New York (the present)
“My client enjoyed your exhibition, qiufan. And your song,” the freezing cold sponge bath reviving. “Therefore you have once again pleased your kuxing zhe.”
“Thank you, shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.”
“Perhaps some more twists. The legs. No client... you’ll just sing for me.”
“If you’d like, kuxing zhe. I want to please you. The chauffeur will wait.”
My suggestion was a test... of my qiufan’s masochism. Her need to offer herself to me remains ingrained. Mentally and emotionally I have tested her limits and there is more to be tolerated. But she needs to be able to walk. I know the physical limits of stretching the ligaments. It is the experience and training of the kuxing zhe to understand when the application of intense pain turns to damage. It is essential to what I do. One cannot torture the debilitated.
Instead I move to stand between her upturned legs, thighs widely parted, her sex beckoning beneath her rose bud opening, her pink flesh welcoming. Once again I penetrate, two fingers gliding inward with ease. My qiufan remains lustfully wet. She sings for me again... a low moan of delight.
“Does your benefactor masturbate you... permit masturbation?”
“No, kuxing zhe. I am watched... and... well... my hands are tethered at night.”
“So no relief... and therefor the pain remains being welcomed... cathartic for you. You are tormented?” my fingers working within her vagina.
I know her... know her most intimate feminine anatomy. She squirts, orgasm brings her to ejaculate. It amuses. One finger of my right hand pressing her ‘G’ spot, two fingers of my left massaging her clitoral hood, and I can make her erupt.
But I won’t. Just bring her close. Another form of torture.
“There is no fubu muban... no linzhong chuang... in my benefactor’s home.”
“And you have no marks... so there is no corporal punishment.”
“Correct, kuxing zhe.”
“I will again contact your benefactor. Remind him of your needs. That once broken a shou nue kuang (masochist) requires attention.”
“Thank you, shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe. May squirt I for you?”
“No,” cruelly withdrawing my hands and fingers. “Enough. Perhaps I will torture you again. I have a woman who may appreciate your skills... your level of tolerance. She pays well, in the past bringing a boy for her amusement. She may enjoy hearing a woman sing instead.”
I move to the wall switch, flipping to lower the belly board. My qiufan knows the session of intense pain has ended. Is she disappointed? With her benefactor withholding all forms of physical torment, with my fingers bringing her close to orgasm... she most likely is.
Such is the world of the masochist. There is addiction... to the rush of hormones brought about by her torturer. And such hormones surge with pain, abetted by the intensity of the humiliation in giving herself to the sadistic whims of a superior. It’s not that she wants to surrender... to submit. She must. No pain... no rush.
I release the rope encircling arms and legs. I know too well the surging circulation will bring an initial stab of renewed pain followed by welcomed warmth, motion momentarily strained. Plus there has been the deluge of hormones... my torment spurring endorphins and oxytocin. She is drained. I have drained her.
“Dress yourself and leave,” I succinctly advise, stepping from my xingxun shi.
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