Chapter 76 Raw Materials, Raw Flesh, Raw Lust
Chiang nodded at Dao, and the tall thug stepped forward again, to slide the
chemise down over Ming-tsu's trim waist and rounded hips, letting it fall to the
floor in a whisper of black silk.
Ming-tsu was nude now, save for the skimpy black panties which Lin had
tried to tear from her body not so long ago during his abortive attempt to bury
his throbbing cock balls-deep in her buttock-crease.
"Give her another one, Ox!" Lin exhorted his partner. "Soak those juicy
tits!"
The man-mountain strode forward; Ming-tsu noted that his badly burned left
arm hung limp at his side. Then, displaying his great strength, the Ox hoisted
the heavy bucket upward with his meaty right hand. Holding the bucket firmly by
its rim, he emptied a third of of its contents over Ming-tsu's heaving breasts,
his oafish grin betraying his satisfaction at the way the dark-haired
concubine's quivering love-globes shivered and jiggled as the cold water
cascaded down her uptilted breasts.
The blunt-faced man-giant paused to allow Dao to slide Ming-tsu's sole
remaining garment, her gossamer-sheer panties, halfway down over her luscious
buttocks, and then splashed the rest of the water against her flat stomach, her
dark-bushed pelvis, and down her gleaming thighs, letting the cataract of water
rinse away the dirt that had collected on her legs during her moments on the
ground.
Ming-tsu's cleansing now complete, Chiang Chan strode over to the cabinet
his uncle had pointed out to him earlier and meticulously began filling a
wheeled cart with an assortment of many styles of punishing implements -- all
made from natural rubber in varying shades of gray and black and brown. Whips
of various lengths, weights and configurations. Straps, long and short, and
thick and thin. Eighteen-inch lengths of hard rubber hose. Foot-long
truncheons. And a number of paddles of various shapes, each indented with
pain-giving dimples.
As he transferred the instruments of punishment from the cabinet to the
cart, Chiang was careful to sort them so that the lighter whips were on top, as
if they were aperitifs for the more substantial courses to follow. When his
assortment was complete, Chiang Chan espied a small lacquered box standing on a
shelf in the rear of the cabinet. He opened the box, examined its contents,
smiled with grim satisfaction to himself, closed it again, and placed it on the
cart as well. Then he slowly becan to wheel the cart, stacked high with its
arsenal of pain, in the direction of his honey-skinned prisoner, remembering
the evening on which he had first seen these implements ...
********
A few weeks earlier Richard Chan had introduced his brother and nephew to
the first of his new toys. The rubber from which they had been fashioned had
been grown on great plantations in Ceylon. The rubber plantations of Ceylon in
turn, had themselves been planted by the British some years ago with seedlings
taken from the Amazon Basin. The rubber had felt strange and soft and pliable
to Chiang Chan and he had scoffed a bit at the peculiar and unfamiliar
substance.
His angry uncle had interrupted his sarcastic remarks and volunteered the
prediction that one day there would be millions of of human-powered,
rubber-wheeled cycles in the cities of China. Furthermore, Richard Chan had
added sternly, men would find ways to motorize transportation for small groups,
as they had conceived transport by rail and ship for large groups. Such a
concept would revolutionize the world. And this substance his nephew had
ridiculed, Richard Chan had assured him in no uncertain terms, would very
likely provide the wheelcoverings for those vehicles. It was, he said, perhaps
the most important natural resource discovered in the nineteenth century
"But for our present purposes," Richard Chan had continued, "its appeal
derives from the fact that rubber of a certain type is capable of inflicting
sharp, stinging pain but, unlike most varieties of leather and wood, leaves no
lasting marks."
Both father and son had raised their eyebrows at each part of that rather
unlikely statement, but a short time and a rather sizable wager with his brother
later, Richard Chan was determined to prove his point. The trio packed up a
few of the whips and straps and set off across the city to the House of Madame
Wong in order to test the theories of Richard Chan.
********
Upon their arrival there, Richard inquired whether 'Newgate', the
notorious punishment room of the brothel, was occupied. Newgate had been so
named some years since by a captain in the British merchant fleet who had taken
great pleasure in flogging Madame Wong's stable of beauties, and had likened
some of the accoutrements of her punishment room to those in the famous English
prison.
Madame Wong, a sly, slender, elegant matron, bedecked in a shimmering
sapphire-blue gown, explained to the elder Chan that a certain Herr Gutmayer was
presently 'entertaining' the petite Kyoto in that room.
In fact, at that very moment the fair-haired, Prussian-booted Gutmayer was
seated in a plush chair in the Newgate room while a beautiful young woman in a
kimono knelt slavishly before him, polishing his knee-length boots with her pink
tongue. The woman, who was clad in a striking gold and white kimono, was Kyoto,
a former geisha who had taken the name of Japan's most beautiful city.
The emperors of Japan had resided in Kyoto, the City of a Thousand Shrines,
for a millennium, until 1867. In that year the once-mighty Tokugawa Shogunate
had been overthrown and soon the new Meiji emperor had moved the capital to Edo,
renaming it Tokyo, "the eastern capital". But Kyoto had remained the spiritual
and cultural capital of Japan, and Kyoto the pleasure girl had grown up within a
few kilometers of the Kinkaku-ji, the breathtakingly beautiful Golden Pavilion,
which stood, equally resplendent in summer sunshine or winter snowfall, on the
banks of Kyokochi pond.
Kyoto was quite breathtaking in her own right. She was tiny, a foot
shorter than Gutmayer, a man of somewhat more than average height and build, and
weighed only half of his thirteen stone. But her lips, her eyes, her
cheekbones, her silken hair, and her perfectly proportioned body would have done
justice to a portrait by the greatest of Japanese masters.
Kyoto, too, was easily the most versatile of Madame Wong's pleasure-girls.
While all the young women of the House of Wong were talented in the erotic arts,
Kyoto had been trained in the ways of the geisha; she could play both the
samisen and the koto and she had a magical, musical voice capable of singing
nostalgic Japanese songs in a way that had occasionally brought some of her
far-from-home countrymen close to tears.
Kyoto's love-chamber was perhaps the most beautiful room in the sumptuous
brothel. Like herself, it was small, but exquisite. One of her clients in
Kyoto had been an aging master of the Ikenobo school of flower-arranging. In
gratitude for the sweetness of her caresses which had temporarily restored some
of his youthful ardor, the ancient sage had taught his cherry blossom -- as
pretty young girls are called in Japan -- the ancient art of Ikebana. Kyoto,
who was artistic by nature, soon became extremely proficient at ikebana - "the
way of the flower"- and all but the coarsest of her clients marveled at the
serene beauty of her floral creations.
But it was not the beauty of floral creations that had put a lecherous leer
on Gutmayer's face ...
It was Madame Wong's opinion that her pleasure girls could be subjected to
moderately severe corporal punishment once a fortnight without unduly
endangering their value or imperiling their careers. Only a small percentage of
her foreign clients chose that particular form of erotic foreplay, but those
that did were often disposed to pay very, very well. Of course, a pleasure girl
who had displeased any of the Dragon Lady's well-heeled customers in even the
most insignificant of details, could instantly be subjected to far sterner
corrections; such had been Peony's unlucky fate at the Black Pagoda.
But Kyoto had offended no one; it was only her ill fortune that her
bi-weekly session in Newgate had happened to fall due on a night during which
Baron Hans Gutmayer was in attendance.
Kyoto had just finished licking the last microscopic particle of dust from
the Baron's gleaming boots and was kneeling in front of him undoing the obi of
her kimono, preparatory to bending over the Silken Arch, when master and slave
both heard a sharp rap at the door. Gutmayer stalked angrily to the door,
doubling up his well-worn but sturdy brown punishment strap as he did so. "Can't
you see," he snapped in broken Chinese, when he opened the door to find Madame
Wong and the three Chans, "that I do not wish to be disturbed?"
"Baron," the silky, seductive voice of the Dragon Lady began, "these
gentlemen have something to show you. Something that I think you will find most
interesting."
When Richard Chan bowed and extended his silver-sleeved arm to offer the
arrogant German a black rubber whip. Gutmayer looked at is scornfully; its
business end appeared to be little more threatening than six strips of home-made
Chinese noodles. "Kinderspielen!" the Prussian snorted derisively. Children's
games.
"Mein herr," the Lord of the Black Pagoda had stiffened reflexively at the
Baron's tone, before collecting himself and exhorting the German calmly, bowing
again, and smiling a smile that sent shivers through Kyoto's slender frame.
"Try it. You will see."
"Ach! Very well! Just to get rid of you. I take it I will not be charged
for this half hour?" the Baron asked Madame Wong, raising a mercenary eyebrow.
The Dragon Lady glanced at Richard Chan, who inclined his head slightly,
signalling that he would pay for this part of the Baron's session with the
Japanese beauty. The cost, after all, would be only a fraction of his wager
with his brother.
As the newcomers entered Newgate, five pairs of intense, expectant eyes
turned toward the petite pleasure-girl. Kyoto, despite her years as a pleasure
girl, blushed with the appealing shyness which many Japanese women seem never to
lose, as she slipped the kimono gracefully off of her shoulders, revealing the
trim and lovely body beneath.
She was rewarded by the hushed intake of breath in five throats, for her
body, though diminutive, was unutterably exquisite, a perfect miniature, not
unlike the remarkable bonsai trees so cherished by the Japanese. On her
diminutive frame, her teacup-sized breasts were perfection itself, as were the
sensual curves of her belly. Between her pretty legs, her woman-hair had been
trimmed and combed with all the minute attention to detail that she lavished on
her flower arrangements.
Trembling, but brave, Kyoto had strode gracefully with kittenish footsteps
toward the Silken Arch, one of the most strikingly feminine instruments of
discipline that Chiang Chan had ever seen. It was a wooden arch, a little less
than five feet long and two feet wide, that rose twenty inches from the floor at
its apex. The arch was richly upholstered with the fleece of Tibetan mountain
goats, fleece which was as soft as goose down. Silken manacles at the head and
foot of the arch were in place to entrap the wrists and ankles of its nubile
occupant. The Silken Arch was a favorite with the occasional upper-class
European women who took pleasure in administering the arts of pain to Madame
Wong's tempting menage of young women.
Kyoto approached the arch and was just about to take her position across
the top of the fleecy dome when Gutmayer stopped her, and pointed toward an odd
cylindrical bundle that he had brought with him. Kyoto took the bundle and
removed the cord which held it together, unrolling a mat roughly the length and
breadth of the arch.
"A Prussian punishment mat," Gutmayer announced to his audience, as he bade
Kyoto stretch the mat across the Silken Arch. It was only when she unrolled its
length that Kyoto realized that the mat was studded with thousands of stiff,
irregular spines.
"Hog bristles," Gutmayer told the four voyeurs proudly, from the finest
Danish hogs. Stiff, sharp hog bristles.
He beckoned to Kyoto to take her position face down on the arch. Gingerly
the nude young woman climbed atop the dreadful mat, and positioned herself, as
she knew she must, so that her beautifully rounded buttock-globes were at the
very peak of the arch. Gutmayer refrained from entrapping her wrists and ankles
in the manacles, preferring to taunt his petite captive with a cruel and
illusory liberty. For they both knew that the penalty for trying to escape the
lash would make the flogging itself, in Gutmayer's word, a kinderspiel.
When Kyoto was in position, Gutmayer strode to the middle of the arch,
lifted a gleaming, tongue-polished boot and pressed it down into the small of
Kyoto's back, forcing her tender belly into the coarse embrace of the bristled
mat. He ground his foot around for a moment, while Kyoto fought to suppress the
cries of pain that clamored to escape her enticing lips. A moment later
Gutmayer retracted his boot and then re-positioned it between her shoulder
blades, letting it rest there gently for a moment. After a moment, though, he
put his weight on it, crushing Kyoto's delicate breasts against the
hedgehog-like punishment mat. The Japanese pleasure-girl could no longer hide
her suffering; shining tears formed in her almond eyes and swelled until gravity
drew them down her lovely cheekbones.
The prologue thus completed, Gutmayer raised the curtain on the first scene
of his sadistic scena by stepping back and snapping the stinging tails of the
whip sharply across the base of Kyoto's trembling bottomglobes, drawing a soft
moan from the petite beauty.
While the rubber whip may have been foreign to the German baron, flogging
most assuredly was not. With meticulous Prussian precision he spaced the lashes
evenly over the ripe curves of Kyoto's sweet bottom, each savage stroke drawing
a slightly louder moan than its predecessor.
"Schweigen!" the baron growled, after Kyoto's loudest groan, following his
sixth withering stroke. Though she spoke not a word of German, Kyoto instantly
recognized that the black-booted sadist had demanded silence of his captive, and
his tone of voice made it clear that any disobedience of his edict would be
dealt with most severely.
It had only taken a dozen burning strokes across Kyoto's rosy upthrust
derriere to convince both Gutmayer and Richard Chan's doubting relatives of the
effectiveness of the latex whip. The rounded tails sliced through the air most
efficiently, and their elasticity somehow imparted a dreadful momentmun to each
bottom-burning stroke. In fact, the final stroke of the twelve had been
applied with such ferocity to the springy summits of her shapely bottom-ovals
that even the brave Kyoto could not suppress a cry of anguish.
Outraged by this intolerable breach of discipline, Gutmayer deemed that the
punishment for her heinous offense would be a stroke between her legs, a stroke
that Kyoto would be compelled to endure in the Lowenbrucke. The Lowenbrucke, or
Lion's Bridge, was a position that the Baron had named for a landmark in the
Tiergarten in his native Berlin.
The Japanese pleasure-girl climbed off the punishment mat gingerly, her
breasts, belly, and thighs looking as if she had spent an hour lying on
sharpened stones.
Kyoto then was made to rest her encrimsoned buttocks on the floor,
alongside the Silken Arch, with her naked legs moderately, if immodestly, spread
and her hands extended backward over her head.
Once in this position she was directed to press her toes and her fingertips
against the floor and lift her sylph-like body upward, in a bridge-like arc,
until her slender arms and nicely-curved legs were fully extended, and her
body's shape paralleled, as closely as possible, the arch upon which she had
just been whipped, not to mention the arched bridge in the Tiergarten.
The Lowenbrucke was ingeniously conceived, all agreed. The bristles of the
punishment mat had stimulated the tips of Kyoto's love-plums into tiny brown
daggers that stabbed into space. The girlishly-soft skin of her breasts, her
midriff, her loins and her thighs, had been slightly scratched in a hundred
places by the rough bristles of Gutmayer's mat, and the obscenely displayed
petals of her dark-fringed femininity were in themselves a masterpiece of erotic
ikebana.
Gutmayer and his unexpected guests admired the artistic tension in Kyoto's
body and the taut, straining muscles in her calves, thighs and arms as she
fought to hold the exhausting position for a minute, then two, and then three.
Only Kyoto's excellent physical condition, and her gymnast's petite frame
allowed her to maintain her position for so long.
Tiny pearls of perspiration were oozing from every pore of Kyoto's
erotically-posed body by the three-minute mark, at which point the Baron
clicked his Prussian heels and took a position between her widespread thighs.
Then, after warning the lovely pleasure-girl that if she came out of her
arched position, she would receive two additional lashes between her pretty
legs, the sadistic German viciously sliced the tails of the rubber whip down
into Kyoto's delicate Asian love-slit.
Chiang Chan winced at the ferocity of the blow, even as he noticed that his
father and uncle were entirely unmoved by Kyoto's suffering; the younger Chan
reminded himself that as the heir to the Chan Dynasty it was incumbent upon him
to root out these moments of empathy that still plagued him from time to time.
(And indeed by the time Ci-Ci had been consigned to the Scorpions' tender
mercies, he had made great progress in this regard, as we have seen).
Kyoto moaned pitiably and her body vibrated in pain for long, agonizing
seconds as she fought to hold her difficult pose. When, after the prescribed
time had elaspsed - after what had seemed an interminable thirty seconds to the
young cherry blossom -- Gutmayer exclaimed, "Ja! Sehr gut!" and Kyoto's slender
body collapsed downward in agony like a house of cards.
At that juncture Richard Chan had turned to his kinsmen, and said, "We have
a meeting of the Council of Twelve, and must go. Madame Wong, thank you for
your courtesy. Herr Baron!" Richard Chan bowed stiffly to the arrogant German
who towered over the fallen Kyoto.
The Baron clicked his heels and inclined his head slightly in reply, and
extended the borrowed whip with one hand while he reached down for a handful of
Kyoto's intricately-arranged black hair with the other. It appeared, Chiang Chan
thought, as he accepted the whip from the German and turned for the door, that
the refined Japanese Geisha's night was far from over. And indeed by the time
Chiang had reached the door and looked back, Kyoto was being led toward the
south wall of the punishment room, a grim, gray wall lined with fetters and
manacles of every description ...
*******
Out of curiosity George Chan and his son had returned to the famed bordello
the next day and asked Madame Wong to produce the young woman who had endured
the severe beating they had witnessed the night before.
A few minutes later Kyoto stepped softly into the room in which father and
son waited, obviously still in some discomfort. But when George Chan ordered
her to remove her robe, both father and son were astonished to see that while
the backs of her smooth-skinned thighs had been well-marked by a flurry of
violent strokes that the Baron had given her with his strap after they had left,
Kyoto's gently-curved buttocks, though blushingly pink and still slightly warm
to the touch, bore almost no traces of the rubber whip.
Impressed by that fact, but not wanting to waste a second trip to Madame
Wong's, the Chans had taken Kyoto then, in the way the ancients called The
Amorous Wheelbarrow. George lay back on the floor pillows while his standing
son held the thighs of the petite Japanese woman off the ground, so that her
weight rested on her hands. In that position, the graceful arch of Kyoto's back
and the perfectly-proportioned curves of her girlishly heart-shaped ass were
displayed in a manner which could hardly have been improved upon.
The downward angle of her body allowed Kyoto to take the father's thick and
sturdy penis deep into her warm throat, even as the sinewy son thrust his manly
sword downward deep into the moist, clinging, sweet-scented feminine scabbard
that had felt the last stroke of the six-tailed whip the night before ...
It was only when he had spread Kyoto's pretty legs that Chiang Chan noticed
how red and inflamed the area around her miniscule anal rosette was. Clearly,
after they had left her alone with the Baron, Gutmayer had first administered a
vicious thigh-strapping to the fettered cherry blossom and then concluded the
evening by ramming his Prussian prick deep into Kyoto's under-sized rectum.
As he lunged in and out of Kyoto's warm love-slit, Chiang Chan visualized
Kyoto shackled face-first against the wall, her silky thighs ruddy and raw from
the strap, while the Baron spread her still-stinging buttcheeks only to be
confronted with her alluring but inhospitably small rosette.
But determination and persistence being good Teutonic virtues, Chiang was
confident that Gutmayer had overcome the difficulties presented by Kyoto's
narrow passageway with as much ease as the German divisions had crushed the
French in the Franco-Prussian War when he was a boy.
When Chiang Chan's cock had been suitably moistened by Kyoto's free-flowing
feminine juices, he pulled out of her for a moment, and altered his masterful
grip on her limbs slightly, taking a slim, elegant calf in each hand and then
spreading them at arm's length, but lowering the angle of her body slightly.
"Hold her, father," he bellowed gruffly and when his father's strong hands
had given a little more solidity to Kyoto's awkwardly inverted position, Chiang
Chan edged his body forward, sliding his grip up to Kyoto's mid thighs, until
his throbbing cunt-lotioned member was pressed against the Geisha's inflamed
rectum.
"Umggmmphh!"
The merest touch of his cock-tip to her Prussian-plundered bottomhole
caused Kyoto discomfort; his forceful and insistent lunges soon caused her
agony. Agony that she could not relieve by screaming, because her mouth was as
full with virile father-cock as her nether-passage was crammed with the son's.
Once he was inside her, Kyoto's anal channel clung to Chiang's thrusting
manhood like a sausage-casing clings to a sausage. A sausage, in this case,
that seemed to swell and harden with the younger Chan's every vigorous thrust.
Chiang Chan's only regret had been that Kyoto's constrictive rectal
muscles had squeezed and tugged and milked his swollen cock with such admirable,
albeit involuntary, effect that he had erupted quicker than he might have liked,
spurting endless jets of sperm deep into her butt-crevice.
Excited by his son's explosive climax, George Chan filled Kyoto's mouth
with a second anointing with Chan-juice less than half a minute later.
Such was the unforgettable adventure during which Chiang Chan had come to
know the punishing properties of the rubber implements with which he had laden
his cart of suffering.
