by Jade Lee
He lifted up and she saw his grin flash above her.
“Touch yourself,” he commanded, once again pressing her hand to her own breast. “Pinch. And pull.”
She did as he instructed, seeing his eyes widen and his nostrils flare. His face hovered just above her hand.
“I love seeing you clearly,” he murmured. Then he glanced back to her face. “I will reward you if you say something very inventive.”
She stilled in surprise. “What?”
He didn’t clarify, but she understood nevertheless. And as extra incentive, he flicked her nipple with his tongue—a quick nip to make her gasp and arch her back, begging for more. Then he dropped a kiss on her hand, the one that still cupped her left breast. “Don’t stop that either,” he said. “I want to see what you do to yourself.”
She had no idea what to say, how to respond to him. So she did as he bade her, massaged her own breast, squeezing the nipple, even offering the tip to him. He watched with an avid expression, his breath whispering so lightly across her other breast, his lips barely touching her skin.
“Say something,” he ordered.
She let her head drop back, her mind spinning. “I want to stay here,” she whispered.
She felt his expression shift, felt the way his eyebrows lifted as he turned more fully to her breast. “Very good,” he murmured. And as a reward, he flicked his tongue over her nipple again. She gasped and arched, stunned by how her entire body reacted to him.
“For years now, I have wanted to leave China,” she said. “I think that is why I take opium. It is a way of leaving, you know.”
He nodded, and she felt the coarse brush of his chin stubble on the edge of her breast. Then he curled his tongue around her nipple and pulled it into his mouth. She waited for him to begin sucking, but he did not.
“Right now, I don’t want to leave. I want you to keep… to touch… “ She swallowed. “Please suck on my breasts.”
He did. It was a rhythmic pull that had her arching against him. And when her other hand stilled, he tapped it with his fingers, reminding her. Her stomach quivered in response, and her womb tightened. As she began to time her pinches with his pulls, she felt a wetness in her core. She wanted to spread her legs wide open, but her skirt pulled awkwardly at her hip.
“I want my skirt off. It is too tight.”
He left her breast to lick tiny strokes down her belly. “Have you ever been fully naked before a man?”
She shook her head, then started to giggle. “I guess I’m a kind of virgin after all.” He stopped kissing her then, his body frozen as he considered her words.
She felt her face heat, appalled by her brazen words. She lifted her hands, intending to push him away; she’d had no wish to expose her wretchedness. But he stopped her by pressing a long, almost clumsy kiss into her belly. And when he lifted up, he smiled at her. “That was the best thing you have said to me tonight. And for that, you will be richly rewarded.”
So saying, he easily untied the twisted fabric of her skirt, lifting it up and away. He moved so quickly that before she could do more than take a breath, she was completely naked. Her belly quivered from the cool brush of air, which felt wonderful on her overheated skin.
“You are beautiful,” he breathed. “Like ivory kissed by candlelight.”
She heard the awe in his voice and could hardly believe he meant it. But, one look at his face and she knew it was true. Her vision was washed by tears and she blinked, confused by her reaction. Was this shame? Or gratitude?
“I don’t know what I should feel,” she whispered. “What do I feel?”
Panic echoed through her, building within her chest. And yet, she had no wish to be covered, no interest in ending what they did. She wanted to run, to hide from him, and yet she also wanted to remain right here, fully exposed.
“Do not analyze the animal inside you. We are all human, and as such have human needs. It is possible to satisfy both, you know, to be both human and… “ He gestured to his head. “And of the mind.”
She frowned. “I do not understand anything of what you just said.”
His lips twisted into a wry smile. “I am a scholar. We are taught to think, think, think. Ignore the body, because the mind must be honed to perfection.” He shrugged, pushing himself off the bed to stand beside her. “But many scholars in China destroy themselves. They take opium to stop thinking. Or they become greedy with drink or food or riches.” He pulled off his undertunic with quick motions. “They are often bitter or angry.”
The candlelight touched the golden muscles of his chest. How large he was. All Manchu clothing was designed to broaden the shoulders, to give the appearance of breadth in the chest, but now she saw that he needed no such padding. He had wide shoulders and a muscular torso. She stared, fascinated by the play of shadows across it.
“I believe that is because they ignore the body,” he continued. “Purifying teas. Celibate life. Bah! Neglecting the body’s needs—the animal needs—that is the path of a fool. We are human. Certain things must be attended.”
He shucked off his pants with equally swift movements. She raised up on an elbow to watch closer. She was dimly aware of his narrow hips, flexing buttocks, and the corded power in his thighs and legs. But what she saw most was his thick, dark organ as it thrust upward toward her. The hair at its base appeared silky black, like the finest of brushes with his organ as the handle. It was a ridiculous thought, and she smiled at her silliness.
“Why do you smile?” he asked. He looked down at himself.
Her gaze jumped for a moment to his face before falling again to his sex. “I thought of a scholar’s brush,” she confessed.
“Ahhh,” he responded. “You are not afraid anymore.”
She blinked, and this time her gaze lingered on his face. “No, I’m not, but… “ Shame was ever present. And yet, with him, she felt…
“Speak your thoughts aloud! I want to know!”
She bit her lip. “I am ashamed. And yet, I am not.” She extended her hand toward him but stopped before she had even gone half the distance. “I want to touch you, and yet I should not.” She looked down at the bed, unable to hold his gaze. “I want you to suck on my breasts again, and yet I should not.” She looked to him. “Tell me what I should feel.”
“No.” He gently pushed her backward until she lay on her back. “You tell me.”
He took her nipple into his mouth again. She arched upward, wanting it, wanting him. He began that steady suction, the pulse and pull of mouth and breast drawn together. The rhythm fogged her mind and lifted her body. Her legs spread of their own accord.
“Tell me more,” he said as he switched to the other breast.
“I feel hot. Everything is hot.”
His hand stroked over her belly and she shifted her hips, restless. Then he slipped his hand between her thighs. His finger was large, but she barely felt it, so slick were her folds. She tightened her buttocks, thrusting upward along with the pulse of his mouth. She arched.
“Tell me something more,” he urged.
She cried out, wanting his mouth back on her breast.
“Tell me!”
“Touch me!” she gasped. This part, she knew. This part she had done to herself. She could feel the tightening in her belly. Soon. She was ready. If only he would press his finger into her. If only he would push against that place.
“No!” he snapped, then he lifted up and abruptly spread her thighs. She was wide open, with him standing between her legs. He wrapped his hands around her hips and abruptly dragged her down so that her knees were bent in the air, and her most intimate place perched at the edge of the bed.
“Watch and tell me what you see,” he ordered.
Then he stepped forward. His organ was large, pushing toward her, its tip reflecting the tiniest bit of light where a drop of liquid trembled.
“It is darker than I remember,” she said. “Redder, but still with a hint of gold.”
“Do you
like how it looks? Are you afraid of it?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I… No.” She knew what would happen next, or thought she did. And yet, this was all so new.
He put the tip of himself against her folds. She immediately arched, pushing against it, and was startled when he moaned. Her eyes leaped to his face. “Tell me what you feel,” she demanded.
“My thighs are bunching, but I am holding back. My buttocks push me forward because you are wet and hot. You embrace me, and your acceptance makes me tremble with need.” He shifted his hips and slid his organ across her folds from just above her opening to higher—higher! Her legs quivered with need.
“Again!” she cried. “Please. Again!”
He did, and her back arched with sensation, but it wasn’t enough. She wrapped her legs around his back, trying to control his movements, but he grabbed hold of her hips and held her—and himself—completely still. She whimpered. His sex rested at her opening, neither thrusting in or sliding up.
“Please, Zhi-Gang. Do something.”
He did. He slowly slid through her folds again. He thrust once—twice—against her favorite spot. Then he stopped. She tightened her bottom, using the muscles to lift her higher against him, but his hands pushed her back down into the mattress.
“Do you feel how you surround me even here? I want more, too. But the heat, the friction, the exquisite slide—that is best felt at the tip.”
So he guided himself down again, then thrust upward. Not inside her, but across, over in the most wondrous way. They moaned as one.
“Watch!” he ordered, and her eyes snapped open. She hadn’t even realized she’d closed them. She looked down. She was trembling as she watched, her belly quivering while his sex slid back and lower. She felt him at her opening and stared in wonder. To see such a thing made it so… conscious. So deliberate. It made her decide here and now that she wanted it. She wanted him to put himself inside her.
“Please do it,” she said. “Go inside me.”
He pushed a little way in. She almost didn’t feel it, but then she did: An expansion. A widening. He opened her as never before.
“What do you see?” he demanded.
“Me,” she answered. “My hair. My body. And you, connecting us together. Like a bridge, you link us.”
He slid the tiniest bit deeper. “I feel you tight, gripping me. I want to feel more.”
She tightened her inner muscles, trying to draw him deeper. It didn’t work; he remained steadfast in his position, but his breath caught and she smiled.
“You are so large,” she said. “I like seeing you there. Come closer.”
He pushed further inside. She felt herself stretch, her most sensitive place tugging down, stretching open. She didn’t know what exactly he did, but she knew how she felt: perfect. Everything felt perfect.
She tightened her thighs, drawing her lower on the mattress, closer to him. He slid further in. Soon they would meet groin to groin. “I want to see us without the bridge. I want to see you completely inside me.”
He pushed the last few inches in. They hit with the tiniest of bumps, but the pulse of sensation burst through her body and mind.
“Do you like this?” he asked. Their hair intermingled, and she realized that, this close, she could not tell his from hers. She could see his hips, just beneath her spread thighs, and the darker skin that nearly touched hers.
She shifted slightly, bringing her hand forward to stroke there. It drifted over his belly, then down between his hips, down to where their hair began. She had no idea of her purpose, just the need to touch his heat, to feel the textures, to know in the most basic of ways that this was happening.
“Touch yourself,” he said. “Like you did on the boat.”
She looked up into his eyes and saw raw need and a rigid discipline. But it was the need—his hunger—that slipped into her mind and made her smile. He wanted her. And she liked that.
“Pull back halfway,” she instructed.
He did, moving slowly enough that she arched in response, instinctively wanting him deep. But then he stopped, and she relaxed enough to ease her lower back down. To open up enough space between them for her to touch.
She stroked downward across his belly, through his hair, to the dark organ between them. It was slick and had thick veins that created an uneven texture. And when she touched him, he sucked in his breath.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered again. “Let me see you do it.”
She pressed her middle finger down, sliding it along his length until she met her own folds. Then she slowly moved her finger upward, between her spread lips, to her own hard pearl. She pressed deep into herself, sensation roaring through her mind. He abruptly released her hips, leaning forward to touch her breasts. He lifted them as if in reverence, pulling them upward before pinching and rolling her nipples. She cried out as sensation leaped between her breasts and womb and pearl.
“What do you feel?” he demanded.
“Everything!” she gasped. Then she lifted her gaze to him, feeling a boldness grow the more their eyes connected. “Everything,” she repeated. “But I want more.” And so saying, she tightened her legs. Her grip was fierce and she drove him deep into her. Her hand was compressed between them, pushing hard into her pearl. She cried out, the contractions beginning. Familiar contractions, a familiar response. And yet it was so much more than she’d ever experienced.
He was inside her. He was with her. He was part of her.
His hands abruptly dropped away from her breasts to grab her hips. In one swift motion, he lifted her up, dislodging her hand as she fell backward. Then he drew back and slammed in again. She felt him ram against her pearl, driving deep into her again and again.
Her contractions grew stronger, deeper. She knew without thought that his own climax matched hers, that he pumped with her. That they compressed and expanded as one.
She cried out in her fulfillment and heard him shout. Yet still it went on and on and on.
At last it stopped. Her mind returned to her body and her heart slowed enough that she could breathe. She opened her eyes to see him standing absolutely still between her legs. His eyes were closed in ecstasy, and his chest lifted in rapid breaths that perfectly matched her own.
In time, he also came back to himself. He looked down at her and smiled, and she found it easy to smile back. A thought hovered at the edge of her awareness. An emotion or an idea. She could not stop it. She could not—
He withdrew from her in a rush, and she gasped at the sudden loss. Then, before she could draw her legs together, he dropped to his knees. She looked down her body, seeing his face between her thighs.
He grinned at her, the intention both boyish and almost sweet. “Did you think it was over?” he asked. “No, sweet Anna, there is much, much more.”
She had no understanding of his meaning until he did it. He put his mouth to her inner folds and began to kiss her. She felt his tongue stroke everything, everywhere. It even thrust deep inside her before moving upward to surround her pearl. He sucked there as he had sucked on her nipples, and the sensations lifted her off the bed to push her deeper—harder—more fully against his mouth.
He took every part of her. He pulled away all her restraints, all her thoughts, everything that kept her grounded in reality. And as he continued to stoke her contractions into full-body undulations, her mind soared, it flew… and then it came right back—to him. To now.
To them.
From Anna Marie Thompson’s journal:
March 3, 1882
I’m twelve! I’m twelve! I’m twelve years old today! Father came and took me out to dinner just like a real woman. We ate in the best restaurant in Shanghai and I wore my new dress and my pearl oh a string. He said I was the most beautiful girl in the place.
And afterwards, he took me to his home. I’d never been there before. It was HUGE! Plenty of room for me!! But it smelled like the prostitute women, so I know Mother Francis is right about
that. He’s not a church-going, God-fearing man. But you know what? I don’t care! Hear me, God? I DON’T CARE;.’! He is my father and I love him. He comes to visit me when no one else does. He gives gifts to me and to all the other children. He brought food to the mission. I don’t care that he doesn’t go to church. He’s my father and I love him!
And he gave me something else. Something that he said I shouldn’t tell anyone about. He said since I was twelve, I was old enough. I told him I already knew all about opium. That I’d been taking it on and off since I was six.
I think he knew I was lying, but it didn’t matter. He’s like that. He just gives me this look to tell me that he knows I’m making up a story, but he lets me pretend anyway. Eventually I tell him the truth. I just have to work my way up to it.
So he let me have some. Boiled. It was WONDERFUL!!!! I’ve been trying to think of a way to describe it. It’s like all the angry frightened pieces fall away. Everything that makes you mean when you don’t want to be or makes you stupid because you don’t understand—all that goes away. And all that’s left is so clear and so happy.
I understood everything and everything understood me. I started to talk to my new father, really talk. And he listened and he understood because everything makes sense on opium. Then a lady came in—as a present to me—and she sang. It was so beautiful I cried. That too is different. I didn’t hear her breathing or any of the notes she probably missed or the noise out in the streets. I just heard music the way God intended it—filled with feeling and such perfectness.
I wish I could take some before mass. Imagine hearing a hymn the way it should be, as a celebration to God, not as Sister Christine trying for notes she can’t make. But Father said I can only have opium on my birthday. It’s not for other times. It’s too dangerous.
But oooooohhhhh, I can’t wait!!! I can’t wait until my next birthday when I can have more.
A war more unjust in its origin, a war calculated in its progress to cover this country with a permanent disgrace, I do not know and I have not read of… [Our] flag is become a pirate flag, to protect an infamous traffic.
