The Ecstasy Connection

by Paul Kenyon

  "Very well. I'll try to be more amusing in future. Lunch tomorrow?"

  "As long as it isn't in this slum."

  "Quite the opposite. I'll take you to the Hong Kong Club for lunch. Very opulent. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

  "Who?"

  "One of our most substantial citizens." He laughed. "In every sense of the word. I think… you'll be very interested."

  "What's his name?"

  He stared at her for a long moment. "Petronius Sim."

  * * *

  The long ride back in the rickshaw seemed to take forever. The evening with Pickering had stimulated Penelope's appetite for sex. Whatever the double game the two of them were playing, he was a fascinating male. There had been constant electricity between them, and there had been that moment in the sampan when she'd had to exercise all her self-control. She could still feel his cricket-hardened hands on her breasts. Her own hand still burned from its contact with the long pulsing cylinder she'd felt through his trousers, as hard and purposeful as the butt of a revolver.

  So Pickering knew Petronius Sim, did he? And he wanted her to meet him. Or vice versa.

  She almost laughed with pleasure and anticipation. The taste of danger, of intrigue, would add spice to their lovemaking. She was sure that Pickering felt it as keenly as she did.

  The rickshaw jounced over the cobblestones, sending its rhythmic vibration through her flesh. The hardened nipples of her breasts were raw with the tormenting friction of the silk cheongsam. Pickering was bouncing along somewhere behind her in another rickshaw. She could almost feel his eyes pressing into her back. The loping coolie ahead was a blue blur in the steamy night. There was a growing urgency between her legs. She gritted her teeth and waited for the damn ride to end. At last the coolie was clopping into the Peninsula's circular drive, past the programmed fountains and the dark green Rolls Royce limousines. Pickering's rickshaw pulled up behind her, and he had leaped to the ground, paid both coolies, and helped her down within a half minute. He grasped her roughly by the arm and propelled her toward the glass doors.

  The lobby was bustling even at this hour. The piano, cello, and violin had been replaced by a piano and bass playing gentle, nocturnal jazz, Businessmen and their dates stood around, drinks in their hands.

  "Shall we stop for a nightcap?" Penelope teased him. "The bloody hell we will!" His normally military bearing had been replaced by a noticeable hunch to conceal an erection. He pushed her along in front of him, using her hip to partially conceal the tent at the fork of his trousers. Penelope stopped mischievously, and he bumped into her before he could stop. She felt the hard blunt maleness of him dig into her buttock.

  "Damn you, Penny!" he said between his teeth.

  She laughed. It was delicious that he didn't suspect the dampness between her own thighs. She walked ahead of him, her hips deliberately swaying, the cheongsam tight against her hips and bottom.

  The lights were on in her suite. The maid supplied by the hotel was hurrying toward them to curtsy, a smile on her lips. "Get the hell out of here," Penelope whispered before Pickering caught up. The maid nodded blandly, and almost collided with Pickering at the door.

  His hands were on her as soon as the door closed, his British reserve completely evaporated. "Lord, woman, you're desirable!" he said, holding her by the buttocks to press her pelvis against his. She kissed him, her fingers entwined in his hair, her other hand roving over his body.

  The transistor thing, whatever it was, was in the side pocket of his tunic.

  "You can last till we get to the bedroom, can't you, darling?" she said. She took him by the hand and led him toward the door. He reached for her again.

  "Take off your things, darling," she said. "I'll only be a minute."

  She waited long enough to see him toss his tunic over a chair by the wall, then went into the adjoining bathroom.

  The maid had been busy. There was a douche bag neatly laid out on the marble counter next to the sink, and a tube of a local brand of contraceptive jelly called Pao Hsien. Penelope went to the medicine cabinet and took out the little enameled pillbox that Sumo had made for her.

  She mentally measured the probable position of Pickering's tunic on the other side of the wall, then aimed the pillbox. She slid the lid open, tuning the two-plate magnetron to the correct frequency by positioning the arrowtip of one of the Fragonard cupids until it pointed at a heart engraved on the side of the box.

  The little box grew warm in her hands. She thought she could feel a slight tingle. She held it near the wall for at least a minute, then returned it to the medicine cabinet.

  The thing in Pickering's pocket would be burned out now, its circuits overloaded by induced current. There'd be no tape of their lovemaking — or of any conversation between them. Pickering would be in for a surprise in the morning.

  She pulled the cheongsam over her head and kicked off her shoes. She could see herself in the big bathroom mirror, dressed only in the green bikini bottom that matched the cheongsam and her own emerald eyes. The pants were damp. She stepped out of them. The mirror showed an incredibly erotic vision — a long-limbed ivory goddess with glossy black hair tumbled over naked shoulders. The huge green eyes and the vivid red mouth burned in the glass. The perfectly formed breasts jutted aggressively, their pink noses standing out like bullets. There was the sharp inverted V of the ribcage and the flat hard belly beneath it, punctuated by the deep pucker of the navel. There was the dark bushy triangle of the pubes and the flared hips and the long white thighs, the bunched muscles of the calves. The Baroness thrust one leg out in a tomboy pose, raised her hands to her hair in a gesture that lifted her breasts. This was the way the man in the next room would see her in a moment.

  He was lying in the center of the bed, propped up by pillows, his lean hard body the color of saddle leather. For a moment she had the illusion that he was wearing shorts, but it was only the white skin where the tan stopped. The thing projecting out of the white area was no illusion; it was as long and straight as a policeman's baton, dark and purplish, twitching with the pulse of his blood.

  His eyes widened when he saw her. "Good show!" he said admiringly. The military mustache gave him a devilish expression.

  She took her time crossing the room, letting him get a good look at her.

  "Don't get up, darling," she whispered. She clambered onto the bed and straddled him. His sex stuck up in front of her like a saddle pommel, pressing against her belly.

  "You've got a cock," he laughed. "A great bloody upside-down cock!"

  "It is mine, isn't it darling? For the time being, anyway."

  "For the time being."

  She pressed harder against it. Its base was partially swallowed by her own hungry cleft. He groaned. She slid herself back and forth along its burning length a few times, enjoying the friction against her damp and viscous groove. She took it in her hand like a gearshift and waggled it against the matted pubic hair.

  "Oh, God, I'm going to come!" he croaked.

  "No you're not," she said. She dug her thumb sharply into the hollow between his penis and scrotum. She could feel the little quiver as he willed himself to tighten up.

  "Thanks, old girl," he said. "That was a near one."

  His hands slid up her ribs until they came to the underside of her breasts. He weighed them in his hands, holding them out from her body.

  "What a pair of ruddy beauties!" he said in an admiring tone. He took one of the distended nipples between his fingers like a cigar and pulled at it gently. Penelope felt herself go weak for a moment. She pressed herself harder against h's fevered shaft. His head came up and his mouth was on the nipple his fingers were stretching toward him. The mustache tickled. Penelope held the back of his head and rubbed her breast against his face.

  He moved his head in sensuous circles, his face between her breasts. His lips were on her breastbone, and there was the wet thrust of his tongue coming out to taste her. He pressed both breasts to his cheeks and Pene
lope could feel the prickliness of his whiskers. She pushed him backward, her breasts hanging down around his ears and his cock digging into her os pubis. He gave another groan, muffled by the yielding mammary flesh, and Penelope echoed him with a groan of her own. Their entire bodies were rubbing against one another, like two cats.

  "It's like getting fucked all over," she said aloud.

  His lips unfastened for a moment. "It's the only way to do it, dear girl," he said.

  They moved the entire surface of their bodies in a sexual rhythm, leg against leg, belly against belly, chest against chest. It seemed to Penelope that she was aware of every fuzzy body hair. Her yearnings became more specific.

  Pickering was getting impatient too. He found a hand between their bodies. Penelope felt his knuckles scraping against her belly as he found his lost post and tried to maneuver it into her. The position was wrong. Penelope wiggled forward a bit. He unwrapped a forefinger from around his shaft and probed her labia. They were slick with the warm syrup of her passion, and his finger went inside to the first joint. Keeping the finger in place to guide himself, he eased the distal end of his organ into the groove. Penelope inched backward until all of it was inside her. She rested atop his body for a moment while they smiled into one another's faces.

  "May a chap proceed?" he said.

  For answer, she gripped his waist between her knees and began to post. He caught the timing from her and began to move in a slow elliptical arc that utilized the entire surface of her vagina. She dug her fingers into his arms and slid in and out. She could feel a fine sheen of perspiration growing on his body. He groaned with effort. She pulled him over and, still locked, they lay on their sides and continued their urgent thrusts. Each had hands on the other's buttocks to press the thrusts home more firmly, and now Pickering pushed a hand between her legs to massage her fork while he made love. Penelope explored with one hand until she found his scrotum. It was a spongy weight in her hand, and she used a thumb to stroke it while her pelvis worked. She could feel his breathing rate go up another notch when she did it.

  Now they were moving in violent surges, the fronts of their bodies bumping with the violence of it. Penelope had the sensation of a shaft of fire penetrating her core and lapping at the surfaces of her inner space. Pickering seemed to fill her as if he'd been poured into a mold. She tossed her head back and forth in a blind sweet torment, hearing in the distance the great gasps she knew must be coming from her own lips. They had been doing this forever, had become a single blurred creature that moved in a tidal rhythm. It was all one, the post within her and the clever fingers between her legs and her own hand with the heavy yielding mass in it. The mass was crawling, contracting, and she knew that Pickering was near his limits. She redoubled her efforts, urging herself toward dissolution. There were spasmodic flutterings down there in the burning center of her being, rubbing her nerve endings raw with anticipation, and she felt herself begin to go. She held on as long as she could, while Pickering's poker-stiff member scrubbed away vigorously inside her, and then it was too much to bear and she came apart in a giant shuddering convulsion that went on and on and on…

  Little by little the fever subsided and her awareness returned. She saw Pickering's face, blurred an inch from hers, red and shiny with effort. His testicles were still in her hand, loose now. He was continuing to move in and out. though she knew he must have come at the moment she had. He was a gentleman.

  She gave him an affectionate pat and gently disengaged herself. He reclined on one elbow and caught his breath.

  "It was marvelous for me," he said. "How was it for you?"

  She stretched lazily. Her body had a warm tingle all over. "The queen would have been proud of you," she said. He looked shocked. She laughed and kissed him, nibbling at his Up. "Major Pickering, you have done your duty."

  He looked pleased, within the limits of his normal reserve. "England made me," he said.

  "Me too," she said.

  He gave a great roar of laughter and slapped her on the rump. "I'd forgotten what a talent you Yanks have for irreverence. We don't joke about Her Majesty. And we don't joke about sex."

  Penelope looked critically at his penis. It was already showing signs of life, after only a few minutes. She took it in her hand to encourage him.

  "I know that, darling," she said. "We've hours and hours left of the night. I'll expect you to be deadly serious."

  11

  "Tell me about Petronius Sim," the Baroness said.

  They were sitting at a peculiar kidney-shaped table in a corner of the Hong Kong Club dining room, in front of a tall, brocade-framed window that looked out on a magnificent green lawn. A game of cricket was in progress and an occasional cheer or the crack of a ball against a stick was sent up into the dining room.

  Pickering toyed with the olive in his martini. "Well, this table is a pretty good place to begin. It's his private table at the Club — custom-built for him. He's too huge to sit at an ordinary table. His paunch would keep him a yard away from the food. His chair fits into the indentation here."

  "I mean who is he?"

  "The wealthiest man in Hong Kong, for one thing. With Macao thrown in for good measure. Came to the Far East thirty years ago with a fortune to start with. No very good explanation of where the money came from. Increased his net worth by a series of business ventures and investments. Owns a number of export businesses."

  "And how do we come to be having lunch with him?"

  "Quite simple. He likes novelty, beauty, esthetic sensation. Quite a fanatic on the subject, as a matter of fact. When I rang him up and told him I'd be lunching here with the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini, he said he'd be delighted to meet us here."

  "You know him well, then?"

  Pickering looked evasive. "In a casual way. He's one of the most important citizens of Hong Kong. Source of pounds sterling to the Colony's economy, and all that. Naturally Sir David likes to keep a benevolent eye on him. Part of my job."

  "Some day you must explain your job to me, Nigel."

  He laughed uncomfortably. "Very boring, actually. Lunches with international beauties always excepted, of course."

  She raised an eyebrow. "Lunch? I'd have thought we were a little beyond that stage, Nigel darling."

  "Damn it, Penny! You're the most exciting woman I've ever met. I can't believe my good fortune."

  She pressed his hand affectionately across the table. It had been a fine night with him, impassioned and abandoned. Pickering had been an inventive lover. He had also been tireless. He'd left her finally at dawn, with a promise to collect her for lunch at noon. She'd been kind to his reputation at the Club; instead of wearing another provocative cheongsam, she'd dressed more appropriately in a rather severe linen frock. The Bernadelli VB was tucked away in a soft chamois holster strapped to the inside of her thigh. A large straw bag, bought locally, contained the Fragonard pillbox with its electronic capsules.

  It also contained the little silver music box that Wharton had found among the possessions of Cynthia Rawlings' murdered brother. She thought it might be enlightening to see Mr. Sim's reaction to the engraved initials on the lid.

  "There he is now," said Pickering.

  Penelope turned. There was an amazing spectacle at the entrance. Several of the proper British members dining in the room had turned their heads discreetly for a look. There was a noticeable drop in the level of conversation.

  An enormously fat man was being wheeled into the room in a wicker bath chair. The chair was outsize: the width of a love seat. It needed to be, to hold its occupant. He was a whale, a blimp, a colossus. The whale was clad in a billowing white suit of raw silk, with a natty red-and-white polka dot tie as wide across as a bib. A Panama hat was in the mountainous lap, clutched by fingers like pink bladders. The feet resting on the wicker platform were incongruously small, neatly encased in white suede shoes.

  The fat man caught sight of them and waved a hand like a pink balloon. His attendant started to
wheel him toward their table.

  Penelope recognized the attendant. He was older than his picture in the pirated FBI file, but the dented head and the lantern jaw were unmistakable. It was Happy Malloy, the ex-mobster. His slab of a body was draped in a cheap blue American-style suit that looked out of place in the posh dining room.

  The bath chair rolled to a stop in front of the table. "Pickering, my dear chap," the fat man said, "how good of you to call me." He turned a bulging forehead toward Penelope. "And this must be the Baroness. Charming, charming! Forgive me, my dear, if I don't get up. It's a major effort for me."

  Happy pushed the chair into the indentation of the table. Mr. Sim sat, surrounded by the white tablecloth, like a mountain peak rising out of a snowfield.

  "I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Sim," Penelope said. "Major Pickering has promised I'd find you fascinating."

  "Indeed, indeed! The major made me the same, promise about you. And I must say he hasn't exaggerated. You're the loveliest visitor to come to Hong Kong this year. I make a point of noticing such things. After all the unpleasant things one is forced to look at in this life, it's a pleasure to study a beautiful face."

  "Mr. Sim has a theory about pleasure," Pickering said.

  "Indeed I do. I like to receive it. And I like to give it." He twisted his globe of a head around and said, "I shan't need you for a while, Happy. You may have a drink and a bite downstairs. Tell them to put it on my bill. And come back for me in an hour and a half."

  "Yessir, Mr. Sim," the blocky man said. He lumbered off, almost colliding with the wine steward.

  "Your theory about pleasure," Penelope prompted.

  "Ah, yes. Pleasure is the opposite of pain. And like pain, it was given to us for a purpose. That purpose is survival. Pain warns the infant to snatch its hand out of the pretty fire, the coronary patient to limit his activity. Without it, our ancestors would have torn themselves to shreds on thorns, eaten the poison berries, frozen to death in the glaciers. But like all functional mechanisms, pain rarely in this life reaches the full potential of the human organism to experience it. That particular exploration is left for the professional torturers and the artists of pain, like the Marquis de Sade."