The House of Singing Wind

By

Sir Marc

       

Chapter One

Now Comes a Wanderer

       It goes against my better judgment to talk to her, much less have her in this house.  The decision is not mine, however.  This is the work of Maelstrom.   And as long as he is writing the checks that make my life possible here at Singing Wind, who am I to argue?

It is a very good life. 

       She is, young, perhaps late twenties, early thirties, blonde with perfect legs; feet on one end and ass on the other.  The fact that her ass can only be considered a 9 ½  is only because I have never seen a true 10.    Meeting her at the door to my study, I offer my arm to escort her in, the perfect gentleman.   I purposely situate her body out of my line of sight.  I want only to concentrate on her face.  It is not a beautiful face.  No, not beautiful, Beautiful is too bland an adjective. She is interesting, intelligent, and smooth.   These adjectives work. .   She is magnificent, utterly magnificent.  Perhaps you think I exaggerate, but this is not the case.  I have made a life study of women and fancy myself a connoisseur of feminine flesh and character.  To put it in the vernacular of my trade, this is a five million dollar cunt.  And this was the strangest recruitment interview I have ever conducted. 

       “…and he told me I could count on you to fully acclimate me to the facility.”  She told me in a flat tone, delivered with even a flatter look on her face.  She was sizing me up and at the same time, trying to maintain her dignity.  Dignity is a strange thing to women.  This one views me as powerful and I am.  But she also thinks I’m the lowest form of life on the planet.  Be nice to the lowlife, the pervert.  How genteel.  I may be, too, all that and more.  I trade in flesh.  I am the first link in the White Slave chain store.  Now I find myself interviewing a genuine, card carrying member of the fourth estate, the press, the New York Times. She is sitting across my from me, in my study, wearing a short skit and no panties hoping to entice me.  To be honest, I had no idea whether to laugh or laugh uncontrollably.  

       “My facility,” I intoned just as flatly.  “This entire facility, as you put it, is mine. Its conception, construction, and implementation are the produce of my thoughts, dreams and desires.  It exists because one man dared to dream a dream and is willing to pay the price of seeing his ideas bear fruit.   And yes, you can count on me to fully acclimate you to Singing Winds.”  I let these words, the latter delivered with sarcastic mirth and trail off to the proverbial pregnant pause, as I’d heard my aunt say, if not a million times, then close.  Her flat look was still plastered to her face but it didn’t go all the way to her eyes, though.  Her eyes were flinty.  I would not swear to it, but it seemed her breathing had hiccupped, just a small catch.  She glanced at her notebook as if she needed to refresh her memory, and I think that is true, in so far as the thread of her memory is unraveling. 

“Exactly, where am I?”  She asked.

“You are in The House of Singing Wind.”  I replied, hinting in my voice that this was an illogical question. 

“I mean, exactly where is the House of Singing Wind?  Generally speaking, I don’t want to know the GPS coordinates or anything, just where I am.”  Her confidence was returning, though not to full force.

“Generally speaking, on Earth.  Great pains have been taken to assure my privacy, my client’s privacy and the privacy of my novitiates.   You are an investigative reporter.  Investigate.  The precautions we have taken with you are the same that any client, the hired help, or the newly chosen experience.  Blindfold, hood and blacked out windows on my jet.  No contact with the crew.  Timing the flight won’t help, either.  The flight lasts between nine and eleven and three quarter hours. 

       “Singing Winds has been in operation for fourteen years.  I do the recruiting, the scheduling, the transportation, and have personally directed the curriculum.”    Curriculum, what a concept!  I think the word “program” would be a more likely term, so I correct my self.  “I like to think of it as the program.”  At this, I see her visibly swallow hard.  Her confidence is waning. 

       “The program,” she repeated, “exactly what does that involve?”  I cannot stop the small smile that is tugging at the corner of my mouth.  She is trying to be the reporter, always analytical.  I wondered how long that was going to last.  Perhaps forever, perhaps not past tomorrow. 

       “It’s a training program, pure and simple.”  At this, I stood and clasped my hands behind my back and knew I was about to lecture.  And she was completely in my view again.  “We train concubines, servants, slaves, fuck toys, whores, sluts, or whatever you want to call uncompensated human beings that are owned, controlled, used, abused and held in servitude.  We train them to understand the importance of serving another, completely, in any manner prescribed by the client.  What the client desires, we provide.  The actual crux of the matter is that each novice is here of their own volition.”  I chuckled, “An all volunteer force, if you will, striving to be the best they can.  They have the desire to serve, to be of service and to be compliant.  We foster that desire, we mold that desire, and we hone it to a fine edge.  That is the Program.  What is it you desire?  You’ve got your full story now, you can write your article and enlighten the world about Singing Wind.  You have seen all you will see and told all you will be told.”   I turned and started toward the door.

       “No, wait!”  She implored to me.  “I want to have the full picture I want to know what it’s like to be in the House of Singing Wind, the experience, talk to the others.  I want my story to be fact based on my own experience not perceptions.  I’ve flown here, to God knows where and you’re ready to send me off?  Maelstrom promised me a story and I’m here to get it and I mean to get it.”  There was fire in her eyes now and the small smile was again licking at the corners of my mouth.  She was close to saying what she needed to say, but not quite there.  “I want to see what the novices go through, I want that.”

       “No!” I almost barked, “That is not going to happen.  Maelstrom does not own this place and I’m not his servant.  I’m under no obligation to show you anything.  I’ve told you what you wanted to know about this place.  Go back to New York and make up what you’d like about Singing Wind.  It exists, you’ve seen it.”

       In almost a girlish tone she said what I’d known she’d say, eventually, I was taken completely by surprise by how quickly and timidly it came.

         

“I want to be trained.”

And that was that and I knew an article would never be written.

       

             I walk over and stand before her.  I know what my eyes look like boring into her and I am looking quite through her.  I can taste the fear stirring in her soul.  I can feel the intensity building in the muscles of my face.  I can smell her very well now, her perfume, her perspiration, her cunt.  I can feel my voice box tighten, ready to take on the raspy quality that comes with “The Voice”.  I watch as her hands tighten their grips on the arms of  her chair, her knuckles going white.  I stop 3 paces from her chair.

“Kneel.”  My voice is deep, the word perfectly annunciated.

She does not move, so I repeat:  “Kneel.”  My voice is even, almost slow.  It is not a whisper, it is very conversational with enough conviction to let her know I am in no mood for games.  Still, she does not move.  As slowly as I can, I close the distance between us and as my right foot comes to rest next to my left, my right hand flashes from my side, a flick, fast as a fighter’s jab,  I slap her.    The sound reverberates in the stillness of my office.  I think to myself that I will never forget this look in her eye.  She is stunned, but she does not become hysterical.  This time when I say “Kneel.” in the same, even tone of the last two commands, she slides smoothly to the floor into a kneeling position. 

“Pleasure me.”  Same slow, quiet, melodious tone.  Again, she looks at me with an uncomprehending look.  “Suck me, blow me, slurp the schlong, smooch the root, give Mr. Johnson a kiss, eat me, do the deep throat, puff the penis,  bob the knob, you give me long time sucky-sucky, give me head. Do what your told, when you’re told.  Are there any questions?”  I slap her smartly again.  “No?  Well, that’s just fine.”

And deftly, her hands go to my fly to release my cock from confinement, her lips part and she envelopes the shaft into her warm, moist mouth.  Her eyes close and, I’m sure her motivation is to get this over as quickly as possible.  I make suggestions as to speed, tongue usage, teeth positioning, and she quickly learns to gently and devotedly bring me to climax.  Dutifully, she swallows every drop of cum I pump into her mouth.

       My orgasm does not stop her ministrations until I gently pushed her mouth from me, the sensation is too intense to deal with for long.  I could swear that I see disappointment furrow her brow as I pull my manhood from her lips.  Then, she looks up at me.  I say nothing for a long moment.  “When you are done with something, put it away,” I say.  And dutifully, she does.  I walk back to my desk and discreetly push a small button.  Almost immediately, the door opens and an Asian woman with a dour look on her face walks in.  “This is Soledad.  You will call her Mistress Sollie.   She is going to play show and tell with you.  Show you what you need to see and tell you what you need to know.  Sollie, this bitches name is Slut.  Take very good care of her or we just might need a session with the barbed wire flogger.”  Oh, the look on Slut’s face upon hearing this reminded me of the credit card commercial.  Priceless.  As fast as cat, Sollie places an iron collar on Slut’s neck and slips a leash in place and leads her away.  Slut, too shocked and stunned to protest, crawls away on her hands and knees like a dutiful puppy.

House of Singing Wind

By

Sir Marc Wyld

Chapter Two

Li

       The morning is hot and muggy and there is little doubt there will be rain in the jungle before noon.  From the tree line, we watch as people from the surrounding villes began to congregate in a clearing, a cul-de-sac, one road both in and out.  There is little to do but wait and see what is going on.    The Laotian-Thailand border is notorious as a portal for arms and supplies from China via Laos, across Thailand into Cambodia and on into Vietnam.  What is most curious about this gathering is the predominance of men and children, mostly young women.   To my eye, I am certain these are families.  Tran Ngo, the team’s translator, sidles up to me to apprise me of the situation, for my ears only.

“These farmers, very poor.  Come to sell children.    Not come to meet to meet Cong. No guns, no rice.”

I was stunned.  “Why?” I asked. 
”No money, no food.  Girl childs no be married, no money, no buffalo to give to husband’s family, boys too young to work to rice paddies.  Farmers has many children, many mouth to feed.  If no can work, no can feed.  Better sell than kill or starve.”  He said this with a matter of fact dignity.  This was the oriental way:  He would make no judgments.   His flat look told me that I was in no position to judge, either.

When his report is finished, Tran evaporates as silent as a ghost just as a mid fifties vintage Cadillac pulls into the clearing.  My fist shoots up in a tight fist next to my ear.  My index finger goes strait up, waggles back and forth once and then I make the peace sign.   None of the men in the team need any explanation for the signal:  Freeze, take cues from me, safeties on.   Also, the men know exactly who is driving the Caddy.  It is Dirty Mary, the mamasan of a bar by the same name in downtown Bangkok. 

“Looks like Mamasan’s on a mission to buy some new hookers.”  Miller says.  “Fresh meat and I’m three months from mid tour R&R.”  He said this almost disgustedly.  Virgins go for a premium bar fine and are very sought after on their first night working the second floor at Dirty Mary’s.. 

       I flash “on me” and say out loud, “The smoking lamp is lit.”  I pull a Lucky from my pocket and made a big production of lighting it, not caring if the clicking noise of my Zippo carries into the clearing and I begin walking toward the gathering crowd.     The sight of five men carrying weapons sends a ripple of tension through the group, but they quickly realize that we are not Thai Federal Police and they relax.  Dirty Mary recognizes Miller right away.  I suppose spending the paychecks saved for five months in a week at a whorehouse can really popularize a person and she breaks out into a ever widening grin. 

“You number one, GI, Millersan!” she cries out.  That just about did it for me.   I had the urge to butt stroke her upside her toothless head.   I hate the way the gooks are always slipping into Japanese sounding Pigeon English; always calling us “Number One”.  I am pretty sure that number is signified by the middle finger, but I ignore her.

I motion for Tran to get his ass over to me and point to a farmer standing next to a young girl.  “Ask him how old she is,” I order.  Tran did and the farmer went into a diatribe that lasted a lot longer than just stating a number. 

“‘He say, she fifteen and very strong.  Can pick grass out of rice patty long time, pick rice too.  She good cook and make many baby, all boy.”   The look on my face upset the farmer and filled him with fear.  This seems to be Dirty Mary’s cur to begin to examine the girl.  It reminded me of grizzled old ranchers examining breed stock before an auction at stockyards back, back in the world in Oklahoma.   She fells the girl’s breasts through her rough blouse and pulls back her woven hat to pick at her hair and part her lips to look at her teeth, teeth that were perfect in spite of never having been seen by a dentist in their lifetime.  Then, she began to dicker with the farmer.  I looked a Tran and he said “She say she give 500 baht.”   Twenty-five American dollars.

“Tell him I give one thousand,” and so the price war began.  Back and forth the bidding goes until the figure reaches ten thousand baht.   Finally, Dirty Mary gives me a disgusted look and spits at my feet.  “You no come to my bar, no more, Lieutenantsan!” 

“Not a problem,” I said, and spit right back at her feet.  I paid the farmer who without another look at his daughter, turns and walks away, towards the woods and Laos.  Mary makes an awful sound in my direction and Tran starts to translate.  I hold up my hand him.   “I know what she said, Tran.” 

I walk away, also back toward the woods, to the Landing Zone where we’ll be picked up.  Tran just looks at me and then says “You boo koo dinky dau!”   “Yep, Tran, one crazy motherfucker, I just spent ten thousand nickels, five hundred bucks on a human being!”

I awake with a start and come instantly alert as I always do when I have this dream.  You can take the boy out of the jungle, but you can’t take the jungle out of the boy.  A soft hand caresses my cheek and I look into two limpid brown pools of light that are Li’s eyes.  I think she knows what I am dreaming about but she never says a word, and snuggles closer to me, placing her tiny hand on my chest.  I am awake and will be for the rest of the night.  I patiently wait for her breathing return to a rhythmical steady beat before I leave the bed.   I have a lot to think about, the least of which is how Li came to be in my life.  The dream that was not always a dream sometimes disturbs me. 

       I leave my private wing of Singing Winds heading towards the staff cells; I want to talk to Sollie before I leave.  Without  knocking, I walk right in to her room.  Even if there were a lock on her door, I knew it would be unlocked.   I reach into my pocket for the Zippo that has been in my pocket for the last thirty years, minus the four months three years ago when it took a little vacation to Bradford, Pee Ay, back in the good ole’ You Ess of Ay for some of that good old lifetime warranty service.  Made it the U.S. of A may not mean shit in Detroit, but Pennsylvania is a whole different ball game. 

I could have turned on the lights, but when talking to Sollie, especially, I find candlelight soothing.  I open the lid of the lighter slowly and quietly and light a taper on her bed table and this does not wake her.  On the other side of her bed, leaning against the wall I make out a shape.  Picking up the candle, I move to the other side of the bed and can’t help but smile.  No wonder Sollie doesn’t wake up seems she was busy far into the night. 

Leaning against the wall is a rough cross with a limp body tied to it.  The eyes are closed and I can see the eyes rapidly moving in REM dream-sleep.  Ahh, the dreams of Slut; these are dreams that could interest me.  Softly I touch her lips and an involuntary shiver courses down her body but she does not wake. She is beautiful, her breasts are full and pendulous, with a light sheen of perspiration that glistens in the candlelight.   I can see that she is wearing a chastity devise.  I don’t need to guess that her cunt and ass are filled and well filled at that.  The slickness on her thighs also says that I don’t have to guess that it might be KY jelly.   I return to the far side of the bed, lean down and give Sollie’s cheeks several light taps.  Her eyes pop open and move side to side rapidly, unfocused.  Finally, her eyes settle on my face and she recognizes me.  She quietly slips out of bed and onto her knees.  I sit on her bed feeling the warmth of her body still in the sheets.  She knee walks forward and settles between my thighs, Idly I begin to stroke her black hair as she looks into my eyes with a shy smile that lights her entire face.

“Rough night?”  I ask.  Her smile broadens and just as suddenly she is serious.  “Are you sure this one should be here?” She asks softly, nodding toward Slut.  “There’s a lot of spirit in her.  I’m not sure if she’s taking training because she wants it or because it gets her what she wants.”  I knew exactly what she meant.  “Sollie,” I said, “Don’t question her motives, and just train her to the best of your, and her, abilities.”  I think she wanted to talk more about this but she knew the discussion was over.  It is now time to listen to me. 

“I’m leaving this morning; I’m going to see Maelstrom about this one and run some other errands.  Don’t try too hard to break this one.  And be extremely careful, I don’t know yet if this is someone’s property.  Not that I really care, but if she belongs to Malestrom then it’s going to cost him the same she would fetch at auction to training her.  Just in case, leave something out because Maelstrom thinks he can finish a slave’s training regimen.”   We smiled at each other at this.  “If that’s the case, I think this one might be at Singing Wind for a very long time,” I added and Sollie nodds in agreement. 

I crane my head back as if to look at the ceiling and begin to rotate my head, eyes closed, feeling the gravel in my neck and spine grate bone to bone as I try to relax.  I feel Sollie’s hand go into the fly in my silk pajamas and slip inside.  I looked down at her and lightly grab her wrist to stop her.  “Li’s already taken care of that,” I said.  Rolling over on my side, I stretch out on Sollie’s bed.  I am awake and know I won’t fall back asleep, but I am exhausted, the way I always feel after the dream.  Sollie crouches at the end of the bed and begins to massage my feet.  I close my eyes and give into the sensation she is sending up my sciatic nerve that culminates in a tingling sensation just behind my right ear.  I roll onto my back and I feel her take my toes between her warm, moist lips, sucking my toes, pulling them between her lips as if they were tiny cocks.  She runs her tongue between my toes and then licks up their lengths.  She takes all five on each foot into her mouth at once and runs her tongue around each one.  She then began to lick the entire foot with deliberate, long, tongue strokes.  I raise my head and look down at her, her features softened by the glow of the candle, her face serene in her devotion to the worship of my feet.  I lay back, closed my eyes and completely lose myself in her ministrations.  She works on, sensually and methodically, into the night.

I wake, again, to light streaming through the high window of Sollie’s cell.  I am in her bed, covered up, feeling snuggly warm.  Slut is not tied to the cross any longer and I am quite alone in Sollie’s room.  I throw back the covers and get to my feet, stretching broadly.  I feel totally refreshed and alert, not totally unlike the mornings I awoke in the jungle a million years ago:  Totally ready for any contingency.  Briskly, I leave the room and head back to my quarters.  Have to get a move on.  Today, I’m to be a traveling man.

       

The House of Singing Winds

By

Sir Marc Wyld

Chapter 3

Changelings

       Gently, Sollie tucks her master into her bed as the graying sky of morning was brightening her cell enough to see with out a light.  Slut, tied to her cross is still sleeping the sleep of the dead.  Sollie can see a ropy line of spittle falling from the corner of Slut’s mouth dribbling onto her left breast and this makes her smile.  Picking a pair of soiled panties from the hamper next to her dresser, she retrieves a roll of duct tape from the bottom drawer.  Moving silently to the sleeping form tied to the cross, she tears off half a foot and sticks it to the lower edge of the cross piece.  She reaches out and pinches Slut’s nostrils causing her mouth to open and stuffs the balled up the panties deeply into Slut’s mouth and quickly secures her mouth with the tape. 

       Slut’s eyes flash open almost immediately wondering why this Filipino bitch would not leave her alone.  The gag in her mouth did not allow for any noise to escape her.  Solly moved close to her ear and spoke softly,

“Look in my bed.”

   

Slut did as she was told surprised to see the man she had met only the day before, the one who had sent her into hell with this bitch from hell who has seemingly worked her over the entire night.  Just as quickly, she realizes that Mistress Sollie has not been working on her all night; she has been asleep standing tied to the cross.  Her eyes go back to Mistress Solly.  What surprised most is that that is exactly how she is thinking about this Asian woman: Mistress Sollie.

“Make one sound that wakes him up and your whole day will be irreversibly fucked up in the first 30 seconds you are awake.”

Slut thinks to herself that the day  is already pretty much fucked up waking up tied to a cross, with a pair of panties taped in your mouth, wearing a chastity belt with a dildo up your ass and cunt wearing only what must be really nice bruises on her ass and tits being ordered around by what her brother (who’d done a tour in the Marines) would call a LBRPFM’s, which is short for Little Brown Rice Powered Fucking Machines.  No, she thinks, days do not come any more fucked than this.   “Understand?” Solly barks softly. 

Slut nodded dumbly.

Taking a leash from a hook on the wall, Solly clipps it deftly to the collar around Slut’s neck and unties first her ankles and then her wrists.  As she is lowered to the floor her shoulder joints make a loud popping sound.  They are numb and leaden.  Sollie gives Slut a hard look.  “You know what position you are to be in when you are on the leash,” she hissed.

Slut dropped to all fours and is promptly and unceremoniously led out of the cell and into the morning light.  Sollie keeps her moving at a rapid pace and Slut finds she can not keep up and quickly adjusts by coming up off her knees and onto the balls of her feet moving in a crab like fashion.  Awkward as this was, she finds that she can now keep up with her Mistress.  Abruptly, Sollie stops.  Intent on keeping her balance, Slut does not realize this until the leash became taut and spills her on her face. 

“Pay attention!”  Sollie snaps.   She grabs Slut’s collar and jerks her to her knees.  Roughly, she rips the duct tape that covering her mouth and Slut can not stifle a cry and involuntarily a hand goes to her mouth to rub her lips.  Her breath is coming in ragged gulps as she tries to catch her breath and spit the panties from her mouth.  Slut has been in constant torment since leaving the study yesterday and Mistress Sollie has given her little respite since coming into her charge.  The sleep she’d had on the cross had been poor, at best and fatigue was now her constant companion. 

“We are now going into breakfast.  I know you haven’t eaten since yesterday, but don’t bolt your food.  Eat what you are given and don’t you dare ask for more.  As a matter of principle, don’t talk at all.  That is unless being tutored in manner is what you want from me, then, well, just piss me off.”  Sollie gives Slut a sardonic and wryly sadistic smile at this while looking down at the wretched form of Slut, kneeling in the sandy grass with puffy eyes and raw knees, generally looking pitiful. 

Slut thinks she wants to do more than just piss Mistress Solly off.  She wants to grab a handful of hair and jerk her to the ground and give her a taste of her own medicine, but something tells her this was not even a remotely good idea.  These thoughts, against her will, telegraph to her face.  Sollie smiles, reached out and twists her left nipple cruelly saying, “You better think again.  That good idea you are thinking right now may not be such a good idea in reality.”  And Slut blushes bright red and tears began to course down her face. How in the name of fuck can she know what she is thinking?

Sollie turns and with hard tug on the leash, Slut begins to follow at a slower pace.  They enter a building through a large doorway and she is led to a low bench before a long table and is given the order to stand.  To her amazement, as she looks around the room, she is surprised to find the room filled with at least ten long tables and each has at least a dozen women standing just as she is.  On the table before each place is a bowl of what can be best described as mush.  A small bell rings and the women, in mass, sit in their respective places.  Sollie has to give a small jab into Slut’s back to get her to follow suit.  When she sits, the dildo from chastity device in her ass is noticeably uncomfortable and she is shocked to realize that her bodily needs are becoming pressing:  She has to pee very badly.  She sees that all the women have lowered their faces into the bowls and are eating.  Sollie grabbed a handful of Slut’s hair and shoves her face into the bowl and she began to lap at the contents so as not to drown.  Sollie says in a low voice “I’ll see you tomorrow, behave.”  And she is gone.  Slut does not see Mistress Solly for the next eighteen hours. 

* * *

Slut is amazed that the contents of the bowl tastes delicious and she begins to eat greedily.  She raises her eyes enough to see the girl across from her looking at her, her face and nose sticky and covered with the creamy mush. 

“It’s breadfruit,” the girl whispers.  No sooner than this is said, a hand pushes the girl’s face back into the bowl roughly. 

“You want to eat or you at high tea this morning?  Shoot the shit on your own time!” 

Looking up, Slut sees a very large woman standing behind the girl holding her face in the bowl and then grabs a handful of hair and lifts her face from it bringing her to an upright position.  The girl, her face now covered completely with her breakfast, opens her soft brown eyes and smiles softly at Slut. 

“Thank you mistress for correcting this wayward bitch,” she says in an even voice.  The woman only grunts and gives the girl’s head a shove.  The girl only smils again and resumed eating. 

She points a riding crop at Slut and barks, “Get your face back in that bowl if you know what’s good for you,” and then walks on.

Trying to take in as much of the scene as possible, Slut does not finish her meal before the small bell rings and once again, in unison, the women all rise.  She can only look back at her unfinished meal and frown.  The women deftly step back over the benches and reached their hands out to either side to clasp the hands of the women to either side.  Slut did like wise.  The women on her side of the table executed a left face, while those opposite performed a right face maneuver and the women file out two abreast for where Slut knows not. 

                                      

*     *     *

Waking up in Sollie’s bed, I leisurely stretch out before leaving her cell and walk toward the beach rather than my quarters.  Once on the beach, I contort my body with exercise to stretch out my leg and back muscles before I start out at an easy gait.  Quickly tiring in the loose, dry sand, I ease down past the tide line on to the hard, wet packed sand and pick up the pace.  I watch for my markers and in just over 13 minutes I punch out two and half miles thinking about nothing other than the blue in blue of the South China Sea off to my left.  The hot, humid morning has me drenched in sweat and as I slow to a cooling walk, I can smell Sollie on me and that, perhaps, is also tinted with the smell of Slut.

Back at my quarters, I shower and change into a freshly pressed white Panama suit.  Li has laid my clothes neatly out on the valet before the triple tailor’s mirrors and I can not help but admire the figure I cut.  I am not a vain man, in the least, but I am amazed at how a tailored suit makes a man look.  I think of Charles Laughton or Sidney Toler, the actor who played Charlie Chan and how good they always looked in a Panama suit, I never thought I would look so good.    Knowing that Li has never seen a Charlie Chan movie or has any clue as to whom Charles Laughton might be, I am struck by her sense of style. 

Just out the door my quarters, I found a jeep waiting on the cobblestone drive.  In the driver’s seat is a young blonde woman and sitting in the rear seat is a dark, mysterious Hindu goddess.  She is dressed in a cream silk blouse and dark A line skirt.  The driver is naked save for a collar with a silver tag engraved ‘Cocksucker’.  Not a word is spoken as I get into the front seat as the driver puts the jeep in gear and smoothly speeds out of the drive to the road leading toward the airfield.  The trip takes less than 5 minutes even though the car never reaches a speed above 15 miles per hour.  As the field comes into view, I can see the Gulfstream sitting on the tarmac as a lone figure completes a walk-around inspection as the tail strobe light flashes in the gathering sunlight of morning.  I know instinctively that the inspector is Tommy Milkman, a bright, handsome lad, who you might mistake for preppy if it weren’t for his deep southern drawl, a true Son of Georgia.  Tommy had learned to fly in the Air Force, flying lumbering cargo planes.  He had longed to slip the surly bounds of Earth in the cockpit of an F-16, but had only qualified to fly the Military’s version of the Douglas DC-9, great training if your dream was to fly forever and ever for an airline, but that really sucked if you had the need for speed and Tommy had the need for speed very bad.

In the cockpit was J.D. McAlester.   Mac had been my roommate at the Boat School, the Naval Academy, and captain of the crew team.  He had been an Aerospace major, while I am a mere English major.   He had dreamed of the sky since his childhood.  From the time he was ten, every thought, every action was designed to get him into the cockpits of jets.  And it had worked.  F-4 Phantoms in Vietnam, almost becoming an ace and later he flew F-14A Tomcats.  However, the Tomcat had bitten.  In a training exercise, the immense weight of the aircraft over powered by a pair of Pratt and Whitney TF 30’s had managed to flat spin.  By the time recovery of the aircraft had quit being an academic probability and had became a firm impossibility, the decision to eject had already been made by the Naval Flight Officer, a man who J.D. will only speak of by his call sign, Zippo.  Coming out of the cockpit with the force and speed of a rocket strapped to their asses, the men were accelerated by ten gravities of thrust.  Zippo’s body was never recovered while J.D.’s Martin-Baker ejection seat worked as advertised to float him into the Mediterranean Sea safely.  He was cleared by the Board of Inquiry but, never the less, the injuries he suffered that day prevented him from ever sitting in the driver’s seat of a jet aircraft again, that is, until I bought him this Gulfstream, with a severe warning that eternity would be a nightmare of epic proportions if he killed me in the goddamn thing.  Truth was, he was my best friend:  If we died together, we’d toast the devil with his own scotch and spit in his eye.

Pulling along side the aircraft, Cocksucker brought the jeep to a smooth stop.  I gave the driver’s left nipple a pinch and a tug and said with a smile,  “Thank you, Cocksucker.” 

“The pleasure is mine, Milord.”  She says with a sweet smile, enjoying the manipulation of her nipple a little too much.

As the other passenger unloads my traveling case along with two suitcases of her own and lugs them toward the plane, I go strait over to Tommy waiting by the cargo hatch and exchange pleasantries as we wait for the girl to bring the luggage.  Setting the three cases on the ground near the plane, she gracefully drops to her knees to bend forward to kiss Tommy’s shoes.  I stifled a laugh as this is one of those things that is an embarrassment to Tommy and he can only look at me sheepishly.

“Get aboard,” I tell her and lightly touch her forehead as she rises to her feet.

“Where to Boss?”  He is clearly relieved that the girl is leaving to board the aircraft.

“Hong Kong, Miss Singh has a date at an auction this evening at the Hilton and then we’re all going to get a massive steak and really drunk at Ned Kelly’s Last Stand on the Kowloon side.  J.D.’s buying.”

“Does he know that?”

“Not yet,” I smiled, “you can break that part to him.” 

And with that, I board the plane to take my seat.

The House of Singing Winds

By

Sir Marc Wyld

Chapter Four

An interlude between worlds

       Tommy came through the cabin door after securing the fuselage compartments, folded the stairway and started to close the hatch behind him.  Miss Singh came up behind him and lightly touched his arm.  He turns and almost immediately the blush he had had outside on the tarmac was back.  She can see it and his eyes, eyes that said he was a man unaccustomed to being in close proximity of such a beautiful woman, one that responds in a way that no woman in Tommy’s world ever responds.  I watch as his Adams apple bobs in a very long swallow.  She looks directly into his light blue eyes with her soft doe eyes. 

       “I will secure the door,” she says softly, so softly that in the distance between us, two seats, I can only make out the word door.  Tommy slowly nods and turns and goes into the cockpit and gently closes the privacy curtain behind him.  I imagine that he has sat down in the co-pilot’s chair rather quickly.  Seeing him with a hard on would keep J.D. in stitches for months.  Tommy does not care for the world on the other side of the island and I respect that.  While he respects what it is I have built here and why I do it, it is something that he keeps a respectful distance from.

       Miss Singh has been known for the last two years as Knob Bobber.  Before that, she was known as Amahdee and twelve hours from now she will be known, as Linda, The Pretty One, for the rest of her life.  She now stands at the door for a long time looking out taking in the scene and breathing in the warm, tropical air deeply.  She makes no sound.  The auxiliary power unit comes on line and the sound level rises noticeably and the cabin lights momentarily flicker.  The unit begins to spool up as high pressure air makes it way to the compressor sections of the plane’s engines.  At this, Miss Singh tugs on the tether to close the door and locks the handle in place.  When she turns, she is crying.  The sobs deep inside her chest are being restrained, but not very well.  The tears, large and free flowing course down her cheeks streaking her makeup.    Without looking at me, she takes her seat and buckles herself in.  The jet turns at idle speed for about two minutes, taxies to the end of the runway, turns and accelerates in one fluid maneuver.   Three minutes after engines start, we are in the air and “feet wet”, over the water.  Miss Singh’s sobbing does not abate and her tears seem ceaseless. 

I reached over and touch her arm.  Her eyes meet mine.  Her tears freshen.

“I cannot go, I am not ready,” she says.

“Yes,” I say simply.  And with tears streaming unashamedly down her face, she laughs.  A deep laugh, a normal, funny laugh, as if hearing a joke.

“Yes, I’m not ready or yes, I’m not?” 

       “Pick one,” I smile, “because what I think is of no import.  It’s what you think that counts.  Remember your first days here?  Think about then, how badly you wanted this day to come.” 

“First days?  How about the better part of the first year!  I wanted to be taught to be something other than me.  How could I know that what I needed was to be taught to be treated like property?  How would I know that I would love that?  No, I don’t think I’m ready.  I know I am not ready.”  She said the last with conviction. 

       “You’re ready. Open the window shade and take a look.”

       I touch the key to the intercom and bark “J.D., turn around.  Give the island a flyby then do it again at 90 degrees.”  I meant for it to sound like a request but it sounded more like an order.

       He did just as I’d asked.  We cruise the island about a mile off at just over a thousand feet up.  I watch as Miss Singh cranes her neck to see the island come into view, watch it pass, and crane her neck again to see it pass behind us.  After a long slow turn, the island comes into view again and she does the same again.  Some time after it has passed from her view, forever, she closes the shade and turns to me.  The tears are back and I soften.

       “You can live your old life until we land.”

       With that, she stands and slowly slides down the zipper of the skirt and lets it fall.   She carefully unbuttons her blouse, removes it, and carefully folds her clothes so not to wrinkle them.  She then unhooks her bra and slips from it and stands naked before me.  She is not wearing any panties.  From my jacket pocket, I take out a collar with a small silver tag that reads “Knob Bobber”.   She kneels before me so that I can place it back on her neck and I am greeted with the sweetest smile I have ever seen.

* * *

Slut and the others silently leave the dining hall two abreast into the morning sunshine.  The sound of an airplane draws her eyes skyward and she watches the small jet aircraft pass from left to right.  She wanted to stop and watch it but when she slowed down the woman behind her ran into her and dropped her mentally back into reality.  She knows it is the same plane that she had boarded in Honolulu, what, two, three days ago?  She is dawdling and can tell the girl behind her is growing impatient with her as she is squeezing her hand sharply. 

       She fells like a schoolgirl again, walking in line with other girls, holding hands front to back, going to the lavatory in the library building at her elementary school, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow.  As she looks as far up the line as she can, she sees that they all wear the same uniform.  A lack of uniform actually, but uniform all the same.  Each woman wears a polished black collar adorned with a silver tag and four inch black stiletto pumps.  She is the only one different in the fact she is the only one wearing a chastity belt.  This fact brings a new thought.  Is this because she is new or is this because the belt signifies dunce? 

       She takes in her surroundings and is surprised at the campus like atmosphere. The courtyard is a quadrangle, surrounded by 6 buildings that she can see with an unknown number behind her and she dares not to turn to count buildings.  Further, she cannot see anyone who appears to be in charge.  They are crossing the quad two abreast, marching in step the only noise is the clicking of their heels reverberating off the surrounding buildings in unison.  This made her remember Sister Rose, who, while strict, had made school somewhat fun.  Sr. Rose had taught the girls to hum the theme song from the Adams’ Family Show” in their heads to help them stay in perfect step with a proud march.  And just as suddenly she realized that tune was playing in her head and she was walking in perfect harmonious step with what she guessed to be fifty women. 

       The last two girls at the rear in each column suddenly dropped the hands of the girls in front and sprinted to the front of the formation to open and hold the doors of the building directly in front of them.   The column of two marched directly into the building with out missing a beat, proud and strong.  Just as the last of the women passed the portal, the door guards quickly closed the doors and the formation broke up in to a cacophony of sound as the formation dissolved and every one in the group relaxed. 

       Slut stands there in disbelief as the women begin to chat, sit on the floor and take off their stilettos and massage their feet and calves.  The girl next to her, who is still wearing the breadfruit mush on her face, points at Slut’s chastity belt and says “Want some help getting that thing off?”

       “I don’t know if I’m allowed.”  She says dumbfounded. 

       The girl just smiles.  “Yes, you are.  It’s bath time and for the next six hours nobody will tell you what to do….”  She trails off and reaches for the silver tag on Slut’s collar and reads the inscription.  “…Slut,” she finishes.  “This is our time and my name is Allpussy.”  She sticks out her hand and with a growing smile shakes Slut’s hand. 

       She then spins Slut around and begins to work on the buckles of the chastity belt.

“So, you got orientation from Sollie?  Oh, I know that because she has her initials

tooled into this thing.  I hate this fucking thing.” 

As the strap that runs between her legs falls forward, it relieves the pressure on the dildos that impale her.  Allpussy reaches around from behind and plucks the dildo from her pussy and holds it up before her face.  It is made from polished ebony wood and despite of the fact she has probably worn it for over eight hours, it glistens with moisture from her cunt.  Allpussy leans close to her ear to speak to her in a low tone of voice. 

“If one of these comes out of any of your holes in Mistress Sollie’s presence, you’d best take it in that pretty little mouth of yours and lick clean as Buddha’s cock.  She loves to see them worshipped.”  Allpussy then brushes the wooden cock across Slut’s lips.  Slut gets the idea and opens her lips and takes the object into her mouth and begins to lovingly clean it.  Before she could get fully into the act, Allpussy spins her around again and pulls her close so that they are cunt to cunt.  The chastity belt drops to the floor, and reaches around and pulls the second dildo from Slut’s ass.  Holding it next their faces, Slut turns to look at it.   Allpussy says, “This one too!”   Before Slut can do anything, Allpussy tosses the dildo from her ass over her shoulder and wraps her arms around Slut’s neck in an intimate embrace.  “Give me a kiss,” she smiles, “I just saved you from a future ass whipping, though you might get one anyway for already knowing what to do.  She’s pretty anal retentive that way.”  With that, she pulls Slut into a deep, deep kiss.

Abruptly, Allpussy breaks the kiss and takes Sluts hand pull her into a short tiled hallway ending at a wall that seemingly goes nowhere.  Just before the end, however, she sees two openings on each side that open into a larger cavernous room with whirlpool baths dotting the tiled deck and beyond those, an Olympic sized swimming pool.  On the other side of the pool there are row upon row of massage tables, some already being used as slave girl works on slave girl while in the whirlpools, slave bathes slave.   Two slave girls approach them each takes Slut and Allpussy in different directions.    Slut reads the tag that tells her new companions name is Fuckface and she is leading her toward one of the baths.   Gently, she assists her into the warm, bubbling water, places her head in the cushioned notch at the end and drapes her hair behind her. 

Not a word is spoken as Fuckface picks up a brush and starts to brush out Slut’s hair, gently, lovingly.  Slut raises her eyes and tilts her head to look at the girl, upside down.  The face is serene, as if this girl were lost in a fantasy, perhaps brushing the hair of some long forgotten doll.  Slut breaks the silence.

“What’s your name?” 

“Fuckface,” the girl says touching her tag.

“No, I mean your real name.”

The girl lets out a small sigh and then the hint of a smile sneaks onto the corners of her lips.  “Slut,” she says, “that is my real name.  Whatever you called your self before, whatever I called myself before, well, those people don’t exist anymore.  I mean, did you really like the person you were before? If that person is still in you and still has a name, I don’t want to know it.  If you were happy before you got this name, then, why are you here?”

She wanted to say to get a story, but, she didn’t.  She didn’t say anything.  She didn’t know what to say.  Certainly, she was surprised.  Malestrom had told her everyone here in training was here of their own free will.  Hell, she’d had been forced to ask, no beg, for the privilege to entering this compound.  However, compound didn’t sound right.  After all, there were no fences, no guard towers and she hadn’t even seen a lock on a single door.

She needed to think on this, just like she would need to think about the similarities she was beginning to feel with her younger days at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows, remembering the nuns, the order, the discipline and the symmetry. 

What surprised her most, however, was the peace of acceptance she was beginning to feel.  At first, she had thought perhaps that too much was happening too quickly and then she thought that that wasn’t it, either.  It was getting a story.  Originally, she thought she could and she would endure anything for a story.  And then the truth finally comes to her:  The story is getting her.  She looks back at Fuckface.  “Thank you.”  She says simply and closes her eyes.  In Manhattan, a spa day of this magnitude would run close to a thousand bucks.  She decides to just enjoy it and worry about tomorrow tomorrow.        

       

The House of Singing Winds

By

Sir Marc Wyld

Chapter Five

Market Day

       J.D. and Tommy are at each other the moment they immerge from the cockpit after shutdown at Wo Fat Aviation’s flight line.  The argument is the same one I hear every time we land at any field in the Orient.  By international law, all air traffic control communication worldwide must be in English.  That does not mean, however, that that English is easily understandable.  J.D. has long held the opinion that someplace in the world there is a Celestial whose soul and sole purpose in life is to extinguish his.  The fact that Viet Nam is so far in the past has no bearing on J.D.’s beliefs.   To him, the war is an unfinished, undetermined item.  In his view, since there is no treaty in existence or no surrender or armistice in place, the war is still there, still brewing, in hiatus, like a sitcom in summer.  He is not, to the best my knowledge, racist nor anti-Oriental but he is sure that anyone who speaks English poorly must be a communist sympathizer.  Why learn to speak any language well if soon the whole world will be speaking Chinese?

       Tommy holds the belief, on the other hand, that an enemy is a concept.  The enemies he trained for and been eager and prepared to meet had made war an academic scenario to him.     His enemies are fueled by oil profits, not idealistic social concepts.  Take more desert, you control more oil.  Control more oil, control more money and it is money that controls the world.  The war Tommy fought has been declared “officially over” and verified as a definite addition to the win column and then, ergo, they are no longer our enemies. 

       I have heard this argument so often that if they do not fly together, I know their lines well enough I can stand in, if needed, and relieve a little post flight stress.  However, this exchange does irritate me and, as always, I do not say anything.  Each has six lines in this little bitch ritual they go through and it lasts exactly 48 seconds.  J.D. is pure Navy and as everyone knows, a bitching sailor is a happy sailor. 

“Are you ecstatic?”  I ask.

“Like a pig in shit, boss.”

As always, these two lines go right over Tommy.   Mr. USAF never has had a clue as to what these words meant other than the end of this discussion. 

A Lincoln Continental limousine pulls up beside the aircraft and a large man, Wo Fat emerges.  Tommy always says this man’s name as if it were an adjective and not his name: Whoa, fat!   That always makes me laugh, not because the joke is funny, but because Wo Fat does not get the joke and he never will.  Since his business is a holdover from the days of British rule, he is allowed to run Wo Fat Aviation just as he always has.  Capitalism ends at the eastern border of the New Territories and is alive and well in Hong Kong proper.   

Wo Fat is here to kiss my ass for the eternal buck and I like that in a man because kissing my ass is also the equivalent of outstanding customer service:  I have never paid this man one cent he has not earned.  His greeting is designed to show my importance to his bottom line.  Also there is the fact that he is  meeting me in my own limousine and that is a perk, even if that perk only lasts the six hundred yard drive from my personal hangar where it is garaged to his terminal.   J.D. and Tommy trust this man’s company with their bird and I trust this man’s company with my aircraft. 

Appearing at the cabin door, Miss Singh emerges into the early afternoon sunlight.  Her time in the lavatory has not been wasted transforming from Knob Bobber to the future Linda for the last time.  Wo Fat feasts his eyes on a woman he would pay “many Hong Kong dollars” for in Suzy Wong’s in the Wan Chi district.  What I see is a butterfly of engineered perfection emerging from a cocoon.  

Whores are one of the least expensive commodities on the face of the planet.   This one, however, is of great value and, therefore, not a whore.  Very early tomorrow morning, my limousine will arrive at the doors of the Bank of Geneva.   Two armed guards will open my car door and escort me through the lobby directly into the vault.  There I will meet a senior vice president and he will personally verify the contents of the suitcase I will be carrying.  The money will be in neat bundles of crisp, new thousand dollar Euros. The amount they represent in that suitcase could easily cover the cost of several Gulfstream jets. 

The money will then be divided equally and half deposited into my account and the other half in an account owned by one Amahdee Singh.  My funds will then be split again and half to the First Bank of Manila while the remainder is transferred to the home branch in Geneva where it is immediately converted into gold that will be placed into a safe deposit vault the size of a small apartment using a forklift. 

Miss Singh’s account will remain at this branch and will never be accessed.  The money will accrue interest for the next fifty seven years.  Upon her death, a letter will be dispatched, by courier to a man by the name Mahatma Singh who lives in Karachi, Pakistan, informing him that a long lost cousin has left him an estate valued at just over fourteen billion U.S. dollars.  Such is life.

Wo Fat, content that all my needs are being seen to, enters the limo after Miss Singh and sits across from her on the jump seat and leers at legs that end in the usual place sans the confinement of panties for the entire 45 second ride back to his terminal.   I smile.  While he may not be able to afford the entrée he is more than welcome to peruse the menu.  Just one more perk of being president of Wo Fat Aviation.

Passing Customs, we are greeted by first names and cleared after a round of handshakes that relieve me of the burden of carrying three one hundred dollar bills into the streets of Hong Kong. 

The ride to the Hong Kong Hilton though short in distance is long in time.  I am pleased that Miss Singh is taking in the sights we pass and that her tears have dried up.  Tucked away safely in my jacket pocket is her collar and I touch it.  Tonight, it will slip into the waters of Hong Kong harbor off the deck of a Star Line ferry between the island and Kowloon on the Mainland.  Knob Bobber will be no more and the last phase of her life will begin.

Arriving at the Hilton, we head straight to the elevators with only a nod toward the front desk and ride directly to the penthouse.  The bell captain lets us into the suite and our cases are already in the saloon.  Handing me the key, he reduces my weight by another one hundred dollar bill, bows deeply and leaves.  Miss Singh retrieves her cases and heads toward the room I point toward.  I pick up another particular case and walk around to stand in before of the leather wing chair facing the fireplace.  As expected, the cultured, gray haired figure of Malestrom is sitting in the chair.  I smile and hand him the suitcase.

“Paid in full.”  I have said this sentence at least five hundred times.  He opens it, looks at the neatly bundled $10,000 Euro bills that fills the suitcase, closes it and says, “I’m extending this loan,” for the five hundredth time.  And the suitcase is placed in a corner of the room where it will stay until my departure.  It is a too familiar a refrain of an old song to which we dance. 

       “I have not heard of a New York Times reporter by the name of…”

       “Slut”, I interrupted.

“…Get off a plane in LaGuardia.  Well, that explains that,” he says.

“Whose is she?  Is she yours or mine?” I asked.

“Oh, quite yours, my boy.”

“I’m only your boy if I’m in your will.  Please, make sure there is a codicil that can’t be altered, stating it is your wish I inherit everything,” I said.  “A notarized copy of your will will do.  What is she doing on my island?”

“Oh, she had been poking about, first at the local BDSM munch scene, then she made rounds at the club scene.  Finally, she answered the right personal ad on an electronic bulletin board and she came to my attention.  After I learned she was a reporter looking for a follow up story about seventeen Korean women who were found starved to death locked in a container on a ship on the Hudson and determining she had submissive tendencies, I sent her to you.  She’s not back, so my instincts were right.”

“Your instincts suck, but, yes, she did enter the parlor and ask to stay so I have another fly in my bottle.  Do you have someone in mind to training her for?”

“No,” he said flatly.  “She’s a corporate asset.”

“She’s no asset and soon I’ll be sending her back to her old life.   I doubt she’ll be believed that she was the property of a white slave ring, trained for sex and servitude; I think that is the slant she is trying to give the story.  What will happen is that she will come back fit, tanned, and healthier than when she left and, hopefully, she will get fired for taking a trip to Hawaii on expense account and taking a holiday.”  I laughed. “If you don’t see her again back in New York then I’ll let you know when her auction is.  In the meantime, do you mind not making my operation sound like one of your enterprises?   It’s not my problem you won’t take that shit pot of money over there and get the greatest return on venture capital in the world.”

       He smiles weakly and sighs.  “Michael,” he says this slowly, “I won’t and can’t take credit for your achievements.  I don’t need that money nor do I want it.  You have made your own way and while it’s true that it would have been impossible without my assistance, that loan has been paid off for a very long time.  I get is a ringside seat to one of the most interesting spectacles in the world; a businessman who trades in the most precious as well as the most worthless commodity in the world, human life.  I won’t let you take that away from me and I won’t relinquish my seat.  That point aside, who else could be the front man for an operation like this, even if it is an honorary title?”  He stands, starts for the door, and then turns back to me. 

       “My sources tell me Fuentes is your man tonight.”  Before I can acknowledge, he turns and is gone.

* * *

       I putter around the Wan Chi district for the rest of the afternoon, drink a few beers, eat lo mien and rice from a sidewalk vendor before I return to the hotel.  I shower and take a short nap as my early morning with Sollie is now taking a toll.  I awake feeling refreshed, dress in my tuxedo and go to Miss Singh’s room.  I enter without knocking and find her sitting in a chair on the balcony watching at the skyline of Hong Kong in the dark as the endless neon signs illuminate the city.  She is dressed in a saffron sari, her neck, wrists, fingers, ankles and toes all bedecked in golden ornaments.  There is a half karat emerald in the center of her forehead and I have no idea how it is kept there.   She looks like a Hindu goddess come to life directly from the adornment a temple wall.   She turns when I speak.

“It’s time,” I say softly.  She smiles, nods and comes to my side, touches the fingers of her right hand to my left forearm and I escort her from the suite, a half pace behind me, eyes downcast.  Across the hall, we enter a conference room with nine chairs that contain nine men, all in tuxedos sitting around a polished conference table made to seat many more and I stop her at the head of the table.

From my left trouser pocket, I produce my trusty pocket knife and cut the sari quickly away from her body.  Her bronze body is complimented by the gold baubles adorning her while her feet are bathed in a pool of yellow silk and she is now on display for all eyes in the room,. 

       “Gentlemen,” I begin.  “Tonight, I give you a true flower of the Near East.    She is 22 years old and speaks five languages with a native accent.  She is compliant in all manner of servitude be it is domestic or sexual and she is healthy, fit and certifiably fertile.  She has trained at The House of Singing Winds for the past 27 months and she is amenable to any and all fetishes and will obey without hesitation or reservation.  If you desire, you may closely inspect the merchandise.”

       For the next twenty minutes, the men come up singly, to inspect Miss Singh.  They walk around her appraisingly, probing her vaginal and anal orifices with their fingers.  They open her mouth and inspect her perfect teeth.  They fondle her breasts both roughly and gently and twist her nipples cruelly to gage her reaction.  One man gently taps her shoulder indicating she is to drop to her knees, which she does in a single, fluid motion, unzips his fly and retrieves his manhood, already standing at full attention.  She worships his cock, the center of his universe, for several minutes greedily with her mouth before he exclaims “Exquisite!”  and withdraws his member and watches as rope of saliva connects them.  I see a momentary look of disappointment in her eyes.

One gentleman turns her to lay her on the conference table.  He brings his fingers to her lips to allows her to wet then and then slowly, but methodically, works first his fingers in and out of her shaved pussy and then his entire hand until he is fisting her violently.  He never takes his eyes off her face as he watches her slowly slip away into the nirvana of subspace.  I am quite surprised when after taking his fist from her cunt, he takes a few moments to provide her a little aftercare before standing her back in her original position.    The final gentleman, after a through inspection asks in a thick German accent, “What about animals?  Will she do animals?”

“Sir, as I said, she is amenable to all fetishes and will perform without hesitation or reservation.

“If there are no further questions, I would like to take a moment and have you referred to the documents at your seats.  The House of Singing Winds holds a reserve bid of five million dollars on this property and that the successful bidder must agree to weekly inspections for the first six months of ownership and yearly thereafter.  This property is guaranteed to perform as specified and within the first two years, any monies will be refunded if the customer is dissatisfied.”  That little clause has never been exercised. 

With no further questions, I open the bidding.  The auction lasts for nearly ten minutes with no lulls in the action.  As Malestrom had predicted, Mr. Fuentes, who has a monopoly on computer technology in Buenos Aires with offices in New York and London, closes the bidding at seventy million, six hundred thousand dollars.

The next morning, Miss Linda Singh boards a flight for New York where she is met by a limousine that takes her to Danbury, Connecticut where she will operate a small candle shop  and be visited by a married South American businessman three or four times a week.  She will live in devoted, contented servitude for the remainder of her life.   Thanks to the profits from her small shop and the generosity of her Master, she will never touch a penny of the money deposited in her name in Hong Kong.

       

 

The House of Singing Winds

By

Sir Marc Wyld

Chapter Six

Hong Kong Liberty

       I am awaken early with clear head and warm lips encasing my prick in spite the fact that last night was spent bar hopping with J.D. and Tommy from one end of Kowloon to the other.  I am not sure how I find my way back to the island to wind up in the Hilton’s lounge and ultimately, in my room.  I open, enter and close my door alone but soon learned that this is not the case.

* * *

At a near quickstep, I make a beeline straight to the head, unzipping as I hurry.  My stream arcs the moment I come to a halt before the bowl.  Standing there with my cock in my hand, letting fly a river of recycled Tiger beer with a touch of absinthe flow, my nose suddenly tells me I am not alone: there is touch of Opium in the air.   Yves St. Laurent’s not the Golden Triangle’s.   With fore finger and thumb, I halt the flow of piss from my cock and step up my listening skills a notch to detect sounds beyond the echoes of splashes past.  The rustle of a bed sheet is followed immediately with “What happened to clear the room first, piss second?”

       “One must adjust, adapt and overcome adversity as the situation demands.  I had to piss like the proverbial racehorse.  However, if you must know, I thought that if there were any secure place in this town, my penthouse would certainly qualify.  Obviously, I’m wrong.” 

       I turn and standing in the door is a petite Arabian princess.  She is dressed in a dark blue burka.   The only visible signs a woman might be beneath this cloth are the almond shaped brown eyes peering from the eye slits and the hint of stiletto heels peeking from the below the hem.  In one fluid motion, the burka disappears back into the darkened room behind her.  She is dressed in the most alluring nakedness I have ever seen.  A line traces an oval over her shoulders just above her collar bones to a line just above her black five inch high heels on her ankles and also extends to a line at each wrist bone.  Between these lines, from collar to wrist and ankle, she is covered with an exquisite, complicated henna tattoo that is in effect, the complete text of the Kama Sutra. 

Stopping a piss stream from raging torrent to dammed lake is not an easy feat but exercising a modicum of self control I am able to release the death grip on the head of the drain to my engorged bladder.  I release my Johnson and four large drops of piss splash to the floor. The girl looks directly into my eyes, nods slightly and says softly, “Milord.” 

       With the grace of a cat, the beauty prostrates herself before me on knees and elbows and resting her forehead on the floor between my feet and says in flawless Farsi, “I thank thee for the provision of cock from which I may feed and drink.”  Her tongue then darts out and lovingly laps the errant piss off the stone floor.   Righting herself into an erect kneeling position, she raises her eyes to meet mine and in perfect English says, “Sir, I beg you to let me once again be your own Worthy Toilet.”  I step forward two paces as her small hands land delicately to rest on my hips.  She parts her lips and kneels before me with gaping mouth and pleading eyes.  My left hand lightly rests atop her head and my right hand cradles my cock between fore and middle finger.   I watch her eyes first glaze and the close as she goes to that place I cannot fathom as I release my torrent into the urinal that is her mouth.  She swallow as much as possible and does not gag.  Her skill in this area is profound but still piss cascades from her greedy mouth to run down in rivulets over the intricacy of her body art to puddle on the floor.  The flow, in the beginning is strong and fast and lasts for perhaps three quarters of minute, soon slows to a trickle that is easier for her to catch and she moves closer until her lips encase my cock so that she can drink directly from the source.  Her ministrations cause me to begin to harden but using my hand on her head to push her away, I see her brow furrow just before her eyes open and begin clear.  I step into the shower as the tattooed girl wearing the chic heels begins the long slow process of licking my urine from the floor in order to return the floor once again to spotless, polished stone.  She is still fervent at her task when go past her on my way to bed.  I have one last thought before I enter that place between sleep and awake:  Who tells these women where I am and how do they get in? 

The next conscious sensation I have is her lips fucking my cock and bringing me refreshingly awake.  As I ejaculate into the warmth of her sucking mouth, she pulls her lips away and catches the rich spurts and uses my sperm as a cream on her face and body.  The whole time she has been ministering to me, three of her fingers have been busily buried in her hairless cunt and suddenly she comes wetly and violently.  I leave the bed to go to the head and momentarily turn to watch as she is rubs the spoils of her clitoris over her body to combine her juices with mine.  When I return, she is re-dressed in the burka and standing next to the door.  In Farsi she says simply, “I thank thee for allowing me to serve.”  She then switches back to English and says, “I hope I smell like a whore full of fresh sex to every one I meet the tram and ferry today.”  I wish I could see the smile I know is there as she says this, but all I can gather is a mere hint of its presence at the corner of her eyes and in the sound of her voice.  With that she turns and is gone from the room. 

I dress, call for my driver and do my banking.  I am at Wo Fat Aviation by ten and somewhat surprised that J.D. and Tommy have completed the preflight and we are ready for immediate take off.  I watch Victoria Peak fall behind us and the view below us soon becomes the endless blue of the South China Sea.  I close the window blind and go to sleep, a deep, heavy sleep I know I need and feel safe enough to take.  Instantly, my eyes open wide as the whine of the hydraulic flap motors signal we are on final approach to Singing Winds.  I am feeling better and a Dorothyism comes to mind:  There is no place like home.

       A jeep is waiting for me and Li is driving.  She is dressed in a pastel flower print sarong tied in a simple knot at her waist.  Sitting in the open jeep, it is easy to see that her clothes accentuate her slim hips and long legs and she is topless.  Her small breasts are tipped with large, dark areola and her erect nipples are extremely inviting.

I notice Tommy notice her and I smile.  Tommy has had a crush on her since his first meeting with her and it is a crush I try very hard to encourage.  Li, however, will have none of it.  I have tried many times to free her of the obligation she feels she owes me but I cannot convince her that she is free to choose.  The choice she made happened in the jungles of Southeast Asia many years before.

Author’s Note:  Due to circumstances beyond my control, I have not been able to access my reviews and as such cannot responds to my critics, which I very much want to do.  I do apologize for my technique especially when it comes to editing.  Of course, that is always the hardest part of writing.  Since a story is never done till an author quits tinkering with it, I have to just quit and let it go.  I know that’s wrong, but I do it anyway.  So, forgive me.  That does not mean I do not want criticism.  This is what I most want, what you like, what you don’t and, well, you get the picture.  Those of you that have written me at my regular Email, I’ve tried to answer.  Thanks for your input I do appreciate it. 

Sir Marc

March 4, 2010

The House of Singing Wind

By

Sir Marc Wyld

Chapter 7

Li

       Li is six years old when the knowledge comes to her that her future depends on either finding a husband willing to live and work on her father’s farm growing rice, finding a man rich enough to forego a dowry or her father must sell her.  Without money for a dowry, there can be no wedding; there is little money for food.    Her father’s land has been the family homestead for over 80 years.  The land came under her great-grandfather’s control the same year her Grandfather was born.  Her great-grandfather built a rice paddy on the land and he was able to feed his family and sell a modest surplus for a modest profit and he made plans for another terrace he and his son could finish.  Two more terraces are completed before her father is born. 

       1918 was a very bad year for the Ting family.  Her grandfather lost two sons as well as a wife to influenza.  His troubles were further compounded with a wet spring and a long, hot, dry summer that set the stage for Malaria that would take his youngest daughter also.  He remarries two years later and his second wife has a baby a year from the time she is thirteen until she is twenty but only a single son, her father.  Performing that act takes her life and just after her father’s third birthday, her Grandfather is killed by a Japanese soldier trying to make a point to the village that all rice production in this area is the property of the Imperial Japanese Army.  In addition to all of the village rice stores, nineteen village women are taken by the soldiers and except for one, are never seen again.  The woman that does return will be driven from the village because the villagers believe she is insane since the only sound she is capable of making is an incoherent mumbling.   She had been assigned as a pleasure girl and one night a soldier cuts out her tongue in a drunken rage after she screamed at him.  The only reason she is able to survive is the sensational blow job she gives with a mouth encumbered by a tongue.  With this one skill, she will eke out an existence and finish out her days cleaning barroom floors on the waterfront, sleeping on pool tables and giving sailors a very unique blow job thanks to the sadistic cruelty unleashed by the inhumanity of war .  Li, by her sixth birthday knows human life has little value, especially if you have a pussy.

Survival is a matter of being even more useful than pleasing.  She expects her father to sell her since he cannot take her as a wife and she knows he is ashamed that he used her for his own pleasure when she turned sixteen. 

* * *

       The annual market day is held the 3rd Wednesday following the first orange full moon at the end of summer.  To celebrate her sixteenth year her father takes her to Bangkok to sell his surplus rice.  Her father, however, gets drunk and takes he virginity, a fact he learns upon waking up with a splitting headache next to her naked form.    He has even greater pangs of guilt learning that in this drunken rage he has extracted a promise from Li to make this arrangement permanent.  He rushes her back to the village and tries in vain to find anyone, someone, who will take his daughter as a bride with the meager dowry he can offer, lest she be pregnant.  Finally, he decides that selling his daughter is his only option.  Li accepts his decision with the knowledge this is expected and she will do the bidding of whoever would give her father enough money to feed the family or perhaps hire a strong man to open more of the unused terraces.  Li will do her duty.

* * *

       She remembers well the day the fat, stinking whore felt her body roughly. She remembers the American stopping the bargaining and turning it in to a bidding war.  She remembers her father being paid more money than he had seen in the last five years.  While she remembered the happiness she had felt seeing her father prosperous, she will never forget the grief she felt as her father turned and walked away without another word or look.  She remembers the man named Tran who spoke Lao for the American, LT Mike, the sailor who does not ride on boats.  She remembers staying as close to Tran as she can, learning as much about her new owner as she possibly can.  The only important information she learns, however, is that he is an American and that Tran thinks he is a very good man, a very good fighter and his name is Lieutenant Mike.   She learns this as they talk quietly waiting for the helicopter to take them to Team Two Two Delta’s Firebase November, LT Mike’s little command in the middle of nowhere. 

       In the days following, Tran begins to teach her the basics of English as he listens to her life and does not judge her.  Tran is the one who explains to LT Mike that Li’s unhappiness is not due to homesickness, but because she is confused that LT Mike would give her father so many Baht and then not think she had value to him.  The day Tran told Mike this, he took a long walk in the jungle and he did not carry a weapon.  When he returned to camp, he sends for both her and Tran.  Through Tran, he tells her that she is very valuable to him and that her father did not get enough Baht for her.  Beginning that night, her English lessons were continued in the only place success can be guaranteed:  in bed.  Mike’s ability to speak Lao improved as well.

* * *

       Early one morning, Tran crept quietly into LT Mike’s tent and softly spoke.  LT Mike did not need to be awakened: he was fully awake and listening from the first rustle of his tent flap.  The camp was up and very active but that fact could not be determined by any sound.  The men gathered up equipment and silently connected wires that had been carefully laid around their little firebase to a detonator.  Just as dawn was breaking, LT Mike spoke softly into a small box and fifty minutes later the unmistakable pounding of the sky in the distance announced the approach of a Huey.  LT Mike spoke again into the box.

“Double Wop, this is November Actual.”

“Go, Actual.”

“Watch our position for red smoke.  Extraction is 50 mikes downwind.  White fog to follow on 15 count.  Observe and report on approach for enemy flanking maneuver.  Copy, Double Wop?”

“Copy, Actual.  50 mikes down wind, red then fog, observe and report Charlie on flanks. Rodger?”

“Rodger!”

LT Mike nods his head and Tran throws what looked like a small green ball across the clearing and it bounces once before spewing thick red smoke.  Then LT Mike fires his weapon into the air.   It does not make much noise but it sends a ball of fire into the sky to exploding just like the ones she once saw during Tet, the lunar New Year.  A handle to the detonator is turned and the entire perimeter of the base becomes hidden behind a curtain of billowing fog-like white smoke.  Anyone on the outside who wants to see in now must charge through the smoke curtain into a clearing filled with killing machines at the ready.

As the helicopter touches the ground, behind them an explosion lights up the morning sky and destroys all useable equipment.  Before the echo dies away, the personnel of Firebase November are safely airborne, headed toward Saigon at two hundred sixty miles an hour.  They fly for an hour and 40 minutes and touch down in full sunlight at an airbase that is in chaos.  LT Mike positions the men of Two Two Delta between two rows of Quonset huts, gives orders and takes off.  He is back in about a half hour and motions for Li to follow him.   She must run hard to keep up with what is a trot for him. He leads her up the tail ramp of a large airplane with four huge propellers already turning.  He talks to a man in a green suit wearing a helmet with a lightning bolt painted on the side of it for a few minutes and then they laugh.  LT Mike pushes Li toward the man who pulls her inside the big airplane.  He leads her to a pad situated behind a pile of green duffle bags and the plane rumbles off into the sky.

       Several times during the flight, the man brings her water and once, even a Coke.  The plane has been flying many hours when he brings her a white box holding a sandwich, a banana, some cookies, a bag of potato chips, a warm A & W root beer and a little bag containing a napkin, a plastic knife, fork, spoon and straw.  It is delicious.  It is dark when the plane lands.  The man tells her to be so quiet and so still and soon the lack of sounds around the plane tells her that they are alone.  The man is waiting for something and she knows that is true when three trucks drive close to the airplane.  The trucks are noisy because they all have refrigeration units running as they begin to unload the cargo.  It is then she realized the piles of bags on the airplane are not duffle bags like LT Mike’s sea bag; they are the long, black bags of dead soldiers going home.

       As the men in the trucks begin the slow, reverent task of transferring cargo, the man LT Mike trusted her to takes Li to a long building and into a dim room.  The room is bare, save for a simple dresser, a single bed, a single nightstand holding a lamp and a locker against the wall opposite the window.  The man strips off his flight suit, wraps his naked waist with a towel and leaves to go down the hall to the shower.  When he gets back, he motions for her to follow him.  He looks both ways down the hall before he motions her into the hall.  She follows him on tiptoe to a bathroom made to be used by many men at once but is now is deserted.  He watches her strip while he guards the room. He never takes his eyes off of her naked body as she lathers her firm, young, brown body in the large, tiled room.  He makes sure she misses a single millimeter of her wet nakedness and insists she washes her long, chestnut colored hair repeatedly.  He wraps her in a towel and carefully takes her back to his room in the barracks.  One inside his room, he motions for her to drop to her knees to use her well practiced mouth on his swollen cock and dutifully swallows a huge load of sperm.  She redresses in the same clothes she arrived in as the man puts on a pair of khaki shorts with a very loud tropical shirt.  A pair of sandals and an umbrella completes his attire and he is dressed for liberty.  He walks out of the barracks and on to the street as if they own the place.  They enter a building with loud rock music coming from inside that has a sign that reads “Subic Bay EM Club”.   The man talks to an oriental woman for a while and gives her some money and she gives him card that he pins to her shirt before they leave.   They walk out onto the street and cross a bridge that has a high chain link fence on each side that she can see through.  Tied to the bridge pilings below are long, narrow canoe-like boats each with a girl in a long dress, red on the bottom and white on the top, standing holding a wire baskets and catcalling to the sailors crossing the bridge heading into town on liberty to throw them money.  Sometimes the sailors will stop and show a coin to the girls and ask them to show their tits.  In the desperation of abject poverty, the girls lower their tops of the dress and show their breasts.  The sailors then flip the coin over the chain link fence and continue on their way, usually at the prompting of the stern Marine sentry, guarding the entrance to the base.  Sometimes, the girls catch the coins in the basket and sometimes it splashes into the water where young boys, usually their brothers, are waiting to dive beneath the murky water to retrieve the coin for the girls.  Li stopped beside the man to take this all in.  He points to the river water and says “That’s Shit River: The boys swimming in that won’t live to be ten years old.”

       He motions for her to follow him across the bridge past the two Marines guards in beautiful blue pants with red stripes down each side, through a gate into the hustle and bustle of Magsaysay Street of Olongopo City.  The man takes her arm in the crowd and guides her near the curb where he makes a noise that sounds like “sit-sit” between his teeth and long Jeepney, painted wildly and covered with silver horse ornaments stops.  There are two benches facing each other in the rear where they board and the man passes a coin to the driver as he drives away.    She watches the sidewalks jammed with sailors and sexy Filipino girls and the streets lined with bar after bar, some having uniformed men wearing holstered guns to holding the door, motioning for sailors to enter.  At the end of the street, there is a traffic circle where the man she is with says “Dito!” and the Jeepney stops and they get off, and move to the curb.  The crowd has thinned considerably and they walk into a bar with a neon sign that reads “Molokai Club”.  The man orders a San Miguel beer and asks the barmaid a question.  He does not offer Li the seat next to him and she does not take it. 

       A few minutes later, a beautiful oriental woman in a miniskirt wearing stiletto heels comes and sits next to him.  He orders her a drink and they begin to talk but Li can not keep up with the conversation.  After he has finished his beer and the woman has finished the drink that had actually been tea and very weak tea at that, the man motions for the lady behind the bar over to him.

“Mamasan, I pay her bar fine.”  He says and shoves some money toward her and waits for a paper receipt and the three of them leave the bar.  On the street again, the man talks some more with the woman then abruptly turns and leaves without another word to Li.  The girl abruptly takes her arm and says, “You come with me, now.  My name is Solly.  LT Mike say I take care of you.” 

With that, Sollie entwines her arm in Li’s and leads her away from the hustle and bustle

of Magsaysay street into the narrow and winding streets of the barrio.

The House of Singing Wind

By

Sir Marc Wyld

Chapter 8

Road Trip

       Home again, fresh and relaxed, my thoughts turn toward Slut, who my benefactor, Maelstrom, has brought into my little world directly from the New York Times.  She is sitting on a Pulitzer gold mine if she is able to write this story and expose Singing Wind for what it is:  It is a slave factory owned, as it turns out, by the wealthiest human being in history. On the other hand, just supposing that she can’t expose Singing Wind or prove its existence, she has a New York Times Best Sellers List number one novel.  Heads I lose tails she wins.  It is time to spend some quality time with the fourth estate.

       It only takes the merest of suggestions to convince Li and Sollie to take off on a shopping expedition as I mention I may need clothes for four more auctions this season.  That is what I love about these two:  Their devout devotion to me.  They will drop everything they are doing and attend to my most pressing needs without hesitation or reservation.  They will climb aboard a small jet and travel tirelessly about the world in service of me.  They will further sacrifice themselves by spending enough money to feed Africa for a week in pursuit my satisfaction.  Yes, with only each other, and J.D. (but never Tommy) for spiritual and physical comfort, I can easily get everyone out of my hair to spend the special time I need with Slut.

* * *

       Slut is learning the art of shaving a man with a straight razor when she receives word that she is to report to the Head Master.  She can not fathom if this is a good thing or a bad thing; she has seen the office door but has never inquired about it or heard any stories of anyone being called into that office.  She is, however, extremely pleased to be getting away from her mentor. 

       Fuckmeat has been assigned as Slut’s domestic trainer.  Fuckmeat believes that one of the greatest and most selfless acts as well as being the ultimate sign of trust that a slave can receive is to shave her Sir.   Slut certainly agrees with this statement; it has all the ingredients for an instant Sweeny Todd moment, just add sadist.  In learning this task, Slut must be able to shave 500 balloons consecutively without popping any.  To date, she is at one in a row. 

       What makes this worse is that she is required to service Fuckmeat with every failure.  Everything losses its allure and luster after awhile and that is certainly true about eating pussy and Fuckmeat seemingly has an insatiable appetite for this.  However, today, to get to her one in row streak, she has had 11 failures.  Right now, Slut would gladly bend over the Head Master’s desk for a date with a cane or hop under his desk to smoke some pole rather than eat that skanky pussy one more time and she greets the summons with welcome. She does make a kind and loving mental note to seek out Fuckmeat at bath time tonight and give Fuck meat’s pussy the sweetening it so richly deserves.   

       Up close and personal to this door for the first time, she sees a small, brass plaque at eye level: 

Knock firmly three times

She opens the door when she hears the word ‘enter’ from within.  The first thing she sees is him.

* * *

       I love this office.  It is everything that a Head Master office should look like and I did not have a thing to do with its creation.  It is a hold over from the previous tenant of this island, The Fellowship of Knowledge.   This room, however, is the only remnant of that cult that still exists unchanged on the island.  After all, there is room for debate about the moral ambiguity of the differences as well as similarities between Singing Wind and The Library Compound, as this place was once known.  My predecessor is gone and so is his ideology.  But I’m guessing he loved this room as much as I. 

       I now know that she can read as well as write when three firm knocks sound and I announce enter.  She is standing there dumbfounded, wearing only collar and stiletto heels, wondering what the fuck to do, but this is understandable.  Her life has changed extraordinarily.  Last week she was some body’s daughter, girlfriend, best friend, and employee.  Now, she’s a three holed wonder slut.  She will fuck and suck whatever is handy and even licks her own piss off the floor.  I am impressed that one could be so dedicated their craft that they would endure this shit for a story.  “Kneel, you stupid, fucking cunt.” I say this in an eerily normal voice and she obeys.  She starts to open her lips to speak when I put my finger to my lips and say, “Only open those lips only if I need a urinal.  Are we clear?”  She nods.  Kneeling, head bowed, without dignity, I let her wait. 

       “It’s time to go home, are you ready?”  Not only her does her head shake, her entire body sways.  I can even hear Slut’s name tag jingle.  “Yes, you are.  I know you heard the jet leaving this morning and now there is just one way off of this island.  Tomorrow, I’m taking you to Manila.  Meet me at the garage.  Do you know where the garage is?” She nods.  “Good.

       “Be there at seven sharp.  Ask any one of the girls tonight to take you to the Purser’s to draw clothes for ten days.  Any questions? No? Good.  You may rest here until Vespers.”  With that, I walk out the door and close it gently behind me.  I would bet she neither heard opening nor closing.   

* * *

       Singing Wind sits on an island that is one of 7,000 in the Philippine Sea.  It is forty-three miles long and seventeen miles wide at the extremes.  It has been excluded from every known nautical chart since 1945 and it is one of thousands of places that are intentionally blinded from radar as well as satellite cartography.  My predecessor paid dearly for the former and I paid even more dearly in the case of the latter. 

       To me, the entire island is Singing Wind.  My predecessor eventually headed a religious cult that was an offshoot of the Krishna’s of airport begging fame.  Their money and worldwide cash canvassing network allowed them to build this paradise of knowledge, with dreams of a library greater than Babylon.  But it was not Nirvana found, it was Gomorrah revisited, in the end.

Not long after my service was over and I began my life as a free agent, if you will, this cult came to the attention of a fledgling democratic government after years of dictatorship.  The group was amassing weapons as they began to teach doomsday prophesies as well as spiritual enlightenment, now sprinkled with morsels of free love, the compound soon came to have a population with a greater ratio of females to males, approximate 30:1.  With a harem of over 900 women, the thirty-two men were well armed, motivated and as it turned out, somewhat professionally trained. 

I signed a contract for my company to sterilize the threat on this island discretely.  I took one million dollars in advance and the island as payment in full for preventing an embarrassing element from seeing the light of day.  The siege took eleven days.  We did not prevail because of greater and superior firepower, numbers or planning.  We prevailed because when their numbers dwindled to ten men, they lit the fuse of their doomsday plan eerily taken from Jonestown playbook.  Two Teams of eight men, as well as myself, hit the beach and within six hours, twenty of their number and two of ours were dead.  Of the remaining twelve, after the element of surprise ran its course, we only picked off two more after they locked down their compound over the next ten days.  When the second of the final two was taken, they abandoned their defenses and began the slow process of mass suicide.  Despite our speed in discovering access to the compound, over 600 dead or dying bodies were discovered.  Of the 356 surviving females, 104 live at Singing Wind, the only place that they can find peace in living the way they were trained.  Of the 250 that were expatriated to their families, over half committed suicide within a month.  There have been no suicides among the girls that call Singing Wind home. 

* * *

       Slut arrives carrying a small pack at quarter of seven.  She is wearing sensible cross training shoes, shorts and a pastel blue low cut blouse.  Her leather collar and name tag are clearly visible above her cleavage.  I do not give her any greeting and only motion for her to sit on a bench next to the garage.  I sit my pack, not much larger than hers, beside hers and turn to speak at her. 

       “This island is bigger than you think.  Since the plane left this morning, the only way off this island is by sailboat.  The boat, who is a she, by the way, is moored near the village of Bonca at a private marina. It takes about four days to get there, two days walking and two days on a bicycle.  Once there, we will depart in Guilty Pleasure for Manila.  If the gods of the sea gives us the wind, and we can make 75 knots a day, we’ll be there in 10 days.  In another three, you will find you have a reserved suite at the Waldorf Astoria.  Your passport and the luggage you came with are already aboard Guilty.  Do not forget what you are, it is what you asked for, begged to be, remember that. Until that collar is cut from your neck, you are property to be used for pleasure and entertainment.  That is your purpose.  Are we clear?”  She nods.  “I cannot hear the marbles for the cob webs in the void, are we clear?”  This time she answers “Yes, sir,” soft yet crisply. 

       “Alright then, it is five miles to Topanga Beach, well have lunch there and it is eight more to St. Veronica’s Convent where we’ll spend the night.  There is a fridge inside full of water in the garage, pack at least 7 bottles, one for two miles, this is the tropics, more if you can carry it.  I’m ready in five.  By the way, Slut, be good and from here on out, I’ll answer any question you ask and I will answer as honestly and with as much candor as possible.  Do we have a deal?”  Dejectedly, knowing that the story of lifetime is about to slip through her fingers, she meekly agrees, hoping to salvage some semblance of a believable story from this adventure. 

       

       

House of Singing Wind

By

Sir Marc Wyld

Chapter 9

The Stroll

       The garage, in reality, is an industrial machine shop.   Thirty-one highly skilled and creative machinists have found their perfect shop here on this island. As well as taking care of the islands’ mechanical and engineering needs, they also create some of the most unique items imaginable.  These machinists have long ago surpassed the title of craftsman: They are artists of mechanical engineering.  The garage is ultimate tool crib, the ultimate man cave in paradise, you might say though I do not advise saying this if you have balls and want to keep them. Women that work with metal can get touchy, regardless of orientation.  Just a word to the wise, ‘nuff said.

Just inside a large rollup door, sits an enormous galvanized watering tough.  The area surrounding the door is shaded by four stately cocoanut palms surrounded by benches and barbeque grills, a few still smoldering.  Looking down into the tank she sees it is filled with crushed ice and water.  She cannot resist the urge to taste the clear water and discovers that it is sea water chilled to just above zero Celsius.  San Miguel beer as well as sodas and water bottles can be seen nestled together on the bottom through the clear, cold, arctic-like water, complete with icebergs, eighteen points nor’ the equator.   The water is so cold it instantly numbs her skin painfully.  She observes him carefully, watching as he removes a small insulated bag from his pack.  Ignoring her, he quickly packs away several ice cold bottles and carries two extra bottles out to a small bench in the shade. 

Looking around, Slut instantly understands that this is a very well equipped machine shop and maintenance shed.  She is standing quite still taking in the room when he returns and gives her a healthy whack on the ass.  This breaks her reverie and she gets with the program to follows his lead in getting her water and packing it away while he lectures her.

       “There are fourteen internal combustion cars and trucks, two jet aircraft, and a small fleet of helicopters on this island not to mention a very unique hydro-solar power generation plant to be maintained. Parts are hard to come by, extremely scarce: Cheaper to own the factory, so to speak.”  Everywhere she looks, she sees state of the art tools at neat work stations.  There are various projects, small and large scattered about and the workers are gone.  As if reading her mind, he continues “This is the tropics; hot work is done at night here. If you had been here an hour ago, you would have met the boys and girls that work here. 

“Ok, we’re burning daylight; let’s take this show on the road shall we?” With this he swings his pack in place as the sun fully clears the treelike.  He points at the sun.

“What direction is that?”

“I don’t know.” He slaps her very hard.

“I don’t know, Sir.  Quit diddling your cunt, Slut.  Look, engage brain.  Hint: sun, morning, direct…”

“East, sir!”

“Hoo-fucking-ray for Hollywood, Slut, there is a Jesus and she shall lead us, glory be!”

       The door of the garage faces a meadow-like clearing so large it could easily hold two world class football stadiums, including parking; 160 acres of lush, manicured lawn.  He points directly across the field and directs her attention to a barely perceptible opening in the tree line across the way.  “That’s where we’re going.  Ready?”  Slut suspects that she will to need to run in order to keep up as there is little doubt in her slut mind that this man is a superior physical specimen.  He does not have the triangular shape of a body builder; he is universally muscular, built for power as well as speed.

“Quit staring at my ass and get up here.  Back there is drag and up there is point.  Here, side by side, this is called hiking.  I’m not going to run your ass off, we’re traveling, we’re going to Manila.  Any idea how far that is from here?  That’s rhetorical, don’t answer.  It is between eight hundred and a thousand miles, give or take and another nine thousand, more or less to your precious Big Apple.” 

       Silent now, Mike evaluates while Slut desperately gropes mentally for a question.  When it finally comes to her, it has nothing to do with her story or him.  She begins to notice small blue pegs driven into the ground at intervals.  When she sees the next one, she asks their purpose and is told to count the number of steps to the next peg.  Arriving at the next, she announces 138 steps.  She is then told to count only the fall of her left shoe.  This time, just before reaching or even seeing the peg, Mike tells her to zero her count at the peg she sees next.  Almost immediately, she sees the peg but this time it is green not blue.  The next two she passes are again blue and suddenly, he begins to questions her.

“What is your average count between pegs?”

“Ah, 65 lefts.”

“Paces,” he says, “every 65 paces you pass a peg, that’s 100 meters. So the correct answer is 65 paces, Sir. How many pegs have you passed?”

She thinks: “Seven or eight pegs, I think, Sir.”

“Which is it, seven or eight?”

“Seven, Sir,” she says firmly.

       The next peg is red.  “Ok, Slut, you brain dead piece of shit, listen up.  You know it takes 65 paces for you to cover a hundred meters. Blue marks at one hundred meters, mikes. Green at five hundred and red at a thousand: 1 kilometer, click.  Turn around, and look back, can you see one of the benches at the garage, see how big it is now?  It appears about an inch high or so, right?  You now know that when something that is waist high appears to be an inch high, it is roughly a click away.  Keep track of the green marks and you won’t get us or yourself lost.  Think about this, now, there will be a test later.”

       Turning her attention again towards the passage into the woods, she notices a gravel road that appears to encircle the perimeter of the meadow arriving from either direction to join at an intersection disappearing into into the woods, their destination. Stepping into the junction, Slut proudly announces: “We’ve come 1 click and six mikes!”  He stops, looks at her and takes a long pull on a very cold bottle of water.  It has taken less than ten minutes to come this far.  “One point six clicks in good time.  Turn around; wave bye-bye to the House of Singing Wind. Let me say the magic words:  Hocus Pocus I can beat you at dominos.  You are here by expelled from the House of Singing Wind, fucking loser.  Have you heard the saying ‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step’?  It was coined right here in this part of the world, my little slut muffin.  Well, you have just completed the first mile of a ten thousand mile journey. Yo!”  She enters not into a forest, but truly, a tropical jungle paradise.

* * *

       Within twenty feet, the trail splits:  the crushed coral road veers to the left and a well worn path continues to the right.  He motions her to bear right.  He tells her the road is shorter, but it’s made for vehicles, it is steeper and the crushed coral cuts shoes to ribbons in no time. 

She learns one thing and she learns it quickly:  Choices have consequences.  If she makes a decision that turns out wrong or cannot answer a question, he lashes out, literally.  Soon after passing the marked trail head, he deftly un-shouldered his pack and removed a four foot long single-tail whip.   He attached it to a carbiner on his pack and when she errs, she feels the sting of the whip and his aim is good; the tops of her thighs just below the hem of her shorts are covered in welts.  The occurrences all follow the same pattern:  He asks her to do something or a question.  She fucks it up; she feels a biting sting and receives a stern lecture, usually a review.  If she asks questions, however, it is just as he told her back in the Head Master’s office; he answers calmly, thoroughly with the candor of talking to an old friend.  Of course, he is insulting and humiliating.  There is a difference though:  While his words bite, he does not treat her with a disdain that, for lack of a better word, matches the cruelty in them.  Clearly, he knows what she does not know.  She is going nuts with the dichotomy of her thoughts:  She is learning that all you have to do ask politely and respectfully and ye shall be enlightened and when she fucks up, she is not sad because she feels the whip but because she has disappointed him.  She finally decides to apply her questions toward learning more, hopefully about him and begins asking random questions.

“What should I call you, Sir?”

“Tell me all the names you’ve heard me called.”

“I’ve heard Michael and Sir, Sir”

“My mother, Maelstrom, and Father Malloy are the only ones who call me Michael.  I can’t make them stop.  You, on the other hand, I can.  It also applies, in your case, to every variation of Michael ad infintum.  That leaves Sir.  It is not a title, it’s my name.  Are we clear?”

       “Yes, Sir:  Another question?”

       “Do not ask me if you can ask me questions.  It makes you appear to be a stupid fucking cunt whose mouth should only be used for eating, drinking or giving pleasure. Do you know what the problem here is?  I think I let you rejoin the human race a little too quickly. Slut, stop.

“Get naked except for your shoes and stow your gear.”   Obediently, she takes off her pack and whips off her shirt and sports bra and steps out of her shorts.  She neatly folds her clothes and stows them in her pack.  While she has her pack open she removes a bottle of water and secures it in an outside pocket mimicking Sir.  Seconds later she stands before Sir proudly wearing nothing but her collar, back pack and Addidas tenny runners.  His only comment is “Now that this is settled, what do you want to know?”

* * *

       I am not prepared for her question and it makes me smile because it is such a simple question.  I have been expecting the hard nosed, reporter questions that will lead to my eventual downfall, trying to discover the piece of information that will point the way to me and my irrefutable sins.  Well, she did ask about me and she did ask about my sins so, I do the only thing I can do, I answer her.

“When was your first time?”

“Depends on what the fuck you are talking about.”

“Having power, Sir, when is the first time that you knew you wanted power?”

I laugh again and realize too late that the laugh is too sweet and too sensually personal.  Still, I answer.

* * *

       I am thirteen and my best friend has a sister that is one year younger and, well, you know it’s just that time in the life of teenagers; we are both at the change.  My pal’s family also owns the only television set on our block. Every Saturday morning, guess where every kid in our known universe is?  As close to that TV as they can be without blocking anyone’s view.  My favorite shows are westerns:  Rin Tin Tin, Gene Autry, The Lone Ranger and of course, Annie Oakley. 

       When we aren’t watching TV we are playing TV.  Ye ha, we’re playing cowboys and colored people: A pretty sick joke that is funnier than fuck to a 12 year old.  At any rate, Annie Oakley, as oaters go, is well, pretty much a pussy western.  Annie shoots like a motherfucker but never kills anyone. She only shoots guns out of bad guy’s hand and shit like that.  Nobody ever shoots at Annie because the black hats know she can shoot their balls off at 50 yards.  What do they do?   Why, they get the drop on Annie and tie her up until either she figures out how to get untied or gets rescued. There never were any bad girls on her show:  I guess it was just too early in history of the universe for girl-girl bondage action for developing minds and bodies to absorb.

To make a long story short, my best friend’s sister and I started playing our own version of the capture of Annie Oakley in a private and secure hideaway we made.  At first, we’d mostly recreate the scripts we saw on the boob tube; however, one fateful day, long months into our experimentation, our little game took on a new wrinkle because we strayed from the script.

On a warm, rainy, summer afternoon, Bubba’s sister was lying on her side bound in the classic hog tie facing me.  The knots were extra well done; perfect examples of knots pictured in the Boy Scout Manual.  “You shut up, Annie,” I said, “or I’ll haf’ to put a gag in your mouth!”  By this point, we had discovered, by experimentation under our own strict, laboratory conditions, that a bandana tied around the head idea is a bullshit idea for a gag.  Just like this question that started this answer, it was the simplicity of what the girl who would became my first devoted slave said to me in pure, sweet, innocence.   I will never forget the look on her face or the words on her lips when she said, “When I’m all tied up, the bad guy can do anything he wants and there is nothing I can do to stop him, nothing.” 

“Nothing,” I agreed with the same innocence.

I remember thinking about nothing.  Wheels began to turn and pawls began to click as a vision formed.  I looked at her bound helplessness and decided to test a hypothesis.  I pulled my budding manhood out of my Roebuck jeans and held it where she could clearly see it. Obediently, she opened her mouth when I told her to and she never disobeyed any command by me from that day forward. Through trial an error she became the most exquisite cocksucker I have ever known.  Available to me in every way every day, we made one decision, together, to save her cherry as a special treat for some warm, special June afternoon after church in our future. 

Our play that is no longer play, in our special world, lasts six years before I leave for the boat school.  One spring evening, a Saturday late in my Plebe year, her brother calls to tell me his sister’s funeral is Thursday.  Her senior prom had been held aboard a paddle boat that plies our river hosting dinner cruises and parties.  The boat caught fire and sank.  Of the seventy one prom attendees, three perished and sixteen were hurt.  This story will be repeated in great detail and the dead will be remembered at reunions for the next 68 years when the last survivor of that event dies.  I cried and still do, every now and again.  The night of the Plebe Ball, the night I earn the rank of upperclassmen, I lose my virginity and I cry again.  Of course, Slut actually only hears the technically true Storyteller’s Digest condensed version of this story. 

* * *

As the story ends, Slut notices the undergrowth is becoming less thick and in the distance she hears the surf and suddenly, the jungle before her opens up on a white expanse of beach and the blue green of the ocean.  The path empties out behind a shelter pavilion with a thatched roof.  On the table underneath, a tropical buffet has been laid.  She assumes, correctly, this is Topanga Beach and lunchtime.  Fixing herself a plate, she greedily picks up a ripe piece of fruit and sucks it from her fingers.  Instantly, she feels the snap of the single tail on her ass.  “Who the fuck do you think you are, you greedy little whore?  Were you taught to eat with your fingers?  When you sat down to dinner last night did you use fingers?  I thought not!  Did I give you any clue the rules have changed?”

“I thought…” That is a far as she got.

“You thought is a joke.  You didn’t ask; you did.”

Sir places her plate on the loose sand beside a chair and ties her hands behind her back.  He helps her onto her knees and helps her to balance her face in a hover above her plate.  “Dig in,” he says.  After several bites she can no longer keep her balance and is in danger of toppling.  She raises her face from the plate and asks, “Sir, may I…” to get cut off by a harsh “Sorry, that ship has sailed.”  She loses her balance, finally falling face first into her food.  He leaves her this way until shame and hunger cause her break out in sobs.  Her food has been shoved off her plate and is covered with sand and she is still very hungry.

Sir takes an elbow and pulls her roughly to her feet.  He produces his pocket knife and frees her wrists.  Grabbing her wrist, he screams at her to run and drags her toward the water.  “Run!” he screams and her legs begin pumping as they sprint toward the ocean.  Passing the loose dry sand, they hit the wet packed sand and he kicks out even harder.   As they enter the surf he easily jumps the small breakers but soon the water slows him considerably.  He pulls her close, wraps a powerful arm under her rib cage and dives them both into the surf, dragging her along in a sidearm rescue stoke.  Finally, he stops and lets her go.  She finds she is able to stand on soft white sandy bottom and with just little bounces she can ride the rolling waves that are destined to become small breakers in a few scant yards. 

Gently, using his hands, he washes the remnants of her lunch out of her hair, off her face and even from her nose.  For a moment, she forgets she has offered herself up in slavery for a story and that until things change, this man is her absolute lord and master, her Sir, and forgets his is not a lover’s touch.

Soon, he tells her to swim in and she discovered that she is further from shore than she first thought; however, the swim is easy and feels wonderful.  Arriving back at the beach and seeing the pavilion, she notices things are different: Lunch is now gone and a sleeping pallet has been carefully laid.  Almost as if on cue, the sun that has been beating down all morning becomes obscured behind a cloud and the sky opens up in a tropical shower.  Standing naked in the warm rain they wash the salt from each other’s body before retreating to the shelter to dry off. 

“Time to rest; it’s too hot and too rainy to go on.   It’ll clear up this afternoon and it’s only a three hour walk to the convent.” He lies down on the left side of the pallet and rolls onto his right side and almost magically appears to go to sleep.  She takes the side opposite him and soon he hears her breathing slow.  She rolls on to her left side and spoons up to him and this allows him to drift away peacefully at last.

  He awakens to the reward of the most beautiful sunset he has experienced on a beach in years.  Of course, the warm, moist lips encasing his engorged cock do not spoil the effect one iota. 

House of Singing Wind

By

Sir Marc Wyld

Chapter 10

Topanga to Stonecutter

       Slut’s lips wrapped around my ever expanding joint is exquisite; still, I push her head away, rise, stretch lavishly and dress.  Immediately she jumps to her feet on the opposite side of the pallet and stands there like an idiot since she has not been given any direction as to what she is to do next.  I take a very long moment enjoying the beauty of her nakedness then turn my back to her, smile, and slip into my shoes.

       “Get dressed, look presentable, act happy and be polite; we’re about to have company.  Judging from the noises your gut is making I assume you’re starving. The lesson you need to learn here is if I don’t tell you what to do and you don’t know what to do, ask. If you can’t ask, do what feels natural, and always, do the right thing.  Do you know what the right thing is?  Figure it out. So, from this point, be happy, be polite, think ‘tis better to give than receive’ and just go with the flow.  Are we clear?”

       “Yes, sir,” she answers meekly and unfolds the clothes she was wearing this morning and in no time she is presentably dressed. 

       “Do you have a hairbrush?” I ask, eyeing her up and down quickly and carefully.  “Your hair looks like it’s been shot at and missed and shit at and hit.”  She shakes her head so I remove an ivory handled brush with stiff natural bristles from my pack. “Hold on to this and make sure you clean any loose hair out of it, I hate that shit.”  She can clearly see the brush is very clean though well used.  I almost tell her how attractive she is sans the makeup she wore at our first meeting, but she hasn’t earned any real compliments yet.

       “Thank you, Sir.  I will, Sir.”  She says with a sweet smile.

       Satisfied with her appearance and demeanor, I cup my hands by my mouth and let loose a single word at the top of my lungs: “Mabuhay!”  Answering as if an echo, the word reverberates back in a decidedly feminine voice and minutes later, a small cart pulled by a water buffalo and surrounded by four figures rolls onto the beach about 200 meters from us.  Clearly, it is a family; a man, woman and two children. As they close the distance to within a few meters of the pavilion, Slut can clearly see these people are very excited and happy to see us as they are smiling and wildly waving in greeting.  Caught up in the moment, she waves in return and even lets out a loud whoop toward the happy band approaching us.  The children, a boy and a girl, suddenly break away and come running toward us shouting, “Uncle! Uncle!”  They wrap them selves around my legs and I give their hair a tussle before I fall over like a linebacker tackled for no gain.

       “Tito, Marie!” I laugh, “You are getting too big for me!  You’ve grown so much!  Rosario, Daniel!  What are you feeding these two monsters?”  Breaking away from the kids, I accept Daniel’s outstretched arm and grasp his arm firmly just below the elbow as he grasps mine in kind.  In Tagalog he says, “Good to see you, old friend.”  I reply, “It’s been too long, comrade.”  Rosario, not one for any protocol or conservative action at all hauls off and hugs my neck very tightly while whispering softly in happy sobs, “Oh, my Sir!  Welcome, welcome.”  Breaking away from me, I hold her for a moment so she can stifle a stray tear and pinch a little color back into her cheeks before she faces her family again.         

       Once I have Rosario untangled from my neck, I introduce Slut to everyone and we all engage in idle chatter as we attend to our respective businesses.   Rosario and Marie retrieve a large basket containing stoneware pots and covered dishes along with plates, cups and silverware.  I shoot a look at Slut and motion discreetly with my eyes for her to get her ass in gear and be of assistance.  Immediately, she is given the task of setting the table where our luncheon buffet had earlier lay.  She spreads a crisp, white, linen tablecloth that appears to be especially made to fit this table and lays fork, knife and spoon next to plates she discovers to be fine bone china; she lingers for a moment staring at her perfectly laid table seemingly lost in thought before she blurts out “Sir, may I use utensils?” I smile.

       “With your absolutely finest manners and as lady-like as possible,” I reply with a smile as I busy myself with the bag I filled earlier at the garage.  I extract eight bottles; a pair of orange pops for the kids, two ice cold bottles of  water for the women and a pair of painted label San Miguel beers for Daniel and me each.  The bag has kept the bottles just enough above freezing so that as soon the tops are popped off, the bottle immediately freezes with a thick rime of ice.  The beer is teeth hurting cold and not the least bit slushy.  I sit the bottles at the appropriate places: Daniel and myself at opposite ends, Rosario and Slut to our respective rights with Marie next to Slut and Tito next to his mother.   As Daniel and Tito finish packing the pallet onto the cart, we all sit almost simultaneously.  Slut is once again momentarily at a loss for what the fuck to do when Marie takes her hand.  Slut turns to me and discovers that I am offering my hand to her to complete a circle.  As the circle completes, Daniel begins to speak.  Everyone, save Slut, momentarily breaks the circle to touch their forehead with the tips of the fingers of their right hand as the prayer begins in lilting Latin:

“In nomini Patris,

Et filii,

Et Spiritu Sanctus,

Amen.”

Daniel kisses his thumb, the circle rejoins and he continues in English:

“Bless us, O Lord, as we thank thee for these, thy gifts for which we are about to receive through thy bountiful hands.  Amen.”

The circle again breaks as Daniel closes as he began, and this time, Slut remembers the praying etiquette from her childhood and makes the sign of the cross with everyone else and immediately the table breaks into a cacophony of joyous dinnertime camaraderie. 

       Rosario has made Lumpia, Pancit Canton, and steamed some Fiddler crabs.  Plates are passed, filled and returned to owners.  Slut looks at the shell of the crab on her plate and has no clue as what to do with it.  Before she can open her mouth and ask, Maria nudges her.  “Tia Slut.  I show you.” 

She watches as Maria deftly pops off the top shell and scrapes out some dark, fluffy stuff. “Those crab lungs, no good!” Slut watches as Maria separates meat and shell quickly and efficiently.  Looking around the table, Slut sees that Rosario is doing the same for Daniel as well as Tito.  Using only the example provided by Marie to guide her, Slut reaches for a crab on my plate in an effort to follow Rosario’s lead.  Trying appear as if I am tenderly grasping her wrist, I stop her by applying pressure to the edges of her wrist bones and punctuate her pain with a sharp yet barely audible “Don’t! You are neither my wife nor my mother.” I give her wrist one last sharp squeeze to the sensitive nerves along the edges of the wrist and I am amazed that she does not cry out in pain.  When I let go, she cradles her arm for a moment below the edge of the table, amazed at how quickly the pain dissipates once the pressure is alleviated and she resumes eating. 

Throughout the meal, questions come at her from every direction except mine.  I do not need to ask anything as every piece of information supplied by her is filling the holes in my knowledge since my very presence, not to mention simple courtesy, dictates she answer every question with cheerful, simple honesty.

       Once dinner is over, the women pack away leftovers and clear the table as Daniel and I walk along the darkening beach smoking a very good cigar while sipping an icy San Miguel.  Looking westward over the glassy sea, a silvery light is illuminating the horizon as the last of the day finally departs.   The full moon is rising and it is pulling the placid sea, as if mesmerized by the light and moving like a wave of devout parishioners drawn to a sermon in the dead of night.  

As we watch, the utmost top arc of the orb suddenly breaks the plane of the horizon and we can almost watch the moonbeam race across the stilled water to greet us.  We smoke our Cubans, sip our San Magoo’s and watch in silence as the full moon, enormously huge, rises completely and bathes the beach with a silver-white floodlight.  Surrounding the moon, in every direction, the enormity of the universe can easily be seen as the night sky, unpolluted by any unnatural light, is filled with a million, billion stars.  Daniel and I have barely spoken a word, our bond doesn’t require a lot of words.  The pavilion, however, is a different story.  Squeals of laughter can be heard distinctly from Rosario, Slut and Marie. 

       Once the moon is fully above the horizon, we walk back to the pavilion I can see that Tito has brought a pair of saddled white Arabians geldings down to the beach and is putting our gear in the saddle bags on the horse’s flanks.  In the light of the moon, the horses appear to glow from some inner iridescence.  Tito loves these horses and it shows. As a man without sons, for a moment and only a moment, I curse Daniel and his good fortune.  Then, my love returns as I remind myself that I love this man in the only way human beings can express true love for another:  I will die for him. 

Goodbyes are said quickly and simply with lots of hugs and kisses.  Daniel helps Slut aboard her horse as I mount mine and turn to saunter down the beach toward the rising moon.  In about three minutes, we round a copse of trees intruding onto the beach and the small, happy family following the small cart back to their home drops from sight.  

* * *

       The Trek to the convent has now been shortened considerably thanks to our mounts that trim the time by more than half.  Slut is utterly fascinated with the nocturnal landscape of sea, beach and sky intersecting in the moonlight and rides in silence.  When she finally speaks, she actually rambles on with little factoids about her life such as her horse, Sabrina, riding horses at scout camp where she learned barrel racing as well as steeplechase and camping out.  I think about asking her if there is a real question anywhere in this noise she is making but decide that would make me sound lawyerlike and listening to her prattle is actually quite pleasant and soothing. 

Long ago, Sollie and Li lost their annoying oriental accents and I broke them of the bad habit of speaking in broken English.  They now speak with impeccable diction and syntax.  However, their intonation and accents, to my ear, anyway, is not and never will be that of a native born speaker of American English since they do not speak with regional accents.  Most people, in my experience, that learn to speak English as a second language speak with a bland, almost west coast accent which and sounds pretty much accent-less.  Suddenly, without thinking, I turn and say in a matter of fact tone, “You grew up in South Texas.”  This information is not in any dossier provided by Maelstrom, it is a simple observation. 

       “Victoria, Texas,” she says simply. 

       “You went to school out east, though.  Harvard, NYU, Princeton?” 

       “I’m an Eli,” she says this with a laugh as if she is talking to a very old and dear friend.

       “Yale:  yeah, I can hear that.  I bet your first Apartment in the Big Apple was either in Yonkers or the Bronx.  Yankees fan, maybe?  Thought so.  Hmm, let’s see here, I’m on a roll, just as soon as you could afford it you rented, no, you bought a loft in the East Village or Soho,  and you say the word ‘Manhattan’ as if you are one of the chosen few to live there.  Ten bucks says your furniture looks like you overdosed at Ikea.  Your four favorite stores are Yankee Candle, Victoria’s Secret, Macy’s and Crate and Barrel, but you’re way too busy to spend any money regularly so shopping is an adventure and shop girls working on commission love you.”

       The look on her face is priceless as my profile is dead on or at least close enough for government work.  I give the reins a little flick the give the horse his head and take off down the beach at a full canter.  Moments later, I hear her snap her reins against her horse’s flank and she races past me crouched over her horse, tucked low, knees high, like a jockey.  I outweigh her by at lest a hundred pounds so I tuck in even tighter and give chase. 

* * *

It is a duel of endurance in the moonlight as he chases her down the beach on the packed sand just above the low tide water line and sometimes splashing through the gentle surf.  The horses are beginning to lather and breathe in great huffs audible above their drumming hoof beats.  Sir pulls even, threatens to ask the horse for more and calls out to her: “Enough!” and they both sit up straight in the saddle.  The horses, sensing that the race is over, begin bleed off speed, slowing their gait to a walk.  Slut follows suit when he dismounts and begins to walk the horse to cool in the ocean.  There is no mention of the fact that Sir has just capitulated and turned the race into a draw.   She walks up beside him and asks a question.  

“What does ‘Tia’ mean?”

“Auntie,” he says.  Tagalog is a strange language.  The islands have had so many occupiers over the centuries that their language is now a mélange.  There are Chinese, Spanish, Korean, Japanese as well as English words and even some indigenous words.  As in Africa and South America, there are still a few tribes of people scattered throughout these islands whose knowledge of the outside world is tempered by the view the ships that pass and the airplanes that fly overhead and more often than not, think of these as omens from the gods.  “You’ve been given a very high and special honor; Maria has made you part of her family and a part of her history.  Even though you will never see her again, the story of the visit of Tia Slut will be told, probably for generations, told as a happy event and good memory in the life of Maria.”

The beach begins to widen considerably and in the moonlight she can clearly see a high peak inland, unmistakably a worn down volcano but before she can ask about the mountain, her ears detect a sound that at first sounds like a soft buzz and soon settles into a steady constant drone that sounds almost like the rhythmic cadence of a drum beaten very rapidly.

Ahead at what appears to be a bend in the beach, the endless beach gives away to a large natural bay.  Slut can make out a palatial building at the center of the bay.  The building looks almost as if it is an integral part of the basalt cliffs that surround the massive structure. The combination of softly lit windows in the bright moonlight gives her the impression of a medieval palace simultaneously enormous and foreboding.   She can only imagine this building in the full sun of a tropical day.

* * *

I learned a very long time ago that New Yorkers are a breed apart from all other Earthlings and only interact with aliens, meaning the rest of us, when their choices are limited.  It is my belief that New Yorkers are simultaneously the most brilliant people in the world and the most gullible.  They are more proud of their city than any other I have ever visited and the most loyal people in the world to each other.  New Yorker’s are made, not born.  Slut is staring at the convent almost as if she is in some sort of Zen trance and wheels are turning and I actually wonder for a moment what she is thinking. Or perhaps it is best I don’t.  All I know is that it is hard to impress a New Yorker and the way she is looking at the convent in the moonlight goes beyond impressed and straight to awed.

For me, a tedious night walk on the beach has turned out to be euphoric adventure in the moonlight and I am exhilarated.  Quietly, I retrieve our gear carefully stowed in the saddlebags by Tito and take the reins from her hand.  As the leather thong slips through her fingers, she turns to watch me.  I remove the halters and gently take the bits from between the horses’ teeth and give each horse a good scratch on the flat of their face between their eyes.  As if possessing the patience of Methuselah, the horses stand quietly and let me do my work.  After stowing away the harnesses in the saddle bags, I rub their necks while standing between these magnificent beasts and they both nicker softly.  I hand Slut her bag and shoulder mine on one shoulder.  I raise my chin once in the horses’ direction and quietly say, “Tito!”  As if on cue, the horses nod twice at me before turning to canter back down the beach from where we came, towards home.  I turn toward Slut and say, “There is nothing more wonderful in this world than a well trained, useful animal.”

* * *

The hoof beats of the retreating horses fade behind us as we round the bend of the lip of the bay toward the convent.  The noise has become more pronounced.   I point out a wide sandy lane disappearing back into jungle between two large palm trees and motion for slut to follow it.  After a few scant yards, the path turns sharply to the left and soft solar lights illuminate the path leading to a peaked double wooden door situated firmly in a wall of neatly laid, quarried basalt.  There is a highly polished stone above the door with one word carved into it:

STONECUTTER

We mount the three shallow steps of the stoop as a light above the carving comes to life.  “Motion sensors,” I tell her.  “No one is here.”  I swing the doors open wide for her to enter and touch a bank of switches near the door and a furnished interior appears out of the darkness in soft, subdued, light.

The interior is one large living space and the shape of the single room is familiar yet she cannot grasp why.  The room is furnished with stylish modern furniture that delineates the use of each area by its placement.  She is standing in an oddly shaped foyer, three joined semicircles with an opening to a great room.  Walking through the archway out into the main room it suddenly comes to her:  This building is shaped like a Byzantine chapel in miniature: It is built in the shape of a cross!  The nave is the main living room and at the junction of the arms under a domed roof is gigantic bed.  At the ends of every room she sees, the clover serifs of the foyer are repeated.  The head of the cross is an open kitchen and dining area.  She can see that the apse of the right arm is a well appointed, spacious spa bath that even includes a bidet.  The apse of the left arm however is dark: the archway leading into there is covered with heavy black velvet drapes. Standing near the bed, she looks skyward for a moment she imagines that she is looking at a painted ceiling before she realizes that she is looking deeply into the night sky through a transparent dome.  The bed is perched on stone platform where an altar should stand three steps above the main floor.  She utters one word: “Sacrilegious!”  Deciding that she has spent too much time marveling over Stonecutter’s architecture, I jar her back to reality.

“This has never been a church; it was built by the monks and nuns who built the convent as practice to learn how to quarry stone and prefect masonry techniques using modern equipment.  This building served as a dormitory for over 300 workers and it took one hundred and fifty-four days to complete.  The convent you’ve glimpsed outside took another thousand ninety-five days to complete.  Stonecutter is a three-fifths scale replica of a chapel that once stood in Poland called St. Stefan the Stonecutter and was one of the earliest example of buttress architecture of the13th century. Enough history, you smell like a horse that has been rolling in shit and so do I.  Every thing you will need is in there.  Get your filthy ass clean and be ready, I’ll be in for my bath in 45 minutes.  Are we clear?”  Without acknowledging her nod, I turn and leave Stonecutter.

* * *

She watches his receding form as he walks away and closes the door behind him.  Slut realizes this is the first time she has been totally alone since her arrival at Singing Wind and she wants to use this time well.  Rushing into the bath, she discovers an armoire filled with every bath product imaginable along with large fluffy towels and neatly folded silk robes.  She strips out of her clothing, grabs bath gel, shampoo and conditioner and heads directly into the stall to takes a no nonsense shower, taking care to ensure her pussy and ass are extra clean.

At the vanity she notices an anomaly concerning the décor:  There are three sink bowls rather than the customary one or two.  In the vanity drawers she discovers that they are also well stocked with hairdryers, combs, brushes, cosmetics, condoms, dental hygiene products and other sundry personal care items.  It strikes her that she has arrived at the world’s most luxurious visitor suite.  With 35 minutes to spare Slut is out of the bath and eager to explore Stonecutter.

Behind a counter that serves as both a buffet and a prep counter in the kitchen she finds that it is well equipped and fully stocked including a large selection of racked red wines and white wines chilling in a cooler.  Opening the cold safe door, she quickly gathers that the quantity of Dom Perignon 1992 alone represents several years of her gross salary as a reporter.  Finishing her reconnoiter of the kitchen and pantry, she makes her way slowly around the interior looking closely at the various objet d’art tastefully spread throughout the room as well as the myriad of paintings and prints on the walls.  She now wishes her art appreciation courses had meant more to her than hours to meet a curriculum; some of these items are familiar and all are exquisite.

She finally works her way around to stand before the heavily curtained archway leading into the apse that lies beyond.  The first thing she notices is a compass rose about a foot in diameter engraved into the stone floor.  Just like on many maps she’s seen in her life, the compass rose has an arrow superimposed over the letter N pointing directly into the room beyond the curtained, teak trimmed arch. A single illuminated light switch is sit into the molding, glowing to indicating its presence.  Flipping the switch, she sees bright light leak from beneath the hem of the curtain.  Boldly, she parts the curtain and steps through and looks about the room.  Uncomprehending what she is seeing, she is carefully scanning the room when the realization of what she is seeing suddenly hits her and she involuntarily takes a step backward: She is standing in a torture chamber worthy of a Grand Inquisitor.

Nearly touching the curtain with her naked back, she is unaware of a hand shooting through the curtain that draws her tightly against her attacker.  She attempts to scream but the sudden obstruction to her windpipe makes any noise utterly impossible.  She cannot scream, she cannot breathe and she cannot see her captor and her feet no longer touch the floor.  The only things she can see are the various implements of pain, torture and sexual depravity hanging from the ceiling or decorating the walls.  The only feeling she is aware of is the strangling arm around her neck.  Slut’s conscience brain is rapidly filling with panic and fears as a thousand images of pain and torment fill her mind and she begins to wonder what might lie between this moment and the moment of her death.   She realizes she is about to pass out and she embraces the fact that instead she might be dying.  Suddenly, the pressure eases and her toes once again touch the floor and she hears a familiar voice whisper into her ear seemingly from very far away:

“I see you’ve found the North Room.”