Ryoko gasped deeply when his lips finally brushed against her, and she clenched her fingers into balled fists. As Manning fed on her fire, the radiant heat coursed through her body like electricity through a wire; within seconds, her muscles rippled of their own volition, completely uncontrollable by her for as long as his lips and tongue continued their ministrations against the core of her sex. Her moans grew in accordance with the heat, and soon she was almost screaming as a fireball consumed her, racing outward from her hips to streak throughout her body, faster than a supersonic fighter jet. Ryoko shuddered spasmodically once, then twice as she suffered through another salvo, then yet again, her breath coming from her in great, ragged gasps.
Finally, she had to push him away from her, gasping for air.
“Enough,” she panted. “Enough. Kuso, you’re good!”
Manning kissed her wet nub, and the action elicited another cry from her.
“Glad you like it,” he murmured, and kissed her there again. Her hips jerked in response.
“Fuck me, Jerry,” she whispered in English, her chosen language for love. “Fuck me!” she ordered.
Manning swept her small frame up into his arms and lifted her from the couch. Ryoko wrapped her legs around his waist, her wet mount pressed against his thick tumescence, the contact transferring each throb from him to her. She seized his head in both hands and kissed him, her tongue like a hot poker. Manning held her in midair by grasping her behind the knees, spreading her thighs wide as he lowered her onto him. Ryoko cried out, still tonguing him, as the head of his thick phallus pierced her. He then impelled himself inside of her until he was hilted. Ryoko trembled and broke off the kiss.
“Ikasete!” she gasped in Japanese, her English forgotten for the moment. “Ikasete! Sugu ikasete!” she commanded, directing him to make her come now. Manning thrust into her as she grabbed his shoulders and lifted herself up and threw herself down upon his shaft with as much strength and vigor as she could muster. Manning increased his tempo, his hips slamming into her again and again until his breath grew ragged and his arms burned. Ryoko shuddered spasmodically once again, head thrown back, mouth wide, eyelids clenched shut as she rode the tsunami of heat once again.
“Ah...ah! Yes!”
When her tremors subsided, Manning pulled out of her. She made a disappointed sound, and looked up at him when he slowly lowered her to the carpeted floor, her eyes searching his face. Manning kissed her gently then guided her toward the window, where the lights of Minato-ku still burned even though it was almost 4:00am. She smiled suddenly, knowing what he had in mind.
“You say you always like the view from up here,” he said, and she reached out and grabbed the windowsill. The large panes of glass revealed all to her, and she bent at the waist. She needn’t have bothered; Manning grabbed her hips and lifted her in midair, so she was balancing on her hands like an acrobat in the middle of a performance.
“Yaté! Fuck me!”
She cried out as Manning obeyed and his shaft split her once again. She braced herself against the windowsill as well as she was able while her lover worked in earnest, driving himself deeply inside her like a powerful machine, what the Japanese called piston undu, hard fucking. He kept up the pace, slamming into her again and again, and the night lights of Minato-ku swam in and out of focus as she erupted with her sixth orgasm, fueled by the heavy throbbing of Manning as he gasped himself and filled her with his seed, his spurts entering her like a heavy tide.
CHAPTER 5
Dalian, People’s Republic of China
At the Best Western Premier Dalian Harbor View Hotel, a name difficult to string together in any language, Chen Song tried to lose himself in the luxury of cable television, something that was found only in the upper-tier hotels or the homes of the wealthy or well-connected. After all, cable providers such as HBO and Cinemax served as windows to the decadent West, and the Chinese leadership in Beijing was not yet prepared for the unwashed masses that comprised China to be exposed to the true freedoms that lay outside the nation’s borders. Besides, there was nothing else to do; the suitcases he and his uncle had given to the Bái Hu had made their way onto a Japan Air Lines freighter, not a commercial flight, and they would not become available until tomorrow afternoon in Shanghai. This was another of a multitude of things which caused Chen Gui to agonize incessantly. The most immediate was that the hotel, Dalian’s best, was full; it was only through the efforts of Boss Tao that Chen Song and his uncle had found a single room to share. Chen Gui had groused at the lack of suites, but when faced with the choice between sharing a reasonably-clean hotel room with his nephew or risking even worse accommodations, Chen Gui had swallowed his considerable consternation and accepted what could be provided. He chose instead to prowl the entire room (which in Chen Song’s estimation wasn’t so bad, really), stalking back and forth like an angry tiger. He clutched his cell phone in his right hand like a man whose life depended on receiving one important call.
In that, Chen Song thought, his uncle might not have been very wrong.
One thing that irked Chen Song was the crowning indelicacy of Chen Gui apologizing to that toad Boss Tao for what he termed to be Chen Song’s “insolent attitude.” Boss Tao was much lower in station than Chen Gui, and by turn many stations lower than Chen Song himself; therefore, he deserved no consideration. Chen Song had brusquely and rightfully brushed aside Tao’s obsequious inquiries into his health, false as they were, something which earned him an immediate rebuke from his uncle. Even though Chen Gui himself despised Tao! Even now, Chen Song’s face flushed from anger when he thought back upon the moment, right after Tao had met them coming out of the Chinese customs area. He made a mental note to make some inquiries at a later time, to discover if Boss Tao had intentionally booked them the single room. That would make Chen Gui less inclined to treat the toad-faced fool with such equanimity.
Chen Gui continued to pace, his round, bowling ball-shaped bulk passing before the television every six or so seconds, as regular as the tick of a metronome.
“Uncle, stop pacing!” Chen Song shouted finally, almost at wit’s end.
Chen Gui whirled toward him, his moon-shaped face reddening. “Do not talk to me like that!” he raged. “Who do you think I am, one of your cousins? You’re my brother’s son, not mine, so show some respect! You’ve been nothing but trouble since this whole thing started! If you’d been a competent man, you would have taken care of the Fujianese like I told you!”
Chen Song’s own temper nearly reached the snapping point. He summoned all his remaining discipline and reined it in quickly; getting into a shouting match with his uncle would serve no purpose, nor would it do him any good. He composed his face into a mask of apology and sat up on the bed, bowing his head.
“Sorry uncle,” he muttered.
This seemed an acceptable act of contrition. Chen Gui made a dismissive motion and stalked over to the windows overlooking the dark harbor. Chen Song settled back on the bed, fluffing the pillows up beneath his head. He grabbed the remote control and pointed it at the TV, scanning through the channels until he arrived at HBO. He was rewarded with the opening credits for The Sopranos, a show both he and his uncle fairly revered.
“Uncle?” Chen Song glanced at the shorter, older man as he stood before the large windows, hands clasped behind his back, still clutching the cell phone.
“What is it!” Chen Gui snapped.
“The Sopranos is being rerun on HBO,” his nephew said finally.
“As if I care!”
Chen Song took a deep breath, fighting to keep his tone of voice conciliatory. “But...but you love this program, uncle. And it has Chinese subtitles!”
Chen Gui sighed loudly and settled his large rump onto the small couch by the window. He gazed at the television screen for a few moments, but from the expression on his face, Chen Song knew he couldn’t care less about the trials and tribulations of Tony Soprano. Chen Song sympathized. While Soprano might have been a fairly fac
tual representation of organized crime bosses in America, Chen Gui likely found his own plight more compelling at the moment.
“What if the Bái Hu fails?” Chen Gui suddenly worried aloud. “What if he can’t get to the Fujianese? What if the Japanese police catch him?”
Chen Song’s attention was suddenly focused on his uncle, as sharp and penetrating as a laser beam. In the background, The Sopranos played on, completely forgotten by him. He swung his legs off the bed and sat up again, looking at Chen Gui with narrowed eyes. “What are you talking about, uncle?”
Chen Gui buried his face in his hands and sighed again. “I told him to take care of the problems you could not. Someone has to behead the Fujianese leader, and since you failed to do it, I had to pay him an exorbitant fee! Truly, I’m too generous for my own good!”
Chen Song spoke through clenched teeth. “I told you I would take care of that problem, uncle. I swore I would!”
“Then it’s regrettable you couldn’t spend less time chasing Japanese and Korean bar hostesses and do what you ‘swore’ you would!” Chen Gui bellowed. “If you had done your duty, we would not have had to flee Japan and leave our territory open to others!”
Chen Song felt embarrassment rise in his chest. There was more than a grain of truth to what his uncle said, even though he didn’t know it wasn’t only hostesses he dallied with, but sometimes their male friends as well.
“Giving the American the job was wrong, uncle,” Chen Song pressed on, his voice like stone. “He cares nothing for us—”
“Perhaps not, but he cares for the money we pay him, you fool! Of course he’ll try and do the job, but even he could fail.” Chen Gui launched himself to his feet again and clasped his pudgy hands behind his back. “Aiyah! The trouble we’re in, because you couldn’t follow my reasonable requests!”
Chen Song’s face reddened with anger he could no longer control. “You sent the Bái Hu to do my job? How could I do it in the time we had, when almost all of our men were killed by the Fujianese? How could I have done what you asked?”
“I cannot see why you feared to do the job alone, nephew,” Chen Gui replied icily. “After all, the Bái Hu always works alone. Perhaps you should follow his example.”
Chen Song began to respond, then checked himself. This was getting him nowhere.
“I don’t see what the problem is, uncle. If the Bái Hu succeeds, then you”—he almost said “we” but managed to censor himself—“get the territory back, and the Yakuza will fall back in line. After all, the only reason the Fujianese went on the rampage was because they couldn’t match our prices. The Yakuza won’t care, so long as they get their slice of the profits. And if the Bái Hu fails, he’ll either be dead or be behind bars in a Japanese prison.”
“The Bái Hu knows much of our operations,” Chen Gui mumbled. “He never asks questions, but we’ve used him for so long he knows more than I would like.”
“Then why continue to use him, uncle? If what you say is true, then he can be a great liability.”
“Simple, nephew, simple. Chinese cannot get by in Japan without being monitored, and this you know—how often have you been asked for your identity papers by Japanese police, even in Roppongi and Shibuya? An American now, an American especially, can go places where we cannot. Unlike a Chinese, an American commands respect in Japan.”
“Bah! Many Japanese think that Americans are bothersome and ungrateful!”
“And so they are,” Chen Gui agreed, “but the fact of the matter is, what individual Japanese say is not at all reflective of Japanese society in general. Americans have prestige, and in many ways, the Japanese are indebted to them. The same cannot be said for us Chinese.”
“I see the wisdom in using him now, uncle.” Chen Song paused for a long moment, then found it time to ask the question he most wanted answered. “How much are you paying him?”
Chen Gui turned and looked at his nephew for a long moment, and Chen Song wondered if he had crossed some hidden boundary. By rights, the Bái Hu was just a common henchman—well, a specialist, actually, but still a member of the lower order—so there should have been little reason for Chen Gui to withhold the information. But when it came to the Bái Hu, Chen Song found his uncle’s judgment in great doubt.
“Almost one point seven million yuan,” Chen Gui sighed finally, and he practically collapsed back onto the couch.
The sum was more than Chen Song had been prepared to handle. “Two hundred thousand American dollars? Uncle, I realize you want the Fujianese dead, but that’s practically robbery—”
Chen Gui held up his finger, and Chen Song fell silent. “What you call ‘robbery’ is the only thing that will get us our territory back,” he intoned. “There is no other way, nephew. If the Bái Hu can kill the Fujianese leader, then those of us who still remain in Japan can move against the rest of their gang, while I plan our return. With fresh troops from Shanghai. The yakuza will wait for us, as you yourself observed our goods are the cheapest on the market right now.”
“But two hundred—” Chen Song’s mind was still spinning. While his uncle often went on about his great generosity, the fact of the matter was he was considered viciously miserly, even when contrasted against the typical Shanghainese stereotype. To know that he had such liquid assets was not surprising; that he would willingly transfer it to a foreign scum like the Bái Hu most certainly was. Chen Gui had offered Chen Song a paltry $25,000 bonus for the hit.
“The money is nothing compared to what we lose if we fail in Japan,” Chen Gui interrupted. “And if we fail in Japan, nephew, you know what will happen. We’ll lose our status, and we’ll be back to watching over Ma jiang parlors and brothels and perhaps supplying drugs to the new red princes and princesses. I very much would like to avoid that line of work. Not only is it unprofitable, it could get us killed by our own government.” Despite all the changes mainland China had undertaken, drug trafficking was still an offense that carried a mandatory death penalty, even while those in power in Beijing occasionally dabbled with that particular forbidden fruit.
“I can’t believe you paid the Bái Hu so much,” Chen Song said forlornly.
“Better him than you!” Chen Gui snapped. “At least he could get the job done!”
Chen Song’s face clouded as his anger deepened, threatening to spiral well out of his control. Chen Gui watched it happen with narrowed eyes, and Chen Song knew it gave him some measure of satisfaction.
“I should have killed him when I had the chance,” Chen Song muttered, looking away.
“You? Kill the Bái Hu?” Chen Gui threw back his head and laughed. “I’d pay another two hundred thousand to see that! Nephew, when it comes to things such as killing, you’re no match for the Bái Hu. Otherwise, why would I retain him?”
Chen Song crossed to the window and contemplated the harbor below as his uncle had done minutes earlier. Behind him, The Sopranos played to an audience of none. He crossed his muscular arms across his chest and glared at the boats below, wrestling with his anger and his hatred...for both the American and his uncle.
“You give the Bái Hu far too much face, uncle,” he hissed. “And you take away for too much of mine!”
“Then all you need to do to earn back that face is do the work I give you,” Chen Gui said evenly. “The Bái Hu doesn’t allow ambition or his personal standing in our organization to cloud his judgment. He does what he does for his own reasons.”
Chen Song laughed bitterly. “Ha! So now you think I’m too ambitious, uncle?”
Chen Gui said nothing for a time. Chen Song let the silence play out, refusing to do anything which might give his uncle room to maneuver away from answering the question.
“I think your view is short and narrow,” Chen Gui said finally. “You need to look farther down the road.”
Chen Song started to speak, but Chen Gui’s phone suddenly broke into the tunes of Yankee Doodle Dandy. Chen Gui almost dropped the phone, but after fumbling with it for a moment, his
fat fingers fairly flew over the keypad, summoning the waiting text message. Chen Song turned and watched as Chen Gui scanned the text for a moment, then grinned. He tossed the phone to Chen Song, who caught it fluidly. He turned it over in his hand and looked at the phone’s color liquid crystal display.
Accomplished. WT.
“Ha! He’s done it!” the portly Shanghainese crowed. “He’s done it! Soon we’ll be able to return to Japan!”
There was a knock at the door, and Chen Gui’s grin faded. Chen Song turned and faced the hotel room door; he glanced back at Chen Gui. Chen Gui licked his lips nervously and nodded.
“Answer the door, nephew,” he said as mildly as he could.
Chen Song walked to the door slowly, handing the phone back to Chen Gui as he passed him. He peered through the peephole after a moment, then looked back at his uncle.
“It’s Boss Tao, and he has Lin Feng with him.”
Chen Gui released his held breath in an explosive rush. “Then let them in! Lin Feng has clothes for me, and I’m hungry!”
###
Tokyo, Japan
Manning awoke the next morning at 7:45am, right as the Sun rose high enough to bathe the curtains over the bedroom windows in a fiery orange light. Even from the height of the 33rd floor, he heard the city of Tokyo awakening, stirring like some mythical beast preparing for the coming day’s hunt. It was murder to get up; the apartment was cool from the over-active air-conditioning, and Manning was faced with the equivalent of getting out of a warm bed on a cold winter morning. Curled up beside him like a cat was Ryoko, her small body generating an inviting warmth that Manning also found irresistible. He snuggled up to her and kissed her shoulder, and she murmured something in her sleep and stirred for a moment before becoming still again. Manning allowed his head to settle back onto his pillow, and he was content to inhale the sweet scent of her hair, now bound in a ponytail. He slipped an arm around her narrow waist and closed his eyes. Sleep harkened its return, and he felt himself start to drift into its embrace.
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