Silver Tiger

He was introduced to me as Simon Tung when Peter brought me down in the elevator at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in downtown Singapore, both of us dressed for handball. He hadn’t been identified to me the previous day when he’d fucked me. That had been a simple rent-boy tension-reliever encounter; I was just a hole he wanted to fill. But I now figured that he was someone higher up in the ST Enterprises hierarchy than Peter Chau, who had hired me as a model, for this launching of the Silver Tiger luxury sedan. I hadn’t just been brought in off the street for Tung to fuck; they were paying big bucks for me to come in and do PR model work with their automobile launch. They’d paid extra for me to lay down for some bigwig—in this case, Simon Tung. Standing behind him was the same thuggish Asian guy, introduced merely as Bao, who had fetched me to Tung the previous day. Both Tung and Bao were dressed for handball too, so I assumed that was who Peter and I were going to be playing.

It wasn’t an unusual arrangement—the model’s ass going with the PR modeling—and my high-end escort agency liked it because it put the fee structure up front rather than someone trying to get the model to open his or her legs outside of the deal. I didn’t have much to say in the arrangement. I was employed to let clients fuck me.

Tung was not a chore to go under. He was a tall, muscular, handsome, and commanding figure. And, being partly Asian, he was something different from the usual for me. I could well imagine that he was senior in the business to Peter Chau, who was no slouch either in the presentable body sweepstakes. Both were half Asian and half something else. Peter told me later that Tung was from Macao and that his father was Chinese and his mother hailed from White Russian stock, many of the royal Russians having come down into China in the early twentieth century to escape the communist revolution there. Peter said his mother was Australian, his father Singapore Chinese. They both carried the mix well, although it was the taller, older, silver-haired Simon Tung who was the most commanding. He certainly had commanded me in his Mandarin Oriental Hotel suite the previous day. Tung had shown that he had much experience in using male prostitutes. Both men were hung, and I needed to be stretched to be in the mood, so that was fine. I’ll have to admit I wouldn’t have thought of Asians as being as well endowed as these two men were.

A sleek, black hotel limousine took the four of us to a nearby club with handball courts, Peter and I sitting across from Simon and his bodyguard, with Tung’s eyes boring into me, undressing me again as he’d done before, devouring me fully—as he had done fully, efficiently, and without any chatter the previous day. It had been as if sex with a man—on a man—was just part of his daily exercise. When he’d fucked me before, there was no chit-chat or niceties express. He commanded what he wanted me to do and he took me quickly and boldly.

I easily went hard for him. I should have been put off by the cold, clinical way Tung had fucked me, but I wasn’t. He had completely dominated me, speaking only in terse tones of how to position myself for his maximum penetration and pleasure, and I was a submissive for that. Sitting next to me, Peter, who had fucked me last night after I had returned from servicing Tung and had every reason to think I was here for him, sat, looking out at the pristine downtown area of the city state, apparently oblivious that I wasn’t meeting his boss for the first time.

“If you know how to play, as you say you do,” Peter had said up in his room before we’d come down in the elevator, “play convincingly, but lose.”

That’s when I knew we were off to meet someone who dominated Peter Chau, supposedly the chief of the ST Enterprise operations here in Singapore, just as he had dominated me in sex in the night.

So, here in the limousine, I was set to wondering if Peter, in fact, knew Tung had fucked me—and would fuck me again—and that I’d been hired as a model and brought to Singapore from L.A. just to stand beside his fucking new car for a few hours while he launched it in front of a motley group of Asians, Westerners, South Asians, and Arabs. It appeared that ST Enterprises intended to produce its knock-off, but hand-built Bentley lookalike limos worldwide.

The handball was high level, all of us playing like our lives were on the line and, even though I, in fact, was very, very good at the sport, Simon Tung and bodyguard Bao edged a win. They did so honestly. I sensed Tung wouldn’t take well to anyone throwing a game of anything for him. Tung insisted we all play bare-chested and we all were quite impressive that way. We all were noticeably hard from ogling and bouncing off each other, and we drew quite a crowd to the glass walls around the court of onlookers ogling us and some of them, in this men-only exclusive gym, going hard as well.

When we got back to the hotel, Tung asserted I would be going clubbing with him that night, and Chau showed his subservience by not objecting. He asserted a bit of his own position, though, by immediately taking me up to his room—which had become our room when I’d arrived, sent from his specifications by my L.A. escort agency, and he’d seen me—and fucked the stuffing out of me. Chau, very well built in his mid-forties, was athletic and esthetic in his fucking—and, as I’ve already noted, surprisingly well hung.

He claimed to be a practitioner of the male Kamasutra. That afternoon, he took me several ways: the lotus position, facing each other with me sitting in his lap and him deep inside me; moving to the Arch position, in the same penetration position, but me reclining away from him, with my shoulder blades pressed to the mattress; to the Crab position, with me raising my torso up, my palms on his knees. In all positions, he was mining me deep. He had little trouble keeping himself sheathed even in transitions between the positions.

Tung did take me clubbing that night, chauffeured by Bao, who drove one of the ST Enterprises new Silver Tiger sedans, which got as much, if not more, attention than the two of us did. He took me to a leather bar, where he gave me to three Russian studs to work over while he watched. He hadn’t asked if I could take two cocks in my ass and one in my mouth simultaneously, but I could and I did. Then he took me back to his suite at the Mandarin Oriental and fucked me doggy and missionary style that had none of the finesse and art but more of the power and testing than Peter Chau had displayed that afternoon.

To get the effect of what he’d watched the Russians do with me, he went between stretching me with just his huge cock. He got a thick dildo into the act as well. I was trained to take it, and take it I did. After the first fuck, I took his fist up to the wrist as well. He hovered over me in the dimly lit room and looked down into my eyes with his, showing that it was this fetish he enjoyed most—and he fucked me and fucked me and fucked me with his fist well beyond when I gave him my load and collapsed, panting and whimpering, into his full control.

If I wasn’t an experienced international call boy, the night would have, at the least, exhausted me, and, at the most, ruined me. But I was an experienced international call boy—of somewhat a unique, specialized nature—and I reveled in the attention from the two half-Asian hunks. I wouldn’t have been in this business if I wasn’t—or, rather, I wouldn’t have put myself into a position to be maneuvered into this business if I wasn’t randy for men like Tung and Chau. Each, in his own way, was quite satisfying to a trained and needy submissive.

They also both were paying well—and I was operating on higher orders than either one of them gave.

When I left Simon Tung’s suite that night to return to a snoring Peter Chau in his room, I managed to smuggle the glass Tung had been drinking his Glenlivet scotch from and handed it to the room attendant waiting in the corridor who was my contact to my on-site controller.

* * * *

The escort agency in Los Angeles was one that specialized in the sort of international gig that I was on in Singapore, the arrangements having been made in convoluted ways that I didn’t have to worry about. I was told how far from pure modeling I was to go. The gigs were special and sometimes were dangerous, but I didn’t have to set them up, nor did I have to find the escort agency myself. Some of the clients could prove to be quite interesting. I wasn’t sure initially that this one would, but it did. Being covered by hung men who were partly Asian was a new experience for me.

Ostensibly, and in the eyes of the puritanical authorities in Singapore, I was just here for the weekend to stand by the driver’s door, with a gorgeous blonde woman standing by the passenger door, of a flashy big, new sedan, being introduced to the world as a break into the international auto manufacture world at the top by a Hong Kong manufacturing consortium, ST Enterprises. I had been hired as the male counterpart of the gorgeous blonde model, under the theory that Asians loved blondes and that there were Asians who preferred males to ogle over women. I was just eye candy, the Singaporeans letting a foreigner in to just stand there next to a new luxury car model revolving on a platform in a hotel convention center—in this case the Singapore Mandarin Oriental—where auto distributers from all over the world had been brought in to help ST Enterprises get their Bentley-like cars on all of the best avenues on the globe.

I didn’t ask why a firm with headquarters in Hong Kong but presumably factories in China—and maybe fronting for China as well—was launching their new car in Singapore. Singapore, of course, was a very Chinese city, but I had no idea why luxury auto dealers from around the world would prefer to come there rather than Hong Kong, other than that there had been some unrest in Hong Kong in recent months over China’s control there. Regardless, it was no part of my brief to figure that angle out.

What I knew, though, that the puritanical authorities in Singapore didn’t, was that there were lucrative deals and “greasing the wheels with candy” issues involved in all of this that I, as male candy, and the other model, as female candy, were being brought in to help with. In short, I was supposed to sleep with dealers ST Enterprises deemed such candy was necessary to swing their sales deals. For this, a big, fat fee was levied.

In my case, the chief officer of ST Enterprises in Singapore also was into men. I had been hired to sleep with him when he wanted me to. By the time I had mounted the revolving platform for the first time in the lobby outside the Singapore Mandarin Oriental Hotel convention center, I’d been on the job for two days and had been fucked by a Greek, an Arab, and Peter Chau, the CEO of ST Enterprises Singapore.

In less than an hour trying not to get dizzy on the platform and working on maintaining a smile and a handwave, I met the cock of an even bigger ST Enterprises daddy than Chau, although I didn’t know his name or his importance until the following day when I was rousted out to play handball with him.

I was coming onto my first break, when a thuggish-looking Asian—but thuggish in a rather arousing way—approached me with an envelope in a card that gave me a hotel room key card, a time, and a note from Peter Chau to “be there and do whatever was needed.”

What the man, a handsome, well-built, gray-haired Asian-featured dude in his early fifties, but in gymed condition, wanted was everything. He met me at the door in just a red silk robe, flared open to show a muscular torso, low-hanging balls, and a magnificent erection, and holding a cigar in one hand and a glass with amber liquid in it—Glenlivet scotch, I later learned—in the other.

He laid me on my back at the foot of the bed, legs spread and buttocks raised, expertly and methodically ate me out, fucked me with his cigar, and then covered and mounted me, and power fucked me into the next day. He even got his fist in there.

The cigar was a surprise. He had me on my back at the end of the bed, naked, and the leaning over me, looking down into my eyes with his piercing gaze. A strong hand went to my throat, grasping and squeezing. I was fighting for breath, scared stiff of that look in his eyes, scrabbling at his hand with mine, but not able to shake the grip. Then, I suddenly had something else to think about altogether. I knew it was his cigar, because he had it in his other hand, gesturing with it, when he was crouching over me and choking, releasing, and choking me again, establishing control over my breath. The next thing I knew, the cigar was inside me. For the briefest moment, I thought it was going in lit end first—the lustful, nasty expression on his face would match that torture, but then I realized it wasn’t. I relaxed, getting the hang of his breath control, and he exchanged the cigar for a thick, long cock. He knew how to power fuck. The rest of the fuck was just a master class by an experienced man with a big cock and a flexing fist.

I gave him everything, thinking he was a particularly important ST Enterprises client. I found out the next day that he wasn’t—that he was the international CEO of ST Enterprises. I also found out when I reported in to my controller, that my employers were very, very interested in the international CEO of ST Enterprises and in what he and his conglomerate were up to beyond breaking into the luxury car market.

* * * *

My time on the platform with the Silver Tiger luxury sedan was bunched around the meal and cocktail hour breaks given to the dealers during their meetings on becoming distributors for the car. The main interest generated at the platform was around the noon hour. This was when I and the other model didn’t just stand there, pointing to the car, and pretending we were in love with it. That’s when I had to invite the distributors to come up onto the platform, in orderly fashion, and look the car over in detail—sit in it, look in the trunk and under the hood, hopefully love to it with their eyes, while I reeled off facts and figures about the automobile that I had memorized and had little idea what they meant other than I had to know them well enough to latch into questions about the car and provide half-way believable answers about its amazing capabilities.

If they wanted to touch me while I was demonstrating what the car could do, I was to allow that as well. If they were interested, they could make arrangements through the ST Enterprises desk to do more than touch, on a scale that went from sharing a meal, clubbing together, to bedtime sport. If they propositioned me—and more did than I thought would—I had a card to give them sending them off to someone else to make arrangements—or not.

By 1:30, the lobby of the convention space was deserted and I could bail out for a couple of hours to myself.

The day after the ST Enterprises International CEO worked me over so totally, I got a “to-go” sandwich meal from the hotel kitchen after my noon stint with the Silver Tiger on the platform and went for a walk. I took Elizabeth Walk into the Merlion Park all the way to the famous Merlion statue on the water and found an unoccupied bench facing the water to sit in.

I ate quickly because I wasn’t here just for the view. As I was finishing, a tall man in his middle ages, but fighting the effects of that well, with military bearing, a Marine crew cut, and a look of authority, approached the bench at a leisurely pace, stood there momentarily, taking the Merlion, the water, the city skyline, and me in, and gestured for permission to share the bench, which I acceded to, with a smile.

I was a rent-boy. It was natural for me to respond to any possible overtures from a man like him. Anyone watching who knew my purpose for being in Singapore would think that was natural. And that’s how I accepted his presence—with a smile, a bit of a slouch into the bench, with my legs spread, turned a bit toward him, putting an arm across the back of the bench to jut my very nice chest at him. I added a bit of a shy look. I hadn’t eaten my cookies. I offered one to the man and he took it and gave me a smile back. His arm went to the back of the bench too. It was quite possible to discern that his fingers touched the back of my head.

“Were you followed?” he asked me, keeping his voice low.

“I don’t think so, but in a city this crowded, how would I know for sure?” I answered. “I mean, Asians. One looks more or less alike.”

“Well, we’ll make this look like hookup negotiations,” Sam Winterberry, chief of the CIA’s Candy Store Unit, said. “I’m at the Raffles. You’ll spend a couple of hours this afternoon there with me. I’ll make an off-the-books offer for you right here that you can’t resist. We’ll go to the Raffles and I’ll screw you.”

I knew what that meant, and it didn’t mean that the entire time we’d be there would be taken up by my boss at the Agency briefing me on this operation. He didn’t have to declare that he would screw me for me to know he would. That was one way he controlled his agents—he mastered them.

“Is there anything in this?” I asked. Of course I wondered if this would be the loss of a long weekend in terms of intelligence value. ST Enterprises had rung enough bells in spy circles for the Agency to set up an insertion, the insertion being me. In its Candy Story Unit, the Agency combined the two oldest professions in the world—spying and whoring. It was just a reality that the quickest way to enlist and suborn intelligence from a foreign target was to give him or her what they wanted sexually and then control them with their desire or blackmail them into cooperation. The Agency had its tentacles into escort agencies across the world. When an opportunity arose to use them and insert one of their own prostitute agents, they did so. When the ST Enterprise need for a model and rent-boy in Singapore came up, the L.A. escort agency that was contacted offered them me. I wasn’t one of their regular rent-boys. I was a staffer in Sam Winterberry’s Agency unit.

“Paydirt,” he answered. “We don’t think it’s cars they’re selling, and it’s not the most important thing they are manufacturing. Both Peter Chau and Simon Tung are up to their eyeballs in illegal armament production and sales—quite possibly for the Chinese. The strange thing is that it was their use of the Silver Tiger name that drew our attention. There was a Chinese spy some years ago who used that name. He did a lot of damage to U.S. relations with Taiwan before he went to ground and wasn’t heard from again. We think Simon Tung might be our boy.”

“Did you get fingerprints off the glass I got from Tung’s room?” I asked.

“Yes. Simon Tung is a Chinese general from Szechuan province, Tung Shao-chuan. High up in the Chinese intelligence services. He’s a slippery character. We now think he is the Silver Tiger, a major Chinese agent from earlier years. We never managed to get his fingerprints then. As soon as we’d get him in our sights, he was wriggling away. Quite a find to pin him down here. Have you heard him or Chau mention the terms Dǎjí Huǒjù, or Striking Torch?”

“Not yet,” I said. “So far nearly all I’ve heard them talk about was the next position they wanted me in.”

“Fucking you a lot, are they?” he asked dryly.

“Both, like bunnies,” I said.

“Either one of them screw you really good?”

“Yes, both.”

“You got them salivating over you?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Good to know. Dǎjí Huǒjù, Striking Torch, are the Chinese and English names for a new, Chinese-manufactured handheld rocket launcher. From what we’ve been able to learn, it looks like that’s what they’re selling here, not a fancy new automobile. The car is just a blind in front of the real sales. We’re busy tracking down the buyers who have shown up. This looks like a gold mine for us. You’ll keep working it for as long as we can. Maybe we can recruit Tung or Chau through you.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Is that all for now?”

“No, that fucking isn’t all for now, and you fucking know it isn’t,” he said. His voice was gruff, but he was smiling. “We set this up to make it look like a hookup for anyone who is watching. So, that’s what it will be. We’ll go to the Raffles now.”

This didn’t surprise me a bit. Winterberry controlled all of his staff prostitutes with sex, and he was a master at the power fuck. And that’s how I spent the afternoon, in a room at the historic Raffles Hotel, on my knees and on my back and straddling the big boss’s gigantic erection and riding it into the sunset. I did everything he wanted, and he wanted it all.

Then I went back to the Mandarin Oriental. Peter Chau took me to dinner in the hotel restaurant and then to his room. There I went on my knees for him just as I had earlier for Sam Winterberry—and on my back. And I straddled his erection and rode him for a while too. His cock wasn’t as thick as Tung’s was, but it was longer, and he liked to drive it to the root. Sam Winterberry was bigger in all dimensions than either of them were. When we were done, Chau informed me that I’d be going clubbing with Simon Tung that evening.

All seemed to be settling in, with my antennae up to pick up anything I could to indicate what these men were really selling. As Chau showered, I used my minicamera to photocopy all of the papers on his desk, showing names and figures and addresses. I managed to pass the film to the same room attendant I’d give the glass with Tung’s fingerprints on it the night before, but that’s where my intelligence work ended for now.

* * * *

Tung wasn’t going clubbing that evening. He was flying out on a private jet for somewhere—and he was taking me with him. I didn’t think I’d been made. I didn’t think he was neutralizing my intelligence collection. I thought he just enjoyed fucking me and decided to take me with him when he left Singapore as a party favor. I had no idea where we were flying or even the direction we were flying in, and, of course, it all happened so suddenly and without informing me that I had no opportunity to let Winterberry’s people know what was happening. Wherever we were going and forever long it took, I spent the time on my back on a bed in a cabin in the private jet, with Tung doing pushups on me and vigorously giving me his cock. I became a member of the Mile High Club.

“Don’t worry,” Tung had said as I realized we were entering the airport, not a gay nightclub, “I’ve wired money to the Los Angeles escort agency to extend your contract.”

It wasn’t the L.A. escort agency I was worried about keeping track of me. The Chinese general Tung Shao-chuan most certainly was a slippery character.

* * * *

So, this was what it was like to join the Mile High Club, I thought as I lay on my back on the bed in the corporate jet, my knees hugging Simon Tung’s hips and my fingernails digging into his shoulder blades, He was crouching crouched over me, between my thighs, his hands on my throat, controlling my breathing as he had done in the Singapore hotel, as his eyes drilled into mine to take in my expressions of being totally taken. He was thickly inside me, my channel still struggling to stretch to accommodate him, and his hips moved, rapidly, violently. I struggled to relax enough to continue opening to him, wanting to fuse with him, needing to get the enjoyment out of this that he was taking from me. He fucked me deep in my central core, where few other men had reached, and I managed to open complete to him, to give him what he wanted, and to get what I needed for myself, given that I had no choice here.

He most certainly was a strong, virile, vigorous man for his age. I had taken many a man in service to my country—and before that—but Simon Tung was among the most masterful—and Sam Winterberry, as well. Men on different sides of criminality, but in many ways the same. Both cruel, but both totally satisfying. Neither, however, gave me enough regard to give me time to move together to the deep, vigorous fuck. Both of them went there before me, giving no regard to my needs.

He had barely finished and seemed to be contemplating whether he could manage another round—having fucked me all the way from Singapore more than a mile above the earth’s surface—when a knock on the door from Bao revealed that we were approaching Zhuhai Ziuzhou Airport. A questioning look from me elicited a “Macao” from Tung, as he rose off me and went to the shower in the small bathroom off the bedroom compartment. Bao remained at the door, looking at me, spread out, legs open, arms akimbo, well fucked, and I realized for the first time that he wanted to fuck me as well. His gaze had gone immediately to my openly exposed, gaping hole, spread wide by Tung’s thickness. There was no question that Bao wanted to dive into that himself. I closed my legs, and Bao looked away.

Macao, I thought. Hadn’t ST Enterprises’s own literature said the company was headquarters in Hong Kong? If so, and Winterberry and his operatives believed that was so, they were off the beam. Macao was just across the water from Hong Kong, but it was a world away from it when you were trying to pin an international criminal down. They were controlled by entirely different sets of Chinese Tong warlords, the mob bosses of China’s underworld that had been in play since the empire, before Communist rule.

I didn’t have time to contemplate further on this, being afraid that, even if Winterberry’s people figured out that Simon Tung was the reason I disappeared in Singapore and that he’d be taking me back to his base, they would look for me—and him—in the wrong place, before Tung was out of the shower, commanding me to shower and dress and be ready to leave the plane.

As the plane was taxiing into the small terminal, Tung told me that we weren’t actually in Macao and wouldn’t be going there—or Hong Kong, across the vast Pearl River bay from Macao, where the bay entered the South China Sea. We would be driving north, remaining on the Chinese mainland, to the city of Zhongshan, half way between Macao and the giant Chinese metropolis of Guangzhou, once known as Canton.

My anxiety was relieved somewhat as we were descending the stairs at the small airport and moving toward a couple of black Communist Chinese-brand Hongqi limousines and I was contemplating why Simon Tung wouldn’t be driving here in his own Silver Tiger-brand sedans. As we were coming down the stair, my eyes connected with those of a Chinese man in coveralls, holding a petrol hose and opening a flap under the jet we were leaving. I recognized him from an earlier operation in Taiwan as one of Sam Winterberry’s operatives.

I wasn’t as alone as I had thought I would be.

We drove through rural, but still heavily populated terrain, where small mudbrick houses, topped with red terracotta tiled roofs perched in corners of small rice fields but these areas interspersed with large factories and high-rise boxy apartment houses for about an hour. The cars slipped in through a guarded gate between two steep-sided hills that probably were hardened lava pillars of a volcano long ago eroded away, and there we were in a small valley, crammed with a large manufacturing plant with smoke billowing out of five tall smokestacks.

Our destination was an ancient Chinese compound that looked like a temple that was perched on a terrace a quarter of the way up one of the hills. It may once have been a temple complex, but it now was a mansion composed of a series of interconnected platform pavilions, colorfully painted, and with red-, orange-, and green-tiled roofs.

When we arrived at the temple compound in the late morning, Simon Tung left us, and Bao gave me a short tour of the pavilions. All of the attendants I saw in the complex were young, fit men—and not all Chinese. But they were all in olive-green military fatigues. I searched the face of every one of them I could. None of them were recognizable to me as one of Sam Winterberry’s men.

After the tour I was conducted to a stone-walled chamber under one of these pavilions and locked in. The roof was lush, Oriental carpeting on the floor, a large bed covered in a silk coverlet and piled with silk pillows, and tapestries on the walls. There was a commodious en suite bath. All very nice. But the windows, set high up on the walls, had bars on them and the door locked behind me. I was a prisoner as well as a guest.

I truly was on my own now.

* * * *

Bao came for me as the sun was coming down and escorted me to what must be the dining pavilion. Simon was there, dressed as a Chinese army general. I guess that decided who he was and what he represented. In settling that, part of my mission was fulfilled—if I could get the information to where it needed to go. I was seated at his right, or was knelt there. The table was low and we knelt on pillows. He was both attentive and affectionate to me, telling me what all of the many small dishes of food that were presented were. I had been given a silk robe, with nothing underneath it, to wear to the table. I presumed I was for dessert. It was my job to make him want me—and it probably was my hold on life to do so, so I concentrated on that. From time to time, he inserted a hand into the folds of the robe and gave me a feel here and there. When he did, I’d turn dreamy eyes to him and encourage him to kiss me—to want me.

Dessert didn’t happen that way, though. Before the small dishes—Simon had said this was dim sum, small portion dishes—stopped coming, Bao came to the edge of the platform and called Simon away. When he returned, he was decidedly frosty. He stayed only a few minutes more and rose and left without saying anything to me.

Bao came for me and rather roughly pulled me up from the table. He was backed up by two young soldiers. I made no attempt to struggle or break away, but he still manhandled me down from the platform and then into a door in the rock-walled base of one of the pavilions. I asked him what was wrong, but he refused to say anything.

Simon was there, waiting for us, stripped down to his military trousers, with high black-leather boots. He was glowering and had a many-stranded hand whip in his hand. His torso was magnificent. I did try to struggle now as I saw that Bao and the soldiers were going to strap me to an X-frame, facing the wall.

“No, no, this isn’t needed,” I cried out. “I’ve given you everything. You don’t need to . . .”

 Simon took a couple of steps toward me, backhanded me nastily across the face, snapping my head to the side, and that was that. I realized I was totally outnumbered and further resistance would be unnecessarily painful.

We got into the unnecessarily painful anyway.

I was bound, naked to the X-frame, and Simon whipped me on the back, buttocks, and thighs until I was sobbing and hanging on the frame. He toweled himself off, draped his army shirt around his shoulders, and left the sexual torture chamber without saying a word to me.

He did speak to Bao, though. “You may have him, then take him through the factory. Let him see all that he came to see, and then do it.”

So, somehow I was blown. Somehow Simon had been told who I worked for and why I had been thrown at him.

My eyes scanned the room. This was, indeed, a sexual torture chamber. All of the equipment needed to test someone sexually was here. For the first time, I saw that there was another young man stretched out on a rack, his body covered with blood and bruises. I realized that it was Sam Winterberry’s man who had been posing as an airplane mechanic at the airport we’d landed at—the guy who had given me a reassurance look. There wasn’t much to be reassured by now in the direction of being saved from this.

I wondered what the next apparatus was that I’d be put on. But I wasn’t. Bao and the soldiers released me and I sank to the stone floor, in a heap. Bao, now naked, his body short, solid, muscular, ran an arm under my belly and pulled me up to my knees, right there on the floor. Paying no heed to the welts Simon had raised on my back, buttocks, and thighs, Bao covered me from behind and above, mounted me, worked his cock inside me, and fucked me to his ejaculation. He wasn’t long, but he was extraordinarily thick. And he was cruel, stretching me to the limit, exhausting me with his virility and endurance, able to take himself to the edge, back off, and then go to the edge again, making the most of what I assumed, wrongly, would be his only go at me. I was disposable goods now. Not worth a condom.

There was a locker room off the chamber and, after Bao had taken his pleasure at great length, edging off as he approached an ejaculation until that last time he couldn’t hold it any longer, he had the two young soldiers drag me into the shower and clean me up. He showered there beside me, his eyes, denoting his position as sexual conqueror, drilling into me. They put the silk robe back on me, tied my wrists off behind my back, and dragged me down the side of the hill, to the large factory below, where I was given a tour of the plant. The front sections were where they were building the Silver Tiger automobiles. Each one was being constructed by hand, so they, were, in fact, producing automobiles.

But they were only making them as a front.

With pride, Bao took me into a building off to the side, where they were manufacturing something entirely different. I could clearly see that it was weaponry, and since I already was told by Sam Winterberry that ST Enterprises—and Simon Tung, no doubt the original for the company’s initials—were producing a new generation of handheld rocket launchers, the Striking Torch, the Dǎjí Huǒjù, I had no trouble realizing I was in the heart of their arms factory. Again the S and T initials.

There was no way, I knew, that they were going to show me these weapons in production and let me live. That was clear. And when Bao, gesturing the two soldiers away, grabbed my arm and pulled me toward an exit door, taking up a shovel leaning next to the door, as he opened it to the night air, I knew this was “it.” That was evident when he pushed me out of the building and gave me a backhand slap that sent me to my knees. We were in some sort of small dirt field, with mounds of dirt in them. Graves. This was where they buried people, after dying from whatever happened. There was a freshly dug grave. Mine, I knew.

This was it.

But this wasn’t it—not yet. Bao wanted seconds. He pulled me up from the ground, slammed me against the concrete wall of the building, unzipped and released himself, and pressed me against the wall with his body. He was too strong for me. I hadn’t had any energy to resist him or anyone else since Simon had whipped me. Grasping my thighs, he pushed my back up the concrete wall, causing me to scream at the pain of the scrape of my cuts on the rough concrete. He spread and lifted my thighs, hooking them on his hips, putting his cock in position, thrust up inside me, and fucked me against the wall.

I think it was my scream that did it—that told the commandos in the three helicopters where to zoom in and land. Bao pulled out of me and let me drop to the earth, which saved me. He had no more of a chance than to turn, heading for the door, when the line of bullets traced along the wall above me and through him.

Plastering the area with gunfire, the three black helicopters landed, and men in black were bailing out of them. There, in front, and above me, was Sam Winterberry.

“We can’t stay long,” he called out to me. “Do you have any idea what we should blow before we pull you out?”

The tour had been useful. “They’re making the rocket launchers in the building right here behind me,” I answered.

“Great. Good to know. Get in the helicopter.”

“You have a man, the guy working as an airplane mechanic, in a torture chamber under the temple up on the hill there,” I said.

“We know. He was chipped and led us here. We’ll get him. You, in the copter now, though.”

We were up in the air when the first blast took the building Bao had been fucking me against. Another couple of rockets exploded the temple complex on the side of the hill as a helicopter rose from there and joined ours to roar away. I didn’t know at the time whether the blast at the temple got Simon Tung. That only became clear some weeks later.

The freighter well off the coast in the South China Sea was camouflaged beautifully. It looked like a regular giant tanker-type vessel even from the air, but there was a helicopter landing zone in the center and three covered bunkers for the helicopters to be stashed in.

The accommodations were quite luxurious for a scruffy-looking freighter—at least the quarters Sam Winterberry took me to. They had all of the medical supplies needed for him to apply salve and bandages to my trashed back. The pain killers did the job. More important, Sam knew fuck positions that didn’t bring the welting into play.

A couple of days later we were back, briefly, in Singapore, where the ST Enterprises people there had been seized and Sam’s people were working on tracing those who had come from around the world to look at the Silver Tiger automobile but to buy arms. I was breakfasting at the Raffles in the morning, still recuperating from the whipping I took when I heard a familiar voice. I rose and went to the door of the restaurant in time to see Simon Tung exit the hotel and get into a chauffeured car. It was a Mercedes, not a Silver Tiger.