New York (the present)
As I work the right arm, the outbursts of shrieks become a continuous moan of agony, the bamboo turning ever so slightly. This evidences surrender... and exhaustion. No more energetic outbursts. Well experienced, I am careful to avoid an outright tear of the ligaments. Such would debilitate. Such would require medical attention. In Guangdong Penitentiary such would mean rest and recuperation. Yes, I avoid tearing.
In the midst of a very slow turn I hear a determinative gasp of joy and a gurgle. I look to see my client is grasping his companion’s head with zeal, his own head slumped back, eyes closed. The companion... termed a twink... has admirable oral skills, keeping my client at the brink throughout my qiufan’s ordeal. The twink gently rights the man’s privates, pushing through the zipper and closing. He then obediently stays in place as my client recovers.
With the release, his interest in my show, the ultimate in power exchange, fades. If I know men... and I do... he will need a drink. Perhaps whiskey at a nearby gay bar, his leashed twink kneeling at his side.
“I’ll be going. Will you finish her?” my client inquires, rising from the large well stuffed chair and pointing to the twink’s clothing for him to dress.
“You can let yourself out. There is more for my qiufan, yes,” maintaining the tormenting hold on the tightening stick of bamboo.
“Maybe I should better ask... will your qiufan finish you?”
“That need not be told... and is not part of the exhibition,” my voice stern.
I can be authoritative with my clients. There is no other place in New York to be so entertained. And besides, as a hater of women, the man would have no real interest in me ‘finishing’ my qiufan... or in she ‘finishing’ me.
“For her,” reaching to his wallet, extracting some bills.
“That is not necessary. My qiufan needs pain and humiliation... not money.”
The man nods, takes up the leash and leads his twink to the door.
There is no clock, but I know I have worked my qiufan’s joints for hours. The bamboo sticks of the legs and left arm remain applying tension. I stabilize that of the right arm then step to my qiufan’s head. There are tears. She sobs. Such catharsis. My hands return to her breasts, soothing.
“It disturbs that I no longer torture you alone?”
“It’s... it’s... different, shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe,” the voice straining, the suffering diminished yet remaining.
“Different good? Adding to your shame and humiliation?”
“I miss you, kuxing zhe,” emphasis on ‘you’.
“I noticed your nails have not grown back. That is common. A third removal is rarely needed. The fingers... they too surrender. But I have a linzhong chuang,” (death bed). “I will contact your benefactor. You can lie on it.”
“Please, kuxing zhe!”
“Please yes... or please no? Not that it matters. Your benefactor will decide. But the linzhong chuang requires much time to be appreciated. Your benefactor may miss you.”
I step away. Being a well experienced kuxing zhe, I know my qiufan is entering a stupor. With the hours of excruciating suffering the body capitulates, telling the cerebral cortex to shut down. I go to the bucket of water, the ice not yet fully melting. A wet freezing cold cloth will revive.
In returning, about to cleanse her sweat covered nakedness, I hesitate. My qiufan is in a dream like state, talk of the death bed bringing memories. Pleasant? Only the masochist can explain.
Guangdong (two years past)
“You’ve been assigned a private cell... large. Her benefactor has influence. You know of the standard indoctrination procedures... Guandong Penitentiary orientation,” the warden smiling wickedly.
“Yes, warden... hair and nails” the kuxing zhe replies.
“There is a linzhong chuang in the cell. Use it. Do not release her until broken... hairless... and declawed. And if teeth become a problem, let me know. She won’t be the first American girl needing to be defanged.”
“Yes, warden.”
And so goes Marcia Clark’s introduction to her kuxing zhe... to be her shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.
“Come,” a hand reaching, fingers grasping the left mammary gland.
The grip is firm and convincing. Marcia Clark, gasps but follows as her kuxing zhe leads from the warden’s office.
“You do not need to know my name. I know yours but will not use it. I know almost everything about you. And what I do not know you will tell me. We will be spending much time together. Everything you need... torture included... will come from me,” the woman in the drab gray pullover dress explains as the duo travel the concrete hallways of the prison.
Marcia Clark, in fear, keeps her hands to the back of her head. On a occasion they pass a guard, the male guards gazing lasciviously at her nakedness.
“They will not touch you,” the kuzing zhe advises to comfort. “But in deference I will teach you how to properly smile for them. It shows respect.”
Reaching a large enclosure, three walls of cement, no windows, the fourth a facade of steel bars, Marcia is led inside.
“In an American prison, I would be considered a trusty, an inmate given privileges for good behavior. My good behavior comes from utilizing my skill set... the application of pain... without compunction.”
With the frightening words, Marcia peers about. There is a comfortable bed and a curious horizontal board, wide and some eight feet in length. There is an opening of size in the middle. Ominously at the corners of the plank there are sizable eye bolts with attached straps.
“That is where you will sleep,” noting her qiufan’s gaze. “And eat... and pass away all your time... until you are broken... as the warden suggested.”
“But... but... there’s....”
“No padding, yes. This is Guangdong Penitentiary... not a hotel. No more speaking. It is termed the linzhong chuang... death bed. There have been prisoners shackled to it for the remainder of their lives. You will not be one of them. Perhaps though you will wish you were. The hole is for your buttocks. You will defecate and urinate into the bucket below. No need to be released for toilet... until you break. I will feed you and bathe you. As trusty, I do not handle your waste bucket.”
Marcia is guided to sit on the board, propped up on legs some two feet off the cell floor.
“After you are hairless and declawed... broken... the xingxun shi... torture chamber... is down the hall. There you will perform for me.”
The kuxing zhe smiles in seeing the look of horror.
“Your hands, qiufan. We don’t use manacles here. Expensive... and when in long term bondage can chafe the skin. Such can bring infection.”
An overwhelmed Marcia Clark, in a trance of bewilderment, obediently offers her hands. Her kuxing zhe isolates the right thumb, pressing a solid steel ring to it then encircling both ring and appendage with a small hose clamp. She tightens the hose clamp with a special tool.
“So we use hose clamps, cost some thirty cents in American money. And very effective. When needing to bind thousands of prisoners there are savings... and no need for keys,” the explanation coming as the left thumb is similarly encircled.
“Lie down, buttocks over the opening, hands above your head.”
Obedience again, Marcia hears a click, click as the rings adhered to her thumbs are quickly clipped to the straps overhead.
“You are a good qiufan. Very obedient. Now your toes.”
Working with alacrity Marcia’s big toes are clamped, rings attached. Two clicks come as such are restrained to straps at the button corners of the linzhong chuang.
“Retribution... my qiufan. Your benefactor is very determined. You must tell me what you have done to earn such special... and expensive... treatment,” the words come as the kuxing zhe moves about the four corners of the board tightening each strap to leave Marcia in four point restraint.
“I cannot move!”
“Yes, we make it nice and tight for our qiufans here at Guangdong Penitentiary. And you must address me as your kuxing zhe. Better shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe... revered torturer.”
“Yes Ma’am. But what if I need to... ah... use the toilet?”
“As I said, there is a bucket under the opening where you will move your bowels and urinate. There will be no need for you to move. And it is best that you be tightly bound. I am going to remove your nails... fingers and toes. You heard the warden. You are to be declawed. One per day. In three weeks you’ll be without nails... no scratching. And endure immense pain... and for sure addressing me as shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.”
Marcia begins to sob. Her kuxing zhe steps away and returns with a soft paper towel, gently brushing away the tears, her tender touch anomalous.
“Now tell me... explain the determination of your benefactor.”
