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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Zhan Zhuang Mistress (MF+, femdom) ~ An Ace Dyson Adventure
Date: Tue, 15 Aug 2000 15:10:05 -0400
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The Zhan Zhuang Mistress (MF+, femdom)
(An Ace Dyson Adventure)
by DrSpin
August 2000
===========================================================
This is the sixth story in the Ace Dyson
misadventures, in which the amiable Australian fixit man
stumbles through mishaps and crises with help and hindrance
from many a female. The previous Ace stories are:
1 Abducted By Aliens (March 2000)
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/Abducted_By_Aliens.html
2 Dyson Does Dunedin (April 2000)
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/Dyson_Does_Dunedin.html
3 Banged In Bahrain (May 2000)
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/Banged_In_Bahrain.html
4 The Colonel's Red Nails (June 2000)
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/The_Colonel's_Red_Nails.html
5 Fair Suck of the Sausage (July 2000)
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/Fair_Suck_of_the_Sausage.html
Further Ace Dyson stories to appear will include:
- Nasty, the Russian Interpreter
- Big Sleaze in P.E.
- Rainbow Serpent Dreaming
===========================================================
Standard Disclaimer: I write and you read, if you care to.
That's all there is to it. If any reader is offended,
he/she should not have been here in the first place and
only has himself/herself to blame. If this story is
relocated, please leave my name intact as the author and
please include my email address.
===========================================================
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com
* Ruthie edited expertly. Nat inspires and does the
website.
===========================================================
I planted my bare feet on the hard-baked, sun-beaten clay
trying to remember to keep my weight evenly distributed and
feet balanced. Fucking idiot, I growled to myself. When
will you ever learn to keep your prick in your pants?
More than one hundred spectators sat cross-legged on the
ground, surrounding the traditional fighting circle, all of
them naked. Opposite me, standing in a strange bent-kneed
manner, arms extended as if holding a giant invisible
balloon, was a slip of a Chinese sheila, 5ft2in tops. Her
eyes were unfocussed. I could have sworn she was not
breathing. She seemed barely there at all. She had small
round breasts that stuck straight out without a hint of
sag.
She was naked too. So was I. Everybody was naked. Forget
all that, I told myself, and concentrate. One fight, one
win, that's all I needed.
In the near distance a gong sounded, once. The Chinese girl
opened her eyes and looked at me in a studious manner. In a
ridiculously quick blur she crossed the distance between
us. A fleeting and fading moment later I became aware that
she had struck four hammer blows in a tattoo on my chest.
I was reeling, falling. The circle of watchers made a low
ululating sound as I faded from consciousness.
* * *
THE PREVIOUS DAY:
I had the advantage of her. I was a stranger, and more. I
was so strange to her eyes that I was impossibly foreign,
and thus mysterious and magnetic.
She was small and as fine as a porcelain teacup. Her black
eyes slid my way so often she blushed and shamed herself,
but she could not stop. I watched her inner struggle with a
fascination she could sense, and it made her blush the
more.
In inner China they don't see men like me too often.
Gweiloh. Foreign devil, a term of considerable contempt.
Tall by western standards, I was a forest tree here,
towering above the heads of all. And heavier than any by 70
pounds at least. In their eyes, I was barbarically huge.
But in hers I was exotic and dangerous magic.
There is a myth abroad that women in China are modestly
unavailable. Not true. They can be as horny as pigeons in
springtime. Culture dictates that they pretend to be
chaste, but culture is only a veneer. It is also a myth
that the skin of Chinese women is yellow. Up close enough
to brush and lick, it is translucent white and delicately
vulnerable.
This one, a woman of indeterminate age who couldn't stop
meeting my eyes, would have skin just like that. So soft
and smooth. And such magnificent contrasts, because her
hair was black and long and would fall silkily across her
bare white body. The hair in her armpits, if she allowed
it, would be black, thick, and glossy. And her pubic hair
would be all Chinese - so black, so straight, so fine. Such
a contrast with skin so white. Tasty. Delicious.
I was in the middle of a ten-day stretch in middle China,
travelling from city to city, meeting bureaucrats and
businessmen, attending functions, dining at far too many
banquets. Pacific Rimfire's venture into China was spread
across a broad front. Our company delegation was too thin
to cover it all, and the Colonel had split us up to get the
job done. I was sent to a clutch of minor far-flung cities
with a simple directive: "Eat, drink, be polite, and don't
fuck anything up."
It was the evening of the third day and I was being
officially entertained at yet another civic reception.
Everything had gone well. Then this beautiful doll of a
woman started playing eye games with me.
"That woman," I said to Maverick. "The one in autumn brown.
Who is she?"
He looked. "I shall find out, sir."
Maverick was my interpreter. That was his "western name."
He had chosen it himself and he did not know why. He didn't
even know what it meant. Such things happen in China. You
learn not to question them.
He returned shortly. "She is Miss Xiexing, and she is the
daughter of the Mayor, an important man," he murmured
confidentially. "She is also engaged to the Chairman of the
Central China Hydraulic Engineering Company, an even more
important man." He looked at me reproachfully. "And your
host at this reception," he added.
The advantage of being regarded as a barbarian is that you
can behave like one with impunity. I scrawled my hotel and
room number on the back of my business card. "Give it to
her at a discreet moment," I said.
Maverick examined the card as if it were coated with deadly
poison. He took it gingerly by one corner. "It is not
appropriate, Mr. Dyson, but I will do as you wish," he
said, disapproval sitting squarely on his shoulders. He
trudged away reluctantly, unhappy.
From the other side of the room, while chatting to a squat
woman who spoke fair but stilted English, I watched as
Maverick stood around, waiting for an opportunity. When it
came, he muttered something to her, gave her the card, and
shrugged his shoulders apologetically.
She swung her head around sharply, searching for me, and
when she found me looking directly at her, she swung
sharply back to Maverick. She said something to him, and he
nodded and returned to me.
"So what did she say?" I asked him.
"Something I cannot repeat, sir."
I grinned. "Gweiloh?"
He looked at me curiously. "You know that word?"
"All gweilohs know it," I said.
"Sir, she will not come to you."
"We will see, Maverick. But if she does, it will be because
I am gweiloh."
He snorted derisively. But what did he know? He was 19,
came from a middle class background and a university in
Beijing, and he was as much a stranger in this ancient
central city as I was. China is an impossibly huge country.
Nobody can know it all. Nobody does.
Maverick was with me when she came. He was helping me make
some sense of the collection of business cards I had
accumulated, and he opened the door to the knock
impatiently, expecting to be dealing peremptorily with a
minor functionary delivering coffee. I heard the high tone
of astonishment in his voice. "Miss Xiexing," he squeaked.
I looked up and she stood with hands folded in the doorway,
blocked by Maverick's outstretched arm. She'd changed from
formal dress to a floating white outfit of trousers and
lightweight jacket. She was heavily made up in the Chinese
fashion - white skin, severely thin eyebrows, red lipstick,
shiny black hair pulled back tight and pinned in a mother-
of-pearl clasp. Her small pointed chin was up and she was
looking at Maverick defiantly.
I went to the door, pulled down Maverick's arm like a stiff
and reluctant lever, took one of her small and cool hands,
and led her into the room. "Thank you, Maverick," I said.
"Time for you to get lost."
"But," he whined unhappily, "she speaks no English."
"I don't think it matters," I told him. "I'll call if I
need you." He was agitated beyond reason. His eyes looked
messages of great concern at me. I moved him gently out the
door with a firm hand. "Good night, Maverick."
I still held her hand, and I turned it over and laid it
against my own. So small, so fine. Perfect red fingernails.
She was exquisite.
I looked into her eyes and she held the gaze. The whole set
of her face, especially her chin, projected bravery and
defiance. God knows what reason she had to be here. Maybe
it was her future husband, who looked two decades older.
Maybe she was one of those women who had to push out the
boundaries. Whatever, and I could not ask, she was here for
just one purpose, and that was sex. She was here to fuck.
It was all so simple. Nothing to say, because we couldn't,
and everything to do. I lifted my hand and twisted open the
topmost jacket button. Then I stepped back three careful
paces and gestured. Go on, I was saying. You do it. I'll
just watch.
Black eyes are so hard to read. She started undoing buttons
and she surely could not have been as confident as she
appeared to be. How old was she? Not a teenager, but surely
not much more. But she undressed watching me watching her
as if she'd done it one hundred times, and surely she had
not. There was something in all this that I could not
fathom, but I knew it was there.
She drew off the jacket and hung it carefully on the back
of a chair. She was wearing an extraordinarily pretty bra
that appeared to have faded red flowers hand-stitched into
the cups. Then she unbuttoned the trousers and let them
slide to the floor. Her pants were cut high at the sides,
and again had the rose-style flowers stitched into the
panels, perfectly matching the bra. It looked like the most
expensive underwear I'd ever seen, although in China you
never knew what to think about prices and costs. It is a
land of illusions.
She stood still, looking at me with her unreadable eyes.
Thin shoulders, a tiny waist, and narrow hips. Her thighs
were slight and did not meet, and it gave her a hint of
bow-leggedness. My God, I thought. I could not fuck a woman
this fragile without smashing her into ceramic shards. But
what the hell. She was here for the purpose. I signalled to
her with my hand. Go on, I was saying. Take it all off.
She reached behind, unclasped the bra, and slid it down her
arms. Wow. Perfect breasts. Small, barely a handful, but on
her small frame they appeared pendulous and full. They were
beautifully shaped and crafted, swaying slightly from side
to side with her movements. White skin, baby-pink nipples.
She slid the pants down her legs, bending forward, breasts
hanging and jiggling. She stepped out of them and
straightened to stand naked before me, arms hanging loosely
at her sides.
Chinese women have pubic hair like no other women. Hers was
so black it was close to midnight blue. Not a hint of a
curl in it. So straight, so black, so thickly-matted it was
like a little rug. It curved all the way under and between
her legs.
That did it. I was transfixed. No longer did I see her as
fragile. She was fully equipped. Man, that was a woman's
hairy box all right. Miss Xiexing, the Mayor's lovely
daughter, was certainly going to get the full Ace Dyson
treatment tonight.
She nodded her head sharply. You, she was saying. Your
turn.
A bloke doesn't do a strip-tease unless it's for money, and
a bloke who does it for money is not a bloke. I shed my
clothes in a tearing hurry and stood stripped and ready for
action in a few seconds. Her eyes widened and I knew why.
To me, she was erotically exotic. To her, I was a gweiloh -
powerful, perilous, potent.
It stuck out, pointing, hard, eager, and she'd never seen
anything like it. She didn't need language. The reaction
was written all over her face. Shit, she was saying to
herself (or the Mandarin equivalent of it). Maybe, she was
thinking, maybe she couldn't cope with it.
No worries, though. She'd sure give it a try, because
that's what she came for. Not just that, of course. I was
strange and different from anything she knew, and forbidden
for generations past and present. But the gweiloh dick,
allegedly so much bigger than the local variety, was
definitely part of the equation. And maybe there was some
truth in it, because she was acting like I was huge.
I moved close and gently held the weight of one breast,
grazing a thumb over the stiff and stubby nipple. With my
other hand I picked up her tiny wrist and guided her hand
to my erect penis. She took a light hold but then snatched
her hand away. Looking down, she tentatively brought it
back and curled her fingers around it.
Her hand was cool. She couldn't curl her thin fingers
around my width, and she looked up at my face with a trace
of a smile. Stuff the foreplay. The urge to push her flat
and push it deep inside her was overwhelming. And since I
was a barbarian who didn't know the local custom, that's
what I did.
Flat on her back on the bed where she'd landed after I
pushed her, she blinked up at me in alarm. Curious beyond
caring, I hooked an arm under her knees, lifted them, and
folded her legs up to her hairy armpits. She whinnied in
protest but, with downward pressure on her ankles, I had
her pinned and powerless.
The black beard of her pubic hair covered more than I was
accustomed to, but the target was right there, ready,
waiting. I lined her up and pushed into her. Not roughly.
Smoothly, slowly, steadily, surprisingly easily. Further,
more, more, nearly all the way. But I was balanced on the
point of my knees at the end of the bed, holding myself
upright with my hands on her ankles. It was a way to
penetrate, but no way to shag a sheila. Any sheila. Sooner
or later I'd slip out and fall on the floor.
I stopped, firmly embedded, and brought her legs down. She
had a surprised look in her eyes but she wasn't scared. I
moved into her a bit more, and she wriggled up the bed to
allow me room. Now strictly a missionary, I completed the
journey of her Chinese interior. She had all of me, and she
had it snug. I smiled at her. She smiled back, reached
around, and placed her red fingernails against my skin like
the gentle touch of a knife point. I had a feeling she was
going to leave her mark on me before long, and I was
looking forward to it.
There was noise at the door and before I had time to even
begin to think, it flew open and an absurd number of people
burst in. Four were men in khaki-green uniforms carrying a
variety of weapons, all drawn and pointed at me. Another
was Maverick, hovering behind anxiously. The last was a
woman in a plain blue trouser suit. She was wearing large
round glasses, she had short hair, and she wasn't smiling.
My brain was still inside Miss Xiexing's vagina. I looked
at them stupidly. What the fuck?
The four uniformed men surrounded the bed. One of them
stuck the nasty end of a machine gun against my cheek. The
woman with the glasses rattled off harsh instructions, and
Miss Xiexing squirmed and twisted under me, wriggling free.
She sprang off the bed, scuttled around scooping up her
clothes, and bolted into the bathroom.
"Mr. Dyson," said the woman in English that sounded like
English from England. "You are in a great deal of trouble.
Stand up and face your accusers."
Huh? Who's accusing who of what? I tried to put some
thought into it, but the muzzle of the machine gun prodded
my cheek and on the other side a rifle butt poked me in the
hip. I rolled over and then stood up, directly facing the
woman who seemed to be in charge.
"Now look, lady," I said, standing tall and putting some
character and severity into my voice. "What the hell is
going on here?"
It's hard to stand on your dignity when you're naked and
you have a stiff boner hanging out there in the breeze. She
looked down at it and smiled a thin little smile. "I would
say you have been caught with your pants down, Mr. Dyson."
She tapped my passport against her chin. Maverick. He must
have given it to her. I looked around and found him
shrinking unhappily in the corner.
"I tried to warn you, sir," he said tremulously.
"That young man was doing his duty," snapped the woman. "No
blame is to be attached to him. The illegality is yours
alone, and you must bear the consequences."
Illegality? What was she talking about? "Er," I ventured.
"Miss Xiexing?"
"No longer your concern," the woman said. "She will be
dealt with."
"Now listen, sweetheart," I started again, not far from
being mightily pissed off. "What business is this of yours
and why is half the Chinese Red Army camped in my hotel
room?"
Her eyes glinted behind the glasses. "Mr. Dyson, it is
illegal for Chinese women to cohabit with foreigners in
this province."
"Bullshit. Who says?"
"I do, and I am a Magistrate of the Court of the People's
Republic of China."
Oh shit. It was beginning to dawn on me that this was more
than a bizarre incident in a strange land.
"You're kidding," I said. "I'm not allowed to fuck the
locals? What's the penalty?"
"Fifteen years in prison."
Oh shit. If this lady didn't take my balls, the Colonel
certainly would. "I need to make a phone call," I said.
"Not until I give permission," she said.
"Well, give me permission, for fuck's sake. My mobile is on
the dresser."
She spoke in Mandarin, and a guard picked it up, switched
it off, and put it in his shirt pocket. "Get dressed, Mr.
Dyson," she said, and I could tell she was enjoying
herself. She tapped the edge of my passport against the
erection that was still, perversely, pointing at her.
"You're coming with me."
* * *
Magistrate Wen Shu Ma appeared to be a woman of middle age,
but how middle it was impossible to tell. The uniform-like
blue suit covered her like a disguise. She was tall for a
Chinese woman but not tall at all by my standards, slim,
completely without make-up or jewellery, but clean-skinned,
fair, without a wrinkle, crease, line, or any mark of age
on her face. She had breasts somewhere under the stiff
jacket. I could see that, but little more, apart from the
cold intelligence in her eyes.
I had been brought from my cell in the basement to what I
guessed was her office. On the wall was a single framed
photograph of a past Chinese leader. I think it was Deng
Xiaoping. She sat on a wooden office chair behind a
battered wooden desk.
"Don't bluster at me," she said, cutting me off while I was
still drawing breath. "I don't want to charge you or put
you on trial, although it is perfectly within my scope. I
am aware of the difficulties that would arise for all
concerned once you established contact with your embassy.
None of us wants a diplomatic incident. Yet I am required
to administer justice, and you will not simply walk out of
here like an ignorant foreigner. Do I make myself clear?"
I rubbed the stubble on my chin ruefully. I had spent the
night in a cell the Human Rights Commissioners in Geneva
couldn't imagine in their worst case scenarios. True, I had
it on my own. I had the whole fucking cell block on my own.
Crime has low incidence in China, possibly because the
penalties are anciently draconian. No chair, no bunk, no
basin. The toilet was no more than an open drain. The
experience was compelling, and I did not intend to spend
another night there. I needed to make a deal, and I hoped
one was in the offing from her considerable honour, the
blue-suited lady magistrate.
"You see, Mr. Dyson," she said, leaning forward
conspiratorially, "you present me with a delicate problem.
Mr. Qin, the Chairman of the Central China Hydraulic
Engineering Company, is an important local Party official.
There is a further complication. The Mayor is my brother,
and Miss Xiexing is my niece. She is his youngest daughter,
a spoiled and wilful girl, and it is not her first
indiscretion. But it is most serious because Mr. Qin has
laid an official complaint against you, and I am required
to deal with you according to custom and law. Indeed, I
must do so because of my family connections. To do less
than a thorough job would lay me open to official
criticism."
She sat back in her chair. "Liberal people say the law
dealing with foreigners is antiquated and in need of
reform, but it remains the law. Mr. Qin, the promised
husband, has suffered humiliating loss of face, and he
demands recompense through me as the region's custodian of
justice. Of course, diplomatic pressure will be applied
sooner or later, and you will be released from my
responsibility. Until then, you must accommodate my wishes.
Are you following me?"
"You are telling me, dear lady judge, that justice needs to
be seen to be done."
She smiled. "Exactly, Mr Dyson. And I have a proposal."
At last. "You have my attention, and please call me Ace."
"First, Mr. Dyson, you will sign a document regretting your
behaviour," she said. "Second, you will agree to undertake
a course of correction to enlighten you on Chinese culture
and customs."
A course? Sounded easy. "What sort of a course, where, and
how long?"
"You will attend a college not far from here for a period
of one week. In that time you will be instructed in matters
of Chinese culture. Then you may leave and resume your
business."
"Sounds reasonable," I said. "But a week? That presents me
with problems. People will be looking for me."
"I will give you every opportunity to complete the course
in less time," she said.
"You? You will run the course?"
"The college teaches the principles of Zhan Zhuang, and I
am a qualified instructor."
"Zhan Zhuang? What is that?"
She tilted her head, considering. "I cannot answer that
simply," she said slowly. "But translated literally, it
means: Standing Like A Tree."
I burst out laughing. "Hell, I can do that," I said. "Count
me in."
"I took the trouble of preparing the document assigning you
to my care," she said, not smiling at all. "Here. Sign
where I have marked."
Whatever the hell it was, it beat going back to that cell.
It beat going to court and risking a prison sentence, and
it sure as hell beat having to ring the Colonel to tell her
I was knee deep in local sewage. She would have my balls
for getting into this mess, and I needed to blur the story
I would eventually have to tell her. I thought I could
squeeze four days out of the schedule. And maybe I could,
with a bit of time and effort, charm and cheat my way out
of trouble altogether. The risk was worth it, and I signed
the document with a flourish.
* * *
It wasn't so much a college as a convent. I was transported
that same day in the back of a closed-in van, alone with my
suitcase. My phone was gone and the suitcase had been
searched. I was let out in a gravelled courtyard bounded by
a mixture of odd architecture - old stone buildings
hundreds of years old, shabby-looking fast-built low
dormitory structures at least fifty years old, and a
section of relatively new office-type extensions.
Wen Shu Ma had gone ahead, and she greeted me in an office
more plush by far than in the court building earlier in the
day. "Mr. Dyson," she said, in a tone of considerable
satisfaction. "Signed, sealed, delivered into my hands."
"Sure thing, boss lady," I said breezily. This place didn't
look so bad. I could put on a show of being a good and
contrite boy for a couple of days, get out of it with a
smile, and count myself lucky. "I can't tell you how keen I
am to get my teeth into this Zhan Zhuang thing."
Her eyes glinted. "For some of us," she said quietly, "it
is a lifelong journey we will never complete."
"I'm a fast learner," I said. "When do I start standing
like a tree?"
"When you are a Zhan Zhuang Master."
"How many Masters are there?"
"Alive today? None. But I am privileged to be of the
fourteenth rank."
Sounded impressive. "So, I will study under a Zhan Zhuang
Mistress, eh?"
She stood up from her chair. "You will do whatever I say,
Mr. Dyson. It states that in the contract you signed. Now,
come with me."
She led me up a flight of stairs into a long room without
furniture and completely carpeted. "Look," she said,
pointing to the bank of windows. "Tell me what you see."
Outside, down on a big sweep of lawn in a vast and
immaculate walled garden, at least one hundred people were
lined up in rows. They were standing stock still, like
statues. They were all naked. I looked with a sharper eye.
They were all women. The shapes and sizes were myriad, but
they all had black hair, white tits, and black pubes. Yep,
they were all women.
"I see big mobs of sheilas," I said carefully.
She joined me at the window. "Zhan Zhuang," she said. "A
form of martial arts well suited to women. They learn
strength and harmony, and they learn self-defence."
Well, bugger me. So that's what it was. "Kung fu stuff,
eh?"
"Nothing like it. Zhan Zhuang is a way of life. Standing
alone and unchanging, one can observe every mystery."
"Where does the tree thing come into it, boss lady?"
"It is the art of standing still. Like a tree, you remain
unmoving, growing from within. Zhan Zhuang relaxes the
nervous and muscular systems simultaneously. This clears
the pathway for renewed circulation of original natural
energy for the body and mind. It is the secret of the way
of energy and it builds physical and inner strength."
"Doesn't exactly sound like a self-defence manual," I said.
"How do you take the bad guy out?"
"Action originates in inaction, and stillness is the mother
of movement," she said, almost reciting. "In motion, you
are like the angry tiger. In quietness, you are like the
hibernating dragon. You are a great fire. If anything comes
toward you, it will be consumed in the fire. If it does not
approach the fire, it will not be burned. You are merely
the fire. You remain where you are, content to be alight."
"Sounds pretty passive," I said dubiously. And frankly,
more mystical than practical.
"One hundred actions are not as good as one moment of
silence," she answered. "One hundred exercises are not as
good as one moment of standing still. Violent action is not
as effective as non-violent action, which in turn is not as
good as non-action. Non-action is the real action."
I looked out at row upon row of naked Chinese womanhood,
each standing with knees slightly bent, arms extended as
though circling something. A tree trunk, perhaps. "If you
say so, boss lady." What the hell did this have to do with
me? "But tell me, why are they all naked?"
She shrugged. "Experience over hundreds of years has taught
us that the student learns better that way." She drew me
away from the window to the centre of the room. "Which
reminds me, Mr. Dyson. Take off all your clothes and stand
naked before me. Your instruction will now begin."
She did not appear to be joking. "Uh, don't tell me," I
said. "It's in the contract, right?"
She said nothing, and stood patently waiting, so I disrobed
resignedly. She inspected me freely, walking around me in a
circle. "A good body," she pronounced. "Big by our
standards, but lean and strong. What is your weight?"
"About 180 pounds."
"Height?"
"Six foot even."
"Very good," she said. "You will make a challenging
opponent for my girls."
What was that? "Eh?"
She smiled minimally. "It is impossible for you, a
foreigner, to learn anything meaningful in this limited
time about Zhan Zhuang, although I will certainly instruct
you in the basics. Your task here is to help me with my
students by providing them with an opponent far stronger
and heavier than any they have yet encountered. Mr. Dyson,
you are here to defend yourself as best you can."
Shit. "You want me to fight little sheilas half my size? I
can't do that. I would never hit a woman."
"Then I will give you an incentive. You can leave here, all
debts discharged, the moment you win a contest."
"How do I win?"
"Neutralise your opponent so she cannot continue."
"And if I simply sit on her? Will that do?"
"If you can manage it, Mr. Dyson. Now then, let's proceed
to the basic Zhan Zhuang position, that which you saw those
women doing outside." She took off her clothes efficiently.
She was wearing nothing under the blue trouser suit.
"Jeez, even the teacher gets naked," I muttered. "This
stuff would pack `em in back home."
She bent her knees into a slight squat and held out her
arms in the manner I had seen on the lawns outside.
"Imagine you are gently holding a giant balloon," she said.
I followed suit, and she nodded approval. "Now close your
eyes. Wipe all thought from your head. Think of nothing."
I tried. The pressure at the back of the thighs was
insistent. It did not seem a restful stance. "How long do I
stay like this?"
"The students outside do it for four hours every day," she
said.
Ouch. No fucking way. I opened my eyes to argue, but hers
were closed. She was in the position, relaxed. Not a bad
body at all for a middle-aged chick. Small, flattish
breasts with long standout nipples. Her waist was a little
thick and solid, athletic looking. No bag, no sag.
Everything trim and shipshape. That little Chinese black
rug between the legs, hanging down beard-like in straight
tufts. Interesting. She appeared strong and capable. I had
a hunch she'd be a real goer in the sack.
No. Get down, you animal. Damn, fuck it. Nowhere to go,
nowhere to hide. My penis rose steadily despite my
instructions and stood firm and upright in seconds.
She was looking at me. "I told you to think of nothing,"
she said, her eyes flat and stony.
An old Ace maxim: When embarrassed, make a joke. "Well,
boss lady," I said cheerfully. "Standing like a tree. I've
got that part right, no worries."
"You are overdue for a lesson, gweiloh," she said, softly
and menacingly.
I was still thinking about that when she launched herself
at me. I don't think her feet touched the ground. In the
blink of an eye I was on my back and she was sitting
astride me. Her hand was arched and fingers were pressing
against my neck. I tried to struggle but couldn't raise a
movement. Whatever she was doing with her fingers seemed to
paralyse me.
She kept the pressure on my neck, holding me still, grabbed
my stiff penis with her other hand, raised her haunches,
and eased herself back so that she was sitting at the top
of my thighs. "Now then, big man," she said, flexing her
strong fingers around my erection. "Your insolence will
cease from this moment. You will call me Mistress, and you
will learn to do as I say. Your raw strength is of no use
to you." She pressed a thumb against my penis and it bowed
under pressure. "I can bend you to my will. I can take you
whenever I choose."
She lifted herself, positioned her vagina against the head
of my dick, and slowly impaled herself. I looked at her,
down the length of my body, feeling the slide of a slick,
warm tunnel, but unable to apply even a thrust of my own.
She settled and closed her eyes. "You are big," she said
softly. Her head bent forward, and her fingers slipped from
jabbing into my throat. Power surged back into my blood and
I pushed up into her in a violent thrust, simultaneously
meeting impulsive urges to fuck her senseless and to regain
control. Instantly the fingers were back, and the power
drained away.
"Close," she said, a little smile on her mouth. "A trained
man might have overcome me in my momentary weakness. But
you are not trained. Your blood races, and you think only
with this." I felt myself being clutched quite fiercely,
like the strong grip of two fists. She smiled again. "The
Zhan Zuang woman's body is strong everywhere," she said.
She clenched me again. I tried to speak but found I could
not. "You are the only man at this place," she said. "These
women are young and strong, and some have been here for
months. Many will want you, not least because your penis is
large and potent by Chinese measure. I offer you the
incentive of freedom if you can win. I will offer them the
incentive of your body if they can win. You will refuse
none. If you do, I will allow them to use their training
and their power to take you anyway, just as I am taking you
now. Knowing the way of my students, they may choose that
method in any case."
I did my best to express protest with my eyes. "It's not so
bad, Mr. Dyson," she said. "In the contests, you will never
be hurt more than temporarily. Every night you will have
women in your bed. And every night, after they leave, you
will come to me for further instruction and correction."
She laughed, the first time I had seen her do so. "You will
learn a great deal about the culture of Chinese women, Mr.
Dyson, I promise you. The arrogant gweiloh will be humbled
and justice will be done."
She clenched me once more, then lifted herself up and away.
My penis fell over wetly on my stomach, throbbing from the
attention but unfulfilled. The fingers were taken away from
my neck and I could move again.
"Get up, Mr. Dyson," she said. "It's time to meet the
students."
* * *
I woke in gathering darkness. What? Where? A dull ache in
my chest reminded me. I sat up, shaking my head to clear
it. I was on a narrow bunk bed with a hard mattress and no
sheets or pillows. The room had no windows, no decoration.
Nothing in it except the bed.
Outside, a muted and blurred noise, uneven but constant. I
felt my chest gingerly. Ouch, fuck. That little Chinese
slut had hit me like a sledgehammer. So small, so light,
but so fast. I hadn't had any time to react. Wham, bam,
thank you, Mr. Gweiloh, and down you go. One fight, one
loss. Now I'd have to fight again.
I stood and realised I was still naked. What the fuck did
you have to do to get some clothes around here? I trudged
over to the door and opened it.
Bright lights and a sea of people, all talking. The noise
was incredible. I blinked and the dull roar died away. My
eyes adjusted to the banks of fluorescent lights and I saw
a hundred heads turned in my direction, looking at me. It
was a long dining room and the students were eating. They
were lucky. They were dressed in identical faded grey
tunics tied at the waist. I retreated into the bedroom,
shut the door, sat on the bed, and waited for something to
happen.
After a minute or two, the door opened and two women came
in. The smaller one, hanging back, smiled shyly at me.
Vicious bitch. It was she who had decked me.
The taller addressed me in less than perfect English. So
sorry, she said. My opponent misjudged my body weight and
hit me too hard. I had been checked by the college doctor
and I was fine, apart from some chest bruises. She held out
a garment to me - one of the grey tunics. Would I like to
eat?
I took the tunic and slipped it on. It barely overlapped
and reached only to the top of my thighs. I was only just
decent. Certainly I could not sit down to dinner in it as a
gentleman should. The woman shrugged as I tied the belt. It
was the largest size they had.
I hadn't eaten in 24 hours, my beard was rough, and I was
grimy. She agreed to my request to clean myself up, and
spoke to the little fighter, who nodded and scuttled out
the door.
The woman, who seemed to be senior in some way, led me to a
bathroom of sorts. It was large and concrete, and the
shower stalls were open and uncurtained. The little woman
returned, bearing my toilet kit. Both stood, waiting, and I
could see that I would be given no privacy, so I turned on
the shower. Cold. Well, what else did I expect? I shucked
my mini-tunic and shaved blindly and as fast as I could
under the shower while my two minders watched. I towelled
dry, put on the tunic and felt much better. "Now," I said
to the taller woman, "some tucker would be useful."
The dining room was now empty, but they rustled me up some
steamed vegetables and rice, and it was adequate. "Now," I
said, "where do I sleep?"
That got me a stony look. "In the room you rested in
earlier," the woman said.
"That's not a room," I complained. "It's a bare prison
cell."
"It's my room," she said. "I gave it up for you, and now
I'm sleeping in one of the dormitories."
"Oh. Sorry."
"You won't be sleeping there, anyway," she said, sullen
resentment plain on her face. "Mistress has left
instructions."
"Then take me to your Mistress," I said. "I'm due a good
night's sleep."
"Not yet, Mr. Dyson. You have business to attend to with
Meng." She slid her eyes to the other side of the table,
where the younger woman was trying to keep a grin off her
face. Oh yes. The incentives plan. I was obliged to give
her a lusty poke because she had knocked me out cold in the
contest.
Fuck me dead. I was dog-tired, bruised, and uninterested.
But I was committed, if I wanted to get out this place in a
hurry, so I tried not to show it. I winked at her, and she
covered up a girlish giggle with her hand. Hmm. Maybe I
could slip her a quickie, and then I could get some much-
needed rest. I got to my feet, took her hand, and towed her
to the mattress room. The other woman watched us sourly.
Well, it was her mattress, I guess.
"Now, missy," I said to her after I closed the door and
switched on the single fluorescent light, knowing she
couldn't understand me, "let's see if you can light a spark
for me." I hooked a finger into the belt of her tunic and
tugged. The robe jerked open, and I saw a flash of black
pubic hair before she snatched it closed.
"Far too late in the day to be coy," I said, prying her
hands away. "Besides, you forfeited your right to chivalry
when you knocked me out." The robe hung open. She was naked
underneath, unsurprisingly. It was a way of life around
here. She blushed. Didn't know Chinese women blushed, but I
did now.
"Take it off, sweetheart." She looked at me blankly. I
forgot I was talking to myself. I gestured impatiently and
after a small hesitation she eased the tunic from her body
and stood under the harsh white light for my inspection.
Not bad. Short, and a little stocky with it. But not bad.
Milk-white skin so pale I could see the slight tracing of
blue veins in her small breasts. They were pointed and
conical, emerging straight out from her chest with no
concession to gravity. That made her look young. Maybe she
was young. I had no idea how to judge age in these women. I
couldn't even ask.
Wisps of black hair poked from her armpits. She had short
legs, very Chinese. Broad in the hips, and there was that
classic Chinese black rug keeping her pussy warm.
I looked up at her face, studying her for the first time.
Sweet. I'd have said innocent if I didn't know otherwise.
She was wearing a little frown of concern.
"No worries, little doll," I said. "I'm interested. Let's
play hide the sausage, and maybe this time I'll get to
finish the game."
I threw off the tunic. My erection stuck out eagerly, and I
could see her thinking it was a big deal. But that's what
she'd come for. Not just that, of course. I was strange and
different from anything she knew, and - to be honest - I
was the only man she'd seen for a fair while.
I ran a lazy finger around the base of one of her breasts,
grazing a thumb over a small but hard brown nipple. She
reached out timidly and touched my hard penis, running a
delicate finger along its length. She curled her hand
around it, squeezed lightly, and looked up at my face with
a trace of a smile.
I steered her gently to the bed and sat down, not letting
her hand disconnect from my erection. I placed my hands
around her waist and flipped her up on my lap facing me.
Wow. She was as light as a feather. Her eyes, now level
with mine, looked at me in astonishment. She'd never had
this treatment before, that was obvious. I guided her
buttocks with my hands, searching. Ah. Yes. There she was.
I could feel her wetness on the head of my shaft. I slipped
her down firmly, further, further, and at last she was
impaled. Zhan Zhuang could not help her here.
I slid her body up and down, then up and down again. Oooh,
the shape of her mouth said. She rested her hands on my
shoulders. Once more, slide up, slide down. And again,
slide up, slide down. She grinned. I think she was pleased
with herself.
I stopped and looked over my shoulder at the door. This
time, maybe, without interruption? But there was no noise,
no twist of the handle. I looked back at little Meng and
winked at her. She pushed her pelvis at me and winked back.
Who needs language?
I quickly discovered Meng was a moaner. Maybe all Chinese
women are. I'd never gotten far enough into it to find out.
Meng started up with the noise pretty well right away. With
head back, eyes squeezed shut, alternately clasping my
shoulders and scraping my back, she was wailing like a
divine wind.
"You know," I said casually, stroking long and slow, "you'd
make a superb porn film star. They teach you this here at
the Zhan Zhuang Women's University?"
The ZZ word had some impact on her. She opened her eyes,
grinned at me again, and started squeezing me with her
vagina. Clever. She was like a vacuum cleaner down there.
The gripping effect threatened to bring me undone in a
flash, so I changed technique and started slamming her
against me hard and fast.
Ai-ya! The wailing and thrashing redoubled. Her climax
arrived like a falcon swooping from the sky. Either that or
I broke something inside her, because she issued a loud,
long, ear-shattering, blood-curdling scream. I think people
heard it in Hawaii.
The typhoon finished me off. Surrounded intimately by such
raw and exciting enthusiasm, I shot buckets into her. And
was instantly overcome by tiredness and lethargy. I lay
back on the pillows, pulling her beside me. I stubbed my
nose into her humid neck and fell asleep.
* * *
A hand on my hip was pushing me insistently, and I opened
my eyes and looked around blearily. "No sleep," said the
tall, thin woman with an element of spite. "The Mistress
sends for you."
Little Meng woke with a guilty start and scuttled out from
beside me. She reached for her tunic, looked apologetically
at the woman, and headed for the door. There she turned,
flashed me a huge grin for my benefit alone, and left.
Wen Shu Ma could not have been looking less magisterial.
Rank obviously had its privileges in the teaching of Zhan
Zhuang, because her three-roomed apartment was positively
palatial in comparison to the dormitories. She was wearing
a black silk gown embossed with gold dragons, her hair was
pinned back, and she was sitting at a desk reading through
large round spectacles from a bundle of papers.
She waved me vaguely to an armchair while she signed
scratchily at documents with an expensive-looking old-style
fountain pen. I sank back into the chair in the half-light,
grateful for the lack of the accursed fluorescents, and
took stock of this strange woman who had me imprisoned.
The gown was night attire, and it had a long slit that
showed her strong leg to advantage. She appeared to be
wearing no make-up, or at least nothing overt. I still
could not pin down her age. I knew she could not be young,
but I had no idea how old. Nothing about her, including her
body, suggested age limitations. I guessed she was around
40, but it was no more than a blind guess.
She looked up suddenly from her papers. "I sense you
studying me," she said, with a thin smile. "What would you
like to know?"
"To be honest, Mistress, I was wondering how old you are."
The smile broadened. "Does it make a difference?"
"I know you are older than you look," I said. "I am
curious."
"I am certainly older than you, Mr. Dyson. I was married,
once, to an Englishman. He was an airline pilot and we
lived in Shanghai. He died in a road accident. I will miss
him for the rest of my life."
"And I remind you of him," I said.
She chuckled. "You gweilohs are monstrously arrogant."
"But I do, don't I?"
"Yes," she admitted, amused.
"That's why I'm here. Tonight. In your room. With you."
"Perhaps that is part of it," she said. "I will be frank
with you, Mr. Dyson. I am surprised to find within myself a
well of desire. It has been a long time since I knew a man,
and I had thought it all to be in my past. Today I meant to
teach you a lesson about power and control. But I learned a
lesson myself, and the taste of it was enough to make me
want more. That's why you are here."
"You take risks, Mistress. I have already been with a woman
tonight. Why do you assume I will co-operate, or indeed
that I am able?"
She looked away, screwed the cap on the pen, and stood up.
"Why do you assume you have any choice in the matter?"
She said it so calmly, so self-assuredly, that I shivered.
"You think you can force me to screw you?"
"You need another lesson, Mr. Dyson, and I will be
delighted to teach it to you. I had not thought to use my
power for sexual purposes, but now that I have, I find it
intoxicating." She stood beside my chair, looking down at
me. "Resist me," she said softly. "It will be all the
better that way."
Truthfully, I was torn. On the one hand, it was humiliating
to be treated as a mere tool to service her desires. Ace
Dyson was a free spirit. On the other, it was exquisitely
erotic. Ace Dyson was a jaded adventurer, and this was
different.
"You avoided the question," I said. "How old are you,
Mistress?"
She chuckled. "If you please me, perhaps I will tell you.
Now, my strong young gweiloh, stand up and take off that
jacket."
The game had started. "And if I decline?"
Two fingers pinched out flesh in a place above my shoulder
blade, and it hurt instantly and intensely. "How much do
you like pain, little brother?" she murmured.
I stood up hastily and shed the tunic. "Not much at all,
older sister."
"Get into bed," she said. Not such a bad deal. It was a
real double bed with sheets, pillows, and blankets. No bare
mattresses for the Mistress.
She sat on the bed beside me, folded back the sheet and
looked at my body. She ran a hand down my chest and
stomach. "If you were a horse," she said, "you'd fetch a
high price."
"Is that a compliment, Mistress?"
"In China? You know it is." She cupped a hand around my
genitals. "My husband was a little bigger, but you will do
very well."
"Unfortunately, it won't do at all," I said. "It's just not
standing up for the occasion. Blame Meng, your student."
"Don't worry, little brother, it will." Her fingers were
working, pressing in a way that was strange to me. Her
other hand was working in my groin. And just as she
forecast, without any effort by me, it swelled, fattened,
and stood up to be counted. In five seconds it was as hard
as it could be.
"Pretty useful, this Zhan Zhuang," I commented. "There
seems to be a move for any occasion."
"More useful than you think," she said, standing up. She
unbuttoned the silk gown and eased it off her body. I
looked carefully with an educated eye, trying once more to
fix an age on her. No sag anywhere. Her breasts were so
flat I couldn't judge. Those long, thin nipples were
standing out rigidly. There was no doubt she meant
business.
She knelt on the bed astride my body. "Like today, I
think," she said. "Just like today." And before I had a
chance to prevent it, her hand snaked out and pressed on
the nerve in my neck. Again all power to move drained away.
I could do nothing but watch. Wen Shu Ma, the Zhan Zhuang
Mistress, was totally in control.
She grabbed my erect penis and simply stuffed it into her
vagina, slowly sinking down on it. She lifted her head and
closed her eyes, and I thought I saw her shoulders tremble.
She started to move, not up and down but side to side,
wriggling and squirming rather than pushing and pulling.
Then around and around, occasionally lifting slightly and
sinking back. Her eyes snapped open and she looked down at
me. "Very good, little brother," she said silkily. "It
builds quickly, like new. The juices flow and I am a young
girl again."
I couldn't speak if I wanted to. Technically, this was
rape. Her eyes were closed once more, and she was shaking
and quaking towards fulfillment. She put out a stiff arm on
the bed to maintain control, and her head was hanging down.
But she'd learned earlier in the day, and the three fingers
remained jammed in my neck.
She was muttering savagely in Mandarin, but she made no
real noise, certainly unlike Meng. More bumps, grinds, and
slides, and suddenly her head snapped back and she went
rigid. I looked in fascination at her long nipples extended
like tiny fingers.
She slumped forward, and her arm came off the bed. She
swept the flat of her hand slowly across my chest. "You
give me dark and illegal thoughts, gweiloh," she said, her
black eyes fixing on mine. "I am thinking about keeping you
here forever."
She took her hand away from my throat, collapsed forward,
and rolled me over with skill and strength so that I was on
top of her, but still embedded within her. "That was all
for me," she said. "Now you must address your own need."
Strength was flooding back in a tidal wave. I pumped into
her with powerful thrusts, released from thrall. She
watched my face, and she was wearing a flat, almost cruel,
smile.
"Uh," I said, panting, but compelled through training, "no
protection. Uh, pregnant, maybe."
"There is no need," she said.
I surged, blood racing, and released the tide that had been
held back. She watched, cool, smiling.
Somehow I knew I couldn't lie down on her body. It didn't
seem right. I held myself above her, recovering.
"You wanted to know my age," she said with malicious glee.
"Little brother, I am 63."
Fuck me dead. I was a granny-fucker. I tried enormously
hard not to show a reaction on my face.
She laughed harshly. "Sleep with me in my bed. That is an
order. It's a long time since I slept beside the warm body
of a man."
I rolled away. Okay, it beat sleeping on that bare
mattress. I was tired, and sleep was close. So was she,
turning away and backing into me contentedly. I didn't
think about her, who she was, and how old she was. Didn't
want to. She was the Zhan Zhuang Mistress, and she could
bring me great pain.
* * *
I opened my eyes in daylight, and my first thought was that
it was time to get the hell out of this place. The second
was that I was being watched.
I rolled over. Wen Shu Ma was sitting on the edge of the
bed, dressed in her blue boiler suit. "Passion belongs to
the night," she said quietly. "In the morning, we remember
our duties and responsibilities."
"Which means?"
"It means I must send you back to your own world, perhaps
tomorrow or the next day. The temptation is strong, but I
cannot use you to regenerate myself. It is an illusion, and
I am too old not to know it."
She sure as hell did not look 63. "So my presence is no
longer required?" I asked.
"On the contrary, Mr. Dyson. Today you will continue to
test the skills of my pupils, and tonight you will return
to me."
"Ah," I said. "The tigress still has an appetite."
"Assuredly. I exercised strong discipline when I woke this
morning, because my immediate inclination was to take you
again."
"Why didn't you? You proved you can."
She smiled bleakly. "You are strong and vital, and I am
greedy for you. But you are only a man and you will burn
out. Besides, you have other duties and I must not be
selfish." She stood up, business-like. "Now get out of bed,
my young lover. You may use my bathroom to prepare for the
challenging day ahead."
God knows I should have been daunted by the day's
prospects. But rested, shaved, showered, and fed, I made my
appearance on the field of combat an hour or so later
cheerful and optimistic. The worst that could happen would
be further losses to an endless line-up of little sheilas.
So what? I had been so far down the road of humiliation in
the last few days that it scarcely mattered. And besides, I
could always re-assert my masculinity after dark. I looked
for Meng. She grinned and blushed. Yep. That was
confirmation.
My first opponent was a stocky, thick-set woman. She was
not pretty. Not even close. Further, she sported a line of
muscles in her back, suggesting less than traditional
feminine hobbies and pursuits. Her breasts were flat and
uninteresting, and she had a wild growth of wiry hair in
her groin. She bowed to me formally, but she had an eager
look in her slitted eyes.
I waited, standing loose and relaxed, while she
disappeared, trance-like, into Zhan Zhuang position number
one. All around sat the students, naked, cross-legged.
Behind me stood the Mistress, the only person not naked. My
opponent would soon charge me, and suddenly I did not feel
like losing. I couldn't fight her on Zhan Zhuang terms.
What did I know that she didn't? Ah, yes. Rugby Union
football.
The gong sounded. Once more she bowed at me. She took a
deep breath, then swiftly attacked. Three paces away she
launched into the air. It was like tackling practice at
football training, and I'd tackled men three times heavier
than this short girl. I gave way, backing off, giving her a
soft, defensive body to collide with instead of a hard and
aggressive one. I held out my arms and took her in,
catching her while falling backwards to the ground.
Whatever she intended didn't happen. Instead, we were both
rolling on the ground. A hairy snatch appeared directly in
front of my face. Instinctively, I poked my tongue stiffly
right into it.
She shrieked and twisted away, bounding to her feet,
looking at me in confusion and consternation. Several
students in the nearest rank laughed and clapped. The
Mistress spoke sharply, the laughing stopped, and the girl
retreated to her starting position. She bowed stiffly to
me.
"No result," said the Mistress for my benefit. "She will
try again."
My opponent adopted her trance position once more. Dear
God, did I really have to slug her to put a stop to this?
In the sky, suddenly, swooping over the rooftops of the old
convent, a low-flying helicopter appeared as if by magic.
It flew directly over us, the noise deafening, wind whipped
up by its spinning blades. All heads craned up. A
helicopter? Out here? What the fuck?
The chopper, a small one with Chinese commercial markings,
banked sharply, turned back, and fluttered in to land 50
metres away in the middle of the lawn. The students were
all standing, nonplussed.
The blades slowed, the engine slowed to an idle, and a door
slid open. The pilot jumped athletically to the ground and
started walking towards us, a slim figure in flying boots,
worn brown leather pants, jacket and cap, wearing mirrored
sunglasses that flashed reflected sunbeams.
The pilot took off the flying cap and shook out a crop of
blonde hair. Jesus Christ on roller skates. It was Ruth
Allison Webster, brevetted full-bird Colonel, USAF
(retired). The boss. Never a mistress, but always the boss.
The Colonel looked around at the assemblage. "Morning,
Dyson," she said conversationally. "This nudist camp
holiday is over. It's time for you to get back to work."
Wen Shu Ma stepped forward, placing herself in front of me.
"This man is in my official custody," she said. "Who are
you to defy the court of the People's Republic of China?"
I stepped to the side, between them. "Colonel Ruth Webster,
Chief Executive of the Pacific Rimfire Corporation," I
said. "Meet Wen Shu Ma, magistrate, and the Mistress of
Zhan Zhuang."
No hands were extended. The Colonel casually removed her
sunglasses, and their eyes locked. "The court order is null
and void," she said. "I have the paperwork in my aircraft,
but I know you'll take my word for it."
"He is bound here by his own word," the Mistress countered.
"Ask him."
The colonel did not bother to shift her stony, green-brown
eyes. "His word means nothing unless I sanction it," she
said. "Ask him."
"He can leave if and when he manages to beat one of my
pupils in unarmed combat," the Mistress said. "But not
before."
The Colonel laughed her trademark short bark. "Shame on
you," she said. "Dyson can't fight his way out of a paper
bag. Pick on somebody who can."
"Like you?" the Mistress sneered. "A woman from the softest
nation on earth?"
The Colonel sighed and turned her head to me. "Now look
what you've done," she said. "This woman challenges me to
fight over you. Don't tell me you've been screwing the old
bag."
Wen Shu Ma twisted her head sharply to me, looking to know
my response. And at that moment, the Colonel hit her with a
lightning-bolt straight right hand, directly over the ear.
The Mistress dropped like a stone, out cold.
The Colonel put on her sunglasses. "Get in the chopper,
Dyson," she said.
"Er, my suitcase," I said. "My clothes."
"Now," she said. "We're out of here."
I snatched up my grey tunic and slipped it on as I walked
with her to the helicopter. Behind us, nobody moved.
"Here," said the Colonel, opening her right hand and giving
me a heavy three inch bolt. "Take this."
"Jesus," I muttered. It was like a lump of lead. No wonder
she hit like a howitzer.
"The Art of War, by Sun Tzu," she said. "Never fight a
battle on your opponent's terms. Always give yourself an
advantage. Funny, it was written in this country 1500 years
ago. You'd think they'd know it by now."
She was a marvel. "I'm amazed to see you here," I said.
"Your interpreter flew back to Beijing and confessed all,"
she said. "Fortunately, I've developed some useful
government contacts, but it was quicker to deal with the
problem myself."
We climbed into the helicopter and she cranked up the revs.
"One day you'll have to tell me what went on here," she
shouted above the noise. "But not today. You've cost me
more money to fix this than I want to think about."
The chopper lifted into the air and she skirted the convent
tower by an alarmingly close margin as she hurled the craft
into forward motion. "I love these babies," she yelled.
"Think I might get one of my own."
The College of Zhan Zhuang disappeared behind us as the
helicopter flew towards the horizon. The Colonel looked
across at me. "Fasten your seat belt, Dyson," she said.
"And for heaven's sake, try to make yourself decent."
I tugged at the tunic in vain. The seat, the angle, the
motion of the chopper. I couldn't manage to cover my
exposed genitals.
"Sorry, ma'am," I said. "You'll just have to put up with
me."
"Ain't that the truth," she said.
ENDS
===========================================================
* The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from)
comments and opinions from readers and is invariably
motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com
The Stories of DrSpin are at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www
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--
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