasure from a girl so generously blessed by nature.
He cleverly offered Mila a choice of punishments, giving her the
option of lowering her filmy pantaloons to her knees and leaning across Madame
Wong's desk for thirty wicked strokes of the much-feared malacca cane across her
caramel-colored buttocks and thighs; or, she could commit to dance for him,
bare-breasted, for an hour, in time to the music of his choice.
Mila, like all of the girls at Madame Wong's, had heard fearful tales
about the rigors of a Chan flogging, and, as he was nearly certain she would,
she elected to dance for him rather than endure a beating. He reminded her
sternly that she was to dance for an hour, without interruption, in time to the
music or that she would be punished for her failure. Mila, an athletic young
woman who prided herself on her excellent physical condition and stamina -- she
was frequently called upon to satisy an ardent lover for an entire night (and
not infrequently two at once; in fact, on one noteworthy occasion, she had been
chosen to provide the 'entertainment' for the eighteenth birthday of a trio of
male triplets, each of whom seemed to have stored up a lifetime of male sexual
energy for just that occasion) --accepted the terms of his proposal, confident
that she was equal to the challenge.
While Mila reached behind her back to undo the knot which held her
improvised brassiere together, Richard Chan summoned two of Madame Wong's
musicians, a drummer and a flautist. The drummer was a slender bearded man in
his late forties; the flute player was a pot-bellied fat-jowled scoundrel with
piggish eyes who greatly enjoyed his work. And what man would not? The pair of
itinerant Persians had been hired to accompany the sensuous performances of the
middle-eastern dancer Fatima {Chapter 24} whose belly ballets were a much
appreciated high point of Harem Night at the House of Madame Wong. What
musician could desire a more stimulating engagement than accompanying the
sinuous writhings of an houri like Fatima?
As Mila wrestled with the knot of the reddish-brown bandeau, her
golden wristlets jingling gently, she glanced around the room taking in her
surroundings. Her 'judge' was magisterially seated on a comfortable divan
upholstered in red brocade in a small anteroom that adjoined Madame Wong's
office. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a beautifully crafted
cherrywood desk that was covered with papers, envelopes and books. A small
hourglass stood on the corner of the desk nearest to her.
Mila had been immediately intimidated by the way Richard Chan's dark
eyes locked on the majestic curves of her breasts and the two surging
dark-tipped nipples which graced their centers and poked boldly at the
ultra-sheer fabric of her top. When the knot came loose, and the wisp of fabric
fluttered gently to the ground, she heard her audience of one give a barely
audible gasp of pleasure. For her now-naked breast-tips were fully commensurate
with the size and shape of her glorious breasts -- big and bold and brown and
pointed, perched deliciously atop areoles of a slightly lighter shade of
chocolate. Mila was used to men's stares of course, but there was something
unusually obscene about the way Richard Chan ogled her treasures. His gaze was
dark, diabolical. Mila was accustomed to the eyes of sinful men. But there was
something in Richard Chan's intense stare that was beyond evil. Something
dreadful. Something almost inhuman.
But Mila tried to clear her head of such fears. After all, she had only
to dance for him, and please him, did she not, and all would be well. And when
had her body ever failed to please a man?
A moment later The Lord of the Black Pagoda made a quick conductor-like
gesture with his wrist which was the musicians' signal to begin. A moment later
he inverted the hourglass on Madame Wong's cherrywood desk -- an hourglass whose
sands would count the longest hour of Mila de la Vega's young life.
The sultry bare-breasted lovely began to dance to the erotic music in
the way she had seen Fatima do many times, gliding on the balls of her bare feet
and undulating her hips with the natural grace of a born dancer. She was not as
skilled a dancer as Fatima by any means, but her body was a sumptuous confection
of curves that more than made up for her relative lack of proficiency. She
moved her arms and shoulders sensuously as she had seen Fatima do, while her
bare feet tripped lightly around the small room, her shiny anklets reflecting
the light given off by the oil lanterns which illuminated the room.
Beneath the pantaloons Mila's thighs were long and strong, her hips
broad and her buttocks round and ripe. Above the low-slung pantaloons her
golden midriff was ever so slightly fleshy -- not a bad thing for one who is
called upon to belly dance.
For the first several minutes all went well, as Mila danced seductively
for the Lord of the Scorpions, only slightly unnerved by the way his gaze
burned with comet-like intensity into her voluptuous breasts as they swayed and
jiggled and bounced to the rhythmic strains of the Persian duet. But after
about ten minutes Richard signaled for the musicians to play faster and louder,
and Mila, already whirling at the speed of a dervish and perspiring profusely,
was severely challenged to keep up with their music.
The drums continued at a driving pace, at an ever-increasing tempo
until, some twenty-four minutes into the hour, Mila, her upper body aglow with
perspiration, her pantaloons soaked to a crotch and buttock-clinging
transparency, was too exhausted to continue. The musicians, also somewhat
winded, paused as well. Mila stood before Richard Chan, slightly bent at the
waist, her sweat-soaked breasts heaving from her exertions as she fought for
oxygen.
"You have not kept your side of the bargain, Mila," Richard Chan
admonished her in a stern voice as he rose from his seat and turned the
hourglass on its side, in order to freeze the time of Mila's ordeal.
"I-I ... know ...sire..." she panted, barely able to speak. " Forgive
me. The music ... was too fa..."
SMACCKK!! Richard Chan's powerful right arm spanked the heavy globe
of Mila's left breast with authority. "I do not accept excuses, girl!"
"Ouwwwww...." Mila was still moaning when SMACKKK!! Richard Chan
followed with an equally ferocious left-handed slap to her right pleasure-mound,
spraying droplets of breast-sweat into the air.
"Now, dance!" Richard warned her through clenched teeth. "And the next
time these splendid beauties stop moving," he continued as the palm of his right
hand stroked her reddening flesh, feeling its warmth, "your punishment shall be
doubled!" And he re-turned the hourglass to its upright position and gestured
to the musicians to begin anew, indicating that the out-of-breath dancing girl
was to begin dancing without further delay. Then, before taking his seat in
the plush divan, he added, "See that you please me well, girl, or you shall have
six strokes of the malacca cane across your nude breasts as well as the thirty
across your bare bottom for trifling with me!"
Out of the corner of his eye Richard Chan noticed the fat flute player
rubbing his swollen crotch; neither musician's eyes had left the shapely dancer
since she had begun her suggestive performance.
Mila's breasts seethed with unaccustomed pain. Madame Wong had wisely
instituted a house rule that forbade Mila's clients from punishing her luscious
love-melons with anything more damaging than an ivory-handled scourge with seven
tight silken knots which stung like bee stings, but which left no lasting ill
effects. The shrewd whore-mistress well knew that the great city of Shangai
was home to any number of affluent aficionados of the cruel arts. Sybaritic
sexual epicures who would gladly have traded their favorite concubine for the
privilege and pleasure of disciplining such a provocative pair of girl-globes.
Under such circumstances, Mila de la Vega's mouthwatering beauty might not have
lasted more than a few months.
But of course such constraints did not apply to the ruler of the Black
Pagoda. And so it was that Richard Chan's vigorous spanks were the worst pain
that Mila's sensitive lust-globes had ever known, though she had long since
grown accustomed to the energetic squeezing and groping that was incidental to
love-making with a woman so majestically endowed by nature.
Fighting her fatigue, Mila began again, to slower music, making every
possible effort to move her delicious body as wantonly as possible, to make her
ripe-nippled breasts sway and shimmy and bounce and vibrate for her master's
pleasure.
And indeed Richard had been pleased at the erotic sight, feeling his
powerful organ lengthen and thicken within his silver robes as Mila continued
her thrilling gyrations. At times she would stand directly in front of him, and
then arch her back away from him, with her knees bent and her feet planted. Then
she would shimmy so rapidly with her hips that her upward-pointed breasts seemed
to take on a life of their own, vibrating on her nearly horizontal chest as if
an electric wire had been strung through her puffy brown nipple-buds.
{A notion, Richard had made a mental note to himself, that deserved
further exploration. It had only been a few years ago that he had first read of
a young American, one Edison, who had discovered a way to harness electricity
for the purpose of illumination; the possibilities of using such energy to
stimulate the yin and yang of pleasure and pain seemed limitless. A gentle
current could surely be used to provide delicious stimulation; a more intense
one, properly focused, might well be used for the darker purposes of which he
was already a past master.}
But Richard set aside such electrifying observations and basked in the
breast-jiggling, cock-thrilling performance at hand. After a few more minutes
he gestured to Mila to roll her sweat-soaked pantaloons down a few inches.
Despite the fact that she had been dancing for him in bare-breasted splendor for
many minutes, Mila was shamed by this order. Turning her back on Richard,
careful not to slow her seductive undulations, she dutifully slid her long,
flame-tipped fingers down her tapering flanks into the waistband of the filmy
pants and rolled the fabric down a couple of inches over her shapely hips. She
eased the sheer pants down until a few wisps of damp ebony pubic hairs wriggled
free of the clinging waistband and peeked over it. Meanwhile Richard Chan was
confronted with the the lush upper contours of her wriggling buttocks, and the
inviting groove between them.
"Lower!" he hissed, and Mila, flushing, lowered the pantaloons another
few inches until the gauzy band looked like a white rope across the middle of
her bronzed behind, and her dark bush and the uppermost inch of her labial
petals were offered to his gaze.
After a minute or two of feverish bottom-ogling, Richard realized that
the rolled-down pants were inhibiting her movements somewhat and he gestured for
Mila to pull them up again, and for the drummer to increase his tempo...
The wild-eyed drummer responded instantly, and, the pulsing tempo of the
drums became ever wilder, ever more frenetic, ever more exhausting and by the
forty-fifth minute, Mila's strength had been sapped and she could no longer keep
pace with the driving rhythm. When her efforts became almost laughably out of
synchronization with the music, Richard Chan turned the sandglass on its side
once again and held up his hand to silence the musicians.
"Enough!" He ordered disgustedly. "Stand before me, girl!"
Mila had taken her stance before him, tears streaming from her brown
eyes. "P-please, Master... I am doing my very best to please you ... I swear
it."
"You have broken your word to a Chan, Mila. Such effrontery cannot be
countenanced. Stand on your toes. Higher! Now, raise your arms above your
head. Extend them fully. Cross your wrists. Since this is your second
failure, you shall receive four blows instead of two. And if you fail again," he
snarled, "you shall have six!"
Richard had paused for a long moment then, to drink in the tempting
sight before him. Mila truly had the breasts of a love-goddess, and with her
arms aloft, her sweat-sheened treasures could not have been more provocatively
posed. The flesh on Mila's torso was drawn tight over the sweetly curved bones
of her rib cage in a way that seemed to accentuate her nudity by drawing
attention to the ample globes which thrust boldly forward just above them. The
subtle touch of forcing Mila to cross her wrists drew her dark-tipped
hemispheres of flesh tantalizingly close together. Mila's dark nipples were no
less impressive than her luscious breasts themselves; they surged outward from
her majestic breasts with a prideful hauteur that seemed almost to invite
discipline. Thick beads of perspiration clung to her swollen lust-buds as if
they were loath to lose contact with such desirable tit-bits of flesh.
Richard gritted his teeth and swung his powerful right arm giving Mila a
vicious open-handed slap to the outer curve of her glorious left breast.
SMACKKK!! "Oooouuwwwhh..." Mila was amazed that a man so slender
could be possessed of such strength.
Mila's left breast was still bobbling gently when Chan's arm came
sweeping back from the other direction.
SMACCKK!! A punishing backhand to her other mouthwatering melon.
"Aeyaaghhhh!' Even a year later, Richard still remembered how the solid
contact with her resilient love-mound had made his knuckles tingle at the time.
Then the Lord of the Scorpions caught his ripe-nippled slave-dancer off
guard by surprising her with a wicked left-handed whack to the inner curves of
her left breast. SMACCKKK!! "Aaaiiiaahh"
Mila was still moaning when he punished the same tender globe with
another solid right. SMACKK!!
"Aaarghhh!"
"Now you will dance for me again, girl. And remember -- the next time
your breasts stop moving they shall receive six. And then eight. And then
ten." Richard Chan's voice had been utterly devoid of pity. "What is more, if
you fail again, I will deliver the blows with this gift your employer has so
generously bestowed upon me." Richard reached into his silver robe and withdrew
an ornate breast paddle that Madame Wong had commissioned especially for him.
The paddle was beautifully carved from unfinished Malayan oak, with a
rectangular blade that was about four inches wide, a little less than six inches
long, and a punishing centimeter thick. In the center of the striking surface
of the blonde wood was the miniature image of a reclining Chinese beauty, nude
save for an artistic but utterly undefending scarlet sash around her waist. A
monstrous black scorpion sat astride her gently curved abdomen, its pincer-like
forelegs reaching out toward her tender brown nipples, its venomous tail poised
to strike between her slightly spread legs, so as to deposit its painful poison
in her most vulnerable cavity.
"I know this timer well, Senorita de la Vega. You have still a quarter
of an hour to go. See that you do not fail me. And do not try to deceive me
with half-hearted efforts."
Even the mathematically-challenged Mila was able to calculate that if
there were fifteen minutes left in the hour, her first two stints must have
averaged over twenty-minutes each. Surely she could negotiate the final fifteen
minutes. Especially when faced with the harrowing prospect of the
wicked-looking Scorpion-paddle.
When the music began again Mila danced with new confidence, sure that
this time she could not fail. But she misjudged the amount of energy she had
expended on her first two dances. Once again the music picked up speed quickly,
forcing her to whirl, shimmy, and shake at a faster tempo then she would have
liked. Her anxious eyes returned nervously to the sandglass every few seconds.
But the tiny grains of silica seemed to drift downward into the lower bowl with
all the speed of geological erosion, as she danced on, and on and on.
Still the compelling beat of the music continued to pick up speed and
volume, the drums pounding louder, faster, louder, faster, forcing her into an
utterly exhausting tempo.
In an attempt to buy time and conserve her strength, at one point Mila
dropped to her knees before her leering audience of one, and leaned back on her
haunches. Then she slid one hand into the waistband of her virtually
transparent harem trousers and stroked herself between her wide-splayed thighs,
feigning ecstasy while she continued to shimmy her upper body with such a
cock-pleasing suggestiveness as to virtually hypnotize the pair of sweating
musicians.
Richard Chan enjoyed her submissive knee-dance for a minute or two
before gesturing to her to rise to her feet again. Her legs had rested long
enough. And once again the dark-haired beauty began her frenetic Devil's Dance
for the pleasure of her stern master, spinning, whirling, gyrating, undulating,
her lust-inspiring body a study in sexual perpetual motion.
And every few seconds the nearly exhausted beauty glanced at the
sand-glass on the desk.
"RUN!" she screamed silently to the leisurely sand-grains, "RUN!"
Mila guessed that there were perhaps two or three minutes left on the
glass.
"RUN!" Her heart seemed to be pounding in her chest as loudly and as
quickly as the beating of the devilish, driving drums.
"RUN!" Her smooth supple thighs were aflame with muscle fatigue.
Richard Chan took his eyes off the shimmering curves that were vibrating
orgiastically for his pleasure to glance at the musicians. Sweat was cascading
down the bearded drummer's face; his hands were a blur as he tattooed the drums
at the breakneck pace dictated by Richard Chan. The veins in the neck of the
heavy-set flautist were bulging from the strain of his marathon duet. His face
was beet red, but his agile hands continued to dance across the finger holes
almost faster than the eye could follow.
Richard Chan's gaze quickly reverted to the nude torso of the writhing
beauty before him; Mila's breasts seemed to pulse with a life of their own, not
with a wobbly floppiness, but rather with the hypnotic rhythmic oscillation of
firm breast-flesh. Her bold dark-tipped nipple-buds seeming to inscribe
evanescent circles in the air with her every shimmy. The subtle bluish tracery
of the veins in her opulent globes seemed to have become slightly more
pronounced, as if the strain on her heart and lungs had caused her blood vessels
to swell with urgency
"RUN!" Mila screamed soundlessly at the sands in the hourglass from the
depth of her soul. Her lungs seemed to have sucked all of the oxygen out of
the small room and to be collapsing inward upon themselves. "Hold on, for
God's sake hold on," she exhorted herself through the excruciating fatigue.
There can't be more than a minute left... "RUN! "RUN!" "RUN!" she implored the
slow-moving sand as she danced for the sadistic pleasure of the Lord of the
Scorpions.
Mila could not have been more than half a minute from safety when the
pain in her chest deepened and her tortured lungs gave out as completely as if
she had been floating in an airless void between the moons of distant Mars. She
fell heavily to her knees before the divan on which Richard Chan sat, choking
and gasping for air, holding on to his legs as if they were all that prevented
her from passing out altogether.
"Up, girl!" Richard Chan had ordered pitilessly as he rose to his feet
while Mila's hands clawed at his robes. When the utterly spent girl made no
effort to rise, he pulled his right leg free from her grasp and gave her a short
but crisp kick in the midsection, just below her puckering navel.
Mila wheezed and bent forward in pain. His second compact kick seemed
to bore into the sensitive tissues of her perspiration-drenched left breast.
"Unnnnnghhhh! ... Please ... not there..." she choked out the words, "I
am ... trying to... get up..."
But the exhausted beauty took so long to drag her tortured body to her
feet, that Richard was seeing with impatience by the time she presented herself
before him for the next phase of her punishment.
"Hands behind your neck girl. Interlace your fingers."
Mila slowly complied, feeling her soft skin tighten over her ribcage and
her tumultuous breasts rise provocatively as she did so.
"Remarkable!" Even in the act of punishing her protruding mounds,
Richard Chan could not help but whisper a sotto voce tribute to their lush
desirability. The outer curves of her breasts were pink from his earlier slaps.
But not for long, Richard Chan smiled grimly to himself ... after six solid
blows with the breast paddle her swollen globes would be as red as the sweet
cherries he had seen in Kyoto on his long ago trip to Japan.
He tightened his grip on the sturdy handle of the wooden breast paddle
and gave Mila a ferocious swat across the outer curve of her left breast.
WHACKKK!!! the dreadful sound of the impact seemed to fill the room
until the unevenness of the duel between hard wood and soft breast-flesh was
made manifest by Mila's ensuing wail of pain.
"Oooooohhhhh...it hurts...ple..."
Her left breast was still wobbling when the tight-jawed sadist followed
up his first blow with a second thundering WHACCCKKK!! as he slammed the flat of
the paddle into the same tortured lust-melon again, re-igniting the pain in
Mila's burning tit-globe.
"Aaaiiiiieeeeeeaaahh!!" Mila's body shuddered in agony. "N-no more...
please.." she entreated as she lifted her interlaced fingers back over her head
and held them out to Richard Chan prayerfully.
"Hands behind your neck, slut! Or I shall double the blows. Better...
much better...what delightful targets..." Richard transferred the paddle from
his right hand to his left; unfortunately for Mila, years of practice in the
arts of discipline had made the strength in his left arm nearly equal to that in
his right.
"N-n-no... I can't ta..."
Richard eyed the firm flesh of Mila's nervously trembling right breast,
clutched the paddle more tightly and swung again...
WHAACCKKK!! The force of the blow sprayed her breast-sweat in every
direction as the stunning globe caromed off the thick paddle, and bobbled
convulsively on Mila's chest for two or three seconds.
"AAIAARRGGHH!!!! Dios...merced....no mas."
In her agony, Mila was babbling words that she had not heard since her
childhood, before her Spanish father had sailed away to new adventures, never
to return.
"Do not invoke your European God to me, wench! He holds no sway in
Shanghai!"
And then he lashed out with the paddle again, compressing every ounce of
his strength into a compact but powerful swing.
WHAAACKKKK!!! "EEYYYAAHHHHH!!"
As soon as the rigid paddle made its fourth hellish contact with her
jutting breasts, Mila crumpled to her knees, her fingers still submissively
interlocked behind her lovely neck.
"On your feet, wench!"
"Please ...your excellency ... please" Mila sobbed as she climbed again
to her feet.
"The sides of your breasts are quite red indeed, Mila. Would you prefer
that I did not strike them anymore?"
"Yes... gracias ... thank you, Master."
"De nada, mi bonita, de nada. But you do have two strokes left. But
since you insist, I shall honor your wish and apply them to the tips of your
breasts, rather than to the contours that I have struck before."
"N-no... for the love of heaven ... I didn't mean..."
"It does not matter what you meant, wench, it is my will which rules in
Shanghai! Now prepare your nipples properly."
"Que? ... W-what ...? I-I don't understand."
"Caress them, cara mia, tease them. Bring them to the same state of
excitement and readiness that you have brought me."
'Por favor ... please..."
"Do it! Or you shall have four instead of two!"
Richard had watched intently as Mila's delicate hands rose to cup her
well-paddled mounds. Her golden wrist-bangles jingled as she slid her slender
fingers under her sweat-moist lust-melons, and then around them with a practiced
circular touch, trying to soothe the burning pain, as well as to stimulate her
semi-dormant love-buds.
"Be quick about it girl! If your nipples are not fully erect in one
minute, they shall receive four strokes rather than two!"
"One...two...three ...
Mila closed her eyes as Richard Chan began to count off the seconds, and
tried desperately to imagine that she was in another, safer place. With a gentle
attentive lover. Her nimble fingers teased and squeezed her breasts, in
emulation of that imagined lover, while her long nails scraped at her nipples.
"Seventeen....eighteen...nineteen....twenty...
Mila's dexterous fingers fairly flew across her breasts, caressing, stroking,
teasing, tweaking.
"Thirty-three... thirty-four ... thirty-five..."
Millimeter by millimeter Mila resurrected her sensitive nuggets as she
strummed them back to life with her thumbnails.
"Forty-nine ... Fifty ... Fifty-one..."
With only a few seconds to go Mila seized her nipple-crests between her
thumbs and forefingers and squeezed them, pinched them ... tight ... tighter ...
and then harder still.
"Fifty-nine...Sixty. My compliments, Mila. Under the circumstances, a
most praiseworthy accomplisment.
Indeed. Mila's chocolate-chip nipple-buds stabbed the air in their
new-found excitement. Dark. Defiant.
Defenseless.
Destined for discipline.
Doomed to yet another cycle of pain.
Richard Chan's carefully removed the overturned hourglass from its place
on the cherrywood desk. Than with a sudden sweep of his long arm he swept the
ledger-books and invoices off of Madam Wong's desk leaving its surface
completely bare.
"Flat on the desk, girl. -- And see that you keep those lovely nipples
hard!"
Mila eased herself on to the desk face down, spreading her thighs
slightly. Her strenuous exertions caused the filmy white pantaloons to cling to
her plump buttocks like damp tissue paper.
Richard eyed her netherglobes lustfully for a second before remembering
his chief purpose. "On your back, slut -- Are you so stupid as to think that I
had you tease your nipples so that you could rub them against the desk?"
Her body trembling, Mila rolled over on to her back. Even flat on her
back her breasts sat high on her chest, stunningly firm. Her swollen nuggets
surged skyward boldly but trembled with fearful anticipation
"Lovely, my dear. Quite lovely. Keep stroking those nipples. Now slide
back toward me, so that your head extends over the edge of the desk."
Mila continued to tease her mahogany-tipped love buds as she scooted her
hips backward toward the iron-fisted despot of Shanghai, until she felt her
pretty head hang free of the desk. The edge of the desk pressed against the
back of her neck
"Keep sliding those beauties back toward me ... more ... a little more
... back... back. You may use your hands to hold on to the desk for balance now
... back ... perfect."
Mila's long black hair fell to the floor; the edge of the desk pressed
agains her spine at a point a little more than halfway up her back. More to the
point her upper back and shoulders hung downward, clear of the desk, and her
magnificent breasts hung free. Richard Chan had always enjoyed the effect of
inversion on a good set of breasts, and in this position, Mila's splendidly
out-thrust lust-melons were as eye-catching and paddle-tempting as can be
imagined. Firm. Luscious. Infinitely vulnerable.
Richard tightened his grip on the paddle. "You will need to hold on
tightly to the desk," he advised her grimly.
Then, standing slightly to Mila's left, he gently pressed the sweet
spot of the paddle, its punishing midpoint, to the center of her left breast,
touching her ardent nipple, taunting the brown bud with the thickness, the
unsparing hardness of the wood. Mila's body shivered in trepidation as Richard
Chan drew the paddle back slowly about two feet, and then eased the weapon
forward toward her breast once more, addressing her rosy globe with a practice
stroke, as if he were a small boy who wanted to strike a certain spot on a tree
with a stick.
"N-no... you can't...ayuda me... please..."
"I can't? Foolish girl. Lo siento mucho, querida. I am so very sorry,"
the elder Chan lamented in a voice dripping with insincerity, "but there is no
one to help you here."
Twice more he repeated the same motion, grooving his stroke, enjoying
the way Mila's protuberant pomegranates palpitated with dread. On the fourth
swing of the pendulum, however, the Tyrant of the Black Pagoda took his arm back
much faster and then swept it down in precisely the arc he had practiced. Mila
felt the paddle whiz past her inverted chin a microsecond before it blasted
into the center of her bulging breast with a vicious THWUCCKKK!!! Her flattened
nipple exploded in pain, sending waves of burning agony radiating inward through
the entirety of her pain-wracked pleasure-globe.
"Aaaaaahhhiiiiiieaaaaahhhhh!!!" Mila screamed in anguish. If she had
not been holding onto the edges of the desk with a death grip, the blow would
have surely have caused her to topple backward down to the floor. The Dark Lord
of the Scorpions drew the horrible paddle back to assess the damage he had done.
A moment earlier Mila's left breast had been rosy only around its outer
contours; but now her entire melon was flame-red, rubescent with pain. Her
heroic nipple had been utterly crushed by the onrushing paddle, and was only now
reasserting itself, as if it were a bloodied boxer who had been driven to his
knees, and was now trying unsteadily to regain his feet.
Richard Chan admired his handiwork for thirty seconds or so, studying
the deep rectilinear indentations his blow had left. "Remember this, Mila, the
next time you are thinking about cheating the House of Chan. Now, on your
feet!"
Mila pulled her overhanging body back up onto the surface of the desk.
"Hurry up! On your feet I said!"
Mila slowly swung her hips around and slid off the desk. Once again her
slender fingers reached for her treasures and cupped the rosy globes gently,
having nothing to soothe them with but the touch of her soft hands. She cuddled
her badly inflamed left nipple with two fingers.
"Have you forgotten, Senorita de la Vega? There is yet one stroke
remaining. Uno mas."
"Please, master...no more... por el amor de Dios ... no mas..." Mila
whimpered piteously.
"Kneel for me, senorita. Facing the desk."
The distraught Eurasian beauty, still trying to quench the furious fire
in her left breast with her hand fell to her knees, her lips quivering with
fright.
"Closer."
Mila, her body a study in submission, kneel-walked several inches in the
direction she was facing.
"Closer, mi querida. I want your thighs and belly flat against the side
of the desk."
As Mila inched closer, Richard Chan's intention dawned on her.
"N-no...for the love of God..."
"Flush against the desk, girl. Rapidamente!" and Richard gave her a
vicious paddle-swat across the rear of the sweat-soaked pantaloons which
afforded her plump bottomcheeks virtually no protection from his wrath.
"Aaaaaaahhhh!" Mila yelped before pressing her body against the desk.
Richard's unerring eye had not disappointed him -- the height of the desk was
such that its beveled edge nestled perfectly under Mila's luscious pain-globes.
"N-n-no... God ... help me."
Richard Chan stood directly behind the kneeling girl and put a knee in
the small of her back, while he reached around her body with both arms and
pulled the desk closer, so that Mila's ruddy breasts were propped up
provocatively on Richard Chan's improvised altar of lust-sacrifice. Her
mahogany nipples seemed to shiver with terror, as if she were Marie Antointette
waiting for the guillotine to fall. And well they might -- a paddle-blow in this
position would be neither as sharp as the guillotine of the Jacobins, nor as
fatal. But it promised to be every bit as painful.
Richard let the paddle rest briefly on the top of Mila's right breast,
briefly, as tears of pain and fear continued to stream from her almond-shaped
eyes. He lifted the paddle an inch or two and then tapped the obscenely
out-thrust love-gourd that was so beautifully posed atop the cherrywood desk, "I
shall make this last one, one you will long remember, Senorita. I do not think
you will steal from me again," he hissed.
And with that grim valedictory, The Scorpion King lifted the paddle
about a foot above Mila's burnished pleasure-melon and then slammed it down on
the upper slope of her breast, crushing the swollen globe against the
unforgiving surface of the desk.
THWAACKKK!!! "AAAAAAIEAAAAAAHHHH!!!!"
********
Richard Chan's exciting reminiscence of Mila's tormented writhings was
momentarily interrupted by the advent of Mai-Lee, who was beautifully draped in
a stunningly low-cut creation of a Paris couturier. But as he escorted his
number one concubine to their waiting carriage, Richard's thoughts returned once
more to the other, less fortunate Eurasian beauty.
********
After the final paddle blow, he had forced Mila to mount the desk
again. He had quickly slipped out of his elaborate robe and climbed atop the
desk, and ripped her flimsy, sweat-drenched pantaloons to shreds. Then he
buried his jade-hard phallus deep in the velvety slit between her silky thighs
with one detemined thrust.
His long-fingered hands had reached for Mila's red-streaked miracles
then, cupping, squeezing, crushing the tortured mounds, while he pounded away at
her steaming pussy.
********
As he assisted Mai-Lee into the waiting carriage, he remember with pride
how, notwithstanding Mila's sublimely stimulating dance and the accompanying
breast-discipline which had aroused him to a fever pitch, he had given Mila a
most thorough plundering indeed. He had battered away at her tender body
ruthlessly, filling her exquisite love nook with his maleness, ramming it deep,
deep, deeper into her velvety vagina until at last he could bear her
cock-clutching convulsions no more, and he emptied his ball juice into the girl
who had committed the unforgivable crime of miscounting her tips.
When he had returned home on that long-ago evening, a pale Mai-Lee,
still unwell, had asked him where he had been for the last several hours.
"There was an exhibition of south-Asian dance in the old quarter, my
love," he had answered truthfully, with a slightly crocodilian smile. "It was
most enjoyable. Quite unlike anything I have seen before."
