The Mandarin
by Habu
21 Nov 2022 1273 readers Score 8.5 (20 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt
“I’ll be there with the accounting figures.”
“I’d like you to brief them, so bring a chart or two. And look spiffy and close fitted.”
Brief the accounting figures for an engineering project proposal? I wondered. Those aren’t usually details that need to be briefed. The charts should be explanatory on their own. But then he made himself clear.
“Wear the diaphanous dress shirt you wore when you briefed me for the first time in Bangkok.”
That made it clear.
“Jason Fong is gay?” I asked.
“Bingo,” Ted answered.
When I’d briefed Ted in Bangkok, I’d been a new accountant at the Gerson engineering firm there. I’d recently arrived in Bangkok, having been brought there by the manager of the Ambassador Hotel to be the hotel complex’s tennis club pro, I had recently graduated from Florida State on a sports scholarship for which I’d ranked pretty high on the NCAA collegiate tennis competition charts. The hotel manager hadn’t just brought me in as a tennis pro; I also was there to warm his bed, having met him when he was in Miami for a hotel management convention and I was picking up some extra cash as a rent-boy.
When we met a second time and he offered me a job in Bangkok, I went with him not just for the tennis job—or to ride his cock—but because I had become involved in a situation in the States—in Washington, D.C.—that drove me to disappear for at least a while.
Not long after I arrived in Bangkok, the hotel manager had been transferred to Helsinki, which was entirely too cold for me. I think he would have taken me with him if I had begged. He wasn’t that good a cocksman, though, and the mere thought of Helsinki was . . . just brrrrr.
Helmut Gerson, who I had been sleeping with, had rescued me and offered me a job in his firm’s accounting department, accounting having been what my college degree was in, and, not incidentally, in an apartment near his office to be whatever they called male mistresses. Gerson had come to one of my tennis clinics, had suggested dinner on him at the two-Michelin-star Le Normandie restaurant in the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, and then had mentioned he had a room booked at the hotel. He was a very good-looking man for his age—and I did like older men. He could have gotten me into bed with a less expensive restaurant. Once he’d gotten me in bed, though, I didn’t need to have a dinner added in to be there again.
I hadn’t kept my inclinations much of a secret, and being in the male model mold and thus in high demand in Bangkok, I’d been “out there” in my dress fashions, buying—and occasionally modeling—John Fowler pastel leisure wear and having my other clothes tailored across Sukhumvit Road from there at Raja’s. There weren’t many other places in the world where it was natural for men to have even their underwear custom made. I couldn’t have been surprised that my reputation had gotten around the expatriate business community in Bangkok—or that Gerson would eventually find out that the mistress apartment he was paying for was playing host to cocks that weren’t his.
Gerson had wanted to impress Ted Mattison in a Bangkok briefing on the two firms going in on the same project in Singapore, and, telling me he wanted me to be extra nice to Mattison, Gerson put me out there in front of the man in a briefing.
“Yes, Ted, I’ll wear that shirt.” I didn’t think it would have quite the same effect this time, as I didn’t have the deep tan in Hong Kong that I had been able to build and keep by playing tennis shirtless in Bangkok. But if that was what Ted wanted . . .
“And, lest you misunderstand, I’d like you to be very, very accommodating to Jason Fong.”
“Yes, I understand,” I said. I most certainly did. He didn’t need signal flags to convey his wishes to me in the sexual servicing department.
The briefing went fine. I took the jacket off to the gray pinstripe suit I’d had made at Raja’s in Bangkok and that was quite attracting in its own right, and I gave the briefing to Jason Fong and his people in the diaphanous shirt that showed my cut torso and the nipple rings off to great effect. Nothing of my tanned and sculpted torso and the rings in my nipples to the imagination, and Mattison took me for a ride that night in his room at the Mandarin Hotel—not as ritzy as the Mandarin Oriental, but nearly so, and closer to both where I now taught tennis, at the Royal Bangkok Sports Club, and my courtesan apartment on Phyathai Road.
Three weeks later, I was moving to Hong Kong to work for Mattison and Sons. Gerson looked pleased. I don’t know if our relationship had gotten too well known for his comfort or if Mattison paid him off somehow. I’d heard rumors too that Gerson’s rich wife was getting wind that Gerson had an extra bedpartner socked away, and I think Gerson was getting nervous about her finding out that the mistress wasn’t female. I didn’t really care. Mattison had a thicker cock and a more forceful backswing.
Fong had been a surprise. He was Chinese, of course, but he was a sexy man, handsome and imperial of face, tall of stature, almost gaunt, and himself outfitted in an expensive silk suit that might have been tailored by Raja’s to the specification of “attract the men of a certain persuasion.” The attention he gave me both before, during, and after my briefing made it obvious that Ted Mattison had gauged correctly how I could help his firm land the shopping center engineering contract. His gaze could be described as the stereotyped Chinese “inscrutable” look, but it had obvious intent, confidence, and command behind it. I had every reason to believe, just from his gaze, that he would be a demanding and cruel master, and that caused a shiver of anticipation to go up my spine as I briefed him.
After the session, Ted invited Fong to have a drink with him in the Landmark Mandarin Hotel bar. “Kurt Gordon, who gave the accounting briefing, will join us,” he said. Fong accepted. I knew what Ted said, as I was waiting just on the other side of a screen for my entrance cue, assuming Fong was interested in what was being offered. He obviously was. The way his gaze undressed and used me during the briefing assured me that we had him hooked.
Over drinks, with Fong seated next to me, his long, expressive fingers were constantly touching my arm during our chatting, which had to be on purpose because the man was not animated otherwise. He was the model of inscrutability, assessing everything and everyone with dark, piercing eyes under bushy dark eyebrows shot with gray. When I didn’t shy away from these touches, the hand went to my knee under the surface of the table, and I didn’t shy away from that, either. He obviously knew what was on offer here. Every look he gave me expressed “you will suffer” and made me tremble.
“I wish I could stay to have dinner with you, but I’m afraid I have another engagement,” Ted said after our third drink. “I recommend the hotel dining room if you didn’t have other plans. And, of course, Gordon could stay and have dinner with you, if you wished to have company.”
“That would be quite satisfactory,” Fong said, during his cold, yet piercing eyes on me, daring me to say that I had another engagement too. Of course I didn’t. Fong was my engagement through the night, if that was what he wished.
That was what Fong wished.
After dinner, he engaged a hotel limousine to take us to an exclusive male strip club reached down an alley in the old city, demonstrating that Fong knew his way around Hong Kong much better than I did. We stayed through the scene in which an old, gnarled, big-cocked Asian man entering in an old empire-style Mandarin-collar silk robe, tossed it off with a flourish, and whipped a small, naked, blond Westerner bound to an X-frame before approaching him with a cruelly upcurved erection as the curtains closed. During this scene, Fong, sitting close beside me, had a tight grip on my forearm and was trembling, like he was living in the scene himself.
And perhaps he was—and had me in the scene with him too. His grip was strong enough to make me wince and to leave a red mark.
He fucked me on the bed in his Landmark Mandarin Hotel suite, doing so quite expertly. He was tall and thin, but he was hard-bodied, big cocked—being extraordinarily long—strong, virile, vigorous, and long lasting. In the buildup to the fuck, he made me feel special. He was sitting at the foot of the bed, watching me as I started to undress. He brushed my hands away, though, and undressed me himself and then bade me to stand before and turn this way and that as, albeit being expressionless, he conveyed that I was desirable by how he turned me and touched me with his hands. I knelt before him, took his long cock in my mouth, and gave him head.
When he stood, I started to undress him as he had done me, but he wouldn’t have any of that. He made me recline on the bed and watch him slowly disrobe, stroke himself hard as a rock, and slowly roll on a condom.
The man was so serious and deliberate in his approach. He was all business. When we moved into sex, he relentlessly pushed to the end.
When he came down on the bed, he captured me in a strong embrace, held me close from in back, both of us on our sides. His face was buried in my throat, one arm encircled my waist, holding me in position, the other one was grasping and bending and pushing my right leg up into my belly. He worried my hole with his long, long sheathed cock until, with a grunt from him, and a deep moan from me, he entered, entered, entered me in a strong, deep thrust and fucked me. He released my leg, his right hand went to grasping my cock, and he stroked me off while he maintained a steady rhythm of his thrusts inside me. He was all business then, relentlessly moving to his release.
Later, I rode him in a cowboy, facing him and leaning back, pressing my hands into his knees while I used the leverage of my own bent knees to rise and fall on a cock that was battering the walls of my deep inner core, where few other men had ever reached.
When he was fucking me in a missionary position, he reached over to the nightstand and came back with a square of cloth in his hand. He covered my nose and mouth with this, the cloth giving off a strong, sweet odor, and I only had time to see two of the men who had been with him at the briefing table earlier in the day come sliding into the room before my eyes rolled up into my head and I blacked out.
* * * *
When I came to, I was in a private compartment of a moving train. I was sprawled on a bench, leaning against a full-wall window, my legs spread, dressed in what I had worn to the briefing in Hong Kong for James Fong. He was sitting on the bench across the compartment from me and facing me. He was in a business suit and was going through some papers with a brief case on the bench beside him. A glance through the window at the landscape we were passing through—terraced rice paddies—told me we weren’t in Hong Kong anymore.
“What? Why?” I managed.
“Ah, awake, are we?” he said. “You are on your way to Beijing with me,” he said. “I have a deal with Ted Mattison, and you will be the liaison with his company in Beijing.”
“If I accept the position?” I asked.
He gave me a pointed look and a little scowl and said, “Now let’s not be that way. At my request Ted Mattison has assigned you to the position.”
“If I don’t want to go to Beijing with you?”
He gave a dry little laugh. “That doesn’t seem to be an option. You are going to Beijing with me now. Even if you didn’t make it to Beijing, the world would believe you were there—forever, and totally uncommunicative, if need be.”
I got what he was saying. “Who knows you have kidnapped me?”
“Kidnapped is such a strong word,” he said. “You work for Mattison. He wants this deal badly. I will take good care of you—very good care. Last night you certainly seemed to react like I was taking good care of you. Mattison covers you. I understand that the man in Bangkok who gave you to Mattison took good care of you. You are a male whore. You don’t seem to have any scruples about tipping over for a man under the instruction of another man. I don’t see the need—or anything useful—for unpleasantness over who is taking care of you or how. Shall we avoid any unpleasantness now?”
“You drugged me,” I asked. He just shrugged, so I guess that didn’t mean much to him. Under the circumstances, it didn’t seem to be all that big of a point for me to make either. I was here; this was now.
So, Gerson had made a deal with Mattison in Bangkok to release me to Ted. I had wondered. It had been entirely too smoothly done. And Ted. He didn’t seem to have any trouble in using me as a bargaining chip with Fong. “Who knows I am going to Beijing?” I asked.
“As far as I know, only Ted Mattison,” Fong answered with a dismissive flip of his hand. “He said that no one else in the firm would question your absence or care about it. You are off the map now as far as anyone where you came from is concerned. Do you understand?”
That was credible, I had to admit. I hadn’t been in Hong Kong for long and hadn’t developed any friendships here. Others in the accounting department of Mattisons still seemed a bit resentful that I had been inserted there by one of the big bosses. They all seemed to know I was Ted Mattison’s sex toy and I hadn’t had time yet to prove my accounting skills. They wouldn’t miss me or even remark on me being missing.
No one I had known in Bangkok had sent me a letter or so much as an e-mail yet. I may not have given a mailing or e-mail address to anyone in Bangkok yet. I looked out of the window at the passing rural countryside. Fong could do what he liked with me on the train here and now and just have me tossed off the train into an irrigation ditch and no one would be held accountable for my disappearance. I was totally on my own.
I turned my head and looked into the man’s face. He was as calm and business like as he had been the evening before. I was just an object to him—to be used. My lifeline here was for him to continue to want to use me. He looked away when he saw surrender in my face, carefully lined the papers he was reading up into a neat pile and put them in the briefcase. Then, with one hand he leaned over and pulled the shades down over the windows and door looking out onto the train’s passageway, and with the other hand he was unbuckling and unzipping his trousers.
He stopped, gave me a sharp look, and said, “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I wish you to refer to me as Master Fong,” he said.
“Yes, Master Fong,” I said.
“Good. Now come over here on your knees and pay homage to me.” He was slipping his trousers and silk underdrawers off, but keeping his shirt and suit coat on. It was clear to me what homage to him was and I moved to him on my knees to between his spread thighs, took his cock in my mouth, and gave him sensual head. I didn’t stint on the sensual part. I was in no position to show any pique or resentment of the position I was in. I knew I wasn’t to mention again that I had been drugged and put on the train without my permission.
Homage was to be more than a blow job on the train as it sped toward the capital city of Beijing. He wanted me naked, although all he’d shed was his trousers and boxers. As the train moved over the rails to a clack-clack sound and a rhythm of gliding over uneven rails, I, the courtesan now, was sitting, naked, in the Master’s lap, facing him, my legs bent and bracketing his thighs, as he held me in an embrace, sucked on the rings in my nipples, and I rose and fell on his sheathed and buried cock, using the leverage of my knees and working to match the rhythm of the train wheels moving from one rail to the next.
* * * *
The Mandarin Master, James Fong, was a prideful man of detail. He knew his work precisely. He rightly had pride in this, but that pride also made him arrogant. He knew every square inch of me and my sexual response. He knew where to touch me to arouse me and make me groan; he knew what position with me allowed him greatest and deepest access; he knew what to do inside me to make me moan and flow. But he underestimated me. He thought of me as only good for riding his cock and keeping an accounting ledger. He didn’t think me capable in any other aspect. The language of Beijing, the capital city of China, is Mandarin. Mandarin was the language I studied at the university—and, although I wasn’t proficient in any way in the language when I came to Beijing, I knew enough to figure out what was being discussed at Fong’s banquet table when it was assumed I was just a dumb American male whore, and, over the weeks of my imprisonment in Beijing I grew to understand more.
Beijing, once the ancient imperial capital of China, had become a modern city, with skyscrapers, when viewed across the skyline, but underneath, at street level, the traditional walled compounds where multiple generations lived together were still in evidence, and overlaying it all still was the killing smog created by millions of open-air charcoal-burner fires and the dust swirling down from the Mongolian steppes. Fong, the patriarch of a construction empire that had built many of the skyscrapers now dominating city, had retreated into the Manchu empire in his personal life. He lived in what was a rambling ancient palace compound, he ruled his servant-and-concubine world with the iron fist of an autocratic emperor, and the dress and customs imposed in his palace were those of the eighteenth century.
I was one of his in-residence concubines, of which he kept both young women and men. We weren’t there just for his personal sport, although he used whatever man or woman who took his fancy at any given moment. He also employed us as chits in his maintenance and expansion of his empire. In this way, he was no different than Gerson was in Bangkok and Mattison was in Hong Kong. He was just the Chinese version of them.
When Fong went to his downtown offices in one of the city’s skyscrapers, he wore a tailored business suit, as did I when I was taken in to do what little work there was to do on the shopping center project—and, as the days and weeks went by, I increasingly was allowed to move around the city on my own. What could I do? I was completely out of my element. I could probably have found an Internet café to message out, but Fong had done his research well on me. I had completely cut ties in the States. I’d left there under a cloud, and I hadn’t established any in either Bangkok or Hong Kong that weren’t part of what had put me here. I wasn’t just a sexual submissive; I also was of a rather weak, just float along and take it as it came, personality. Gerson had known that; Mattison had known that; and Fong knew it too.
I went with the flow on dress. In Fong’s palace compound, we wore the high-collared, slim silk and brocade robes of the emperor’s court. And we dined and were entertained in ancient, garishly painted pavilions by musicians at low tables, our bodies supported by silk pillows. Under the robes, Fong and I were naked, so upon any whim he had, Fong could bring our naked bodies together and his shaft inside me, quickly and with little fuss—and Fong frequently was in the mood. And, knowing me as he did, I gave him whatever he wanted, moaning and panting for him.
When an official or another businessman was so important to Fong that he invited them to the palace compound to wine and dine there, they were briefed well enough first to know that an evening at Fong’s was a step back in time, and all he invited obviously enjoyed that. They dressed in traditional style and they were offered their choice of young woman or man, according to their preference—or both, if they wished—to dally with while they and Fong were jockeying their business deals.
If the visitor took an especial liking to one of the concubines, he was waited upon by the concubine each time he visited. A traditional Chinese evening in the palace was long and elaborate. It included access to the sleeping pavilions with the concubine of assignment. A high-ranking Chinese army general, Lee Win, took a shine to me, and thus I became his personal toy when he dined at the palace. And he dined here a lot.
It was obvious that Fong gave the general his choice of companion while he was in the palace as an inducement for Lee Win to give Fong’s projects his support.
It was with interaction with the general during the entertainments in Fong’s palace, especially when the two talked while the general was fondling me before he retired with me to a private pavilion for challenging sex, that I learned that the shopping center was, by no means, a high-priority project for Fong’s business. It was, in fact, mostly a cover. Most of Fong’s business, contracted through his bribery of such government officials as General Lee Win, was, in fact, of military application—most specifically of building reenforced bunkering for defensive and offensive missile systems. The two were less than guarded when I was there not only because minions like me were invisible to Mandarins like Fong and Win but also because they were so arrogant that they made no attempt to learn that I, in fact, had studied their language and could understand much of what they were saying. To them I was just an American male whore, only good to look at with the satisfaction of owning a handsome young American and to be sexually desirable to men who preferred men.
Whereas Fong was proficient in bed, Lee Win was demanding and cruel and, older than Fong, he needed assistance in preparing for carrying out sex. He was a military man, and one, I suspect, who had long service with Chinese intelligence—and had specialized in prisoner interrogation. Although I was not tortured beyond the limits of endurance when he was using me—as perhaps the soldiers he interrogated for what they knew had been—he could not achieve an erection without physically punishing the young man he wanted to fuck—which was me. When he visited, I became well acquainted with binding, X-frames, and various forms of stocks—and of floggers and whips and leather straps and a good deal of slapping about. It never went to the extremes that I could tell that Lee Win was capable of—and that maybe he might build to at some time when he felt Fong would tolerate it or was willing to substitute a fresh submissive and let me go . . . wherever and in what way.
To some extent, the physical challenging pushed me to higher arousal levels as well. The kicker was that Lee Win was visiting increasingly often as his business arrangements with Fong increased, I suspected I wasn’t getting more alluring to Fong as I aged and Lee Win wore me down, and it was evident that Lee Win was needing an increase in the preparations to be able to achieve an erection.
Time was getting short, one way or the other. And, thanks to the coordination between the general and Fong, the strategic threat to the world—and the United States—was soon to increase exponentially. It wasn’t just a patriotic duty to try to warn the United States of this impending change. I also had had to leave the United States because I had been placed at a great legal disadvantage—my submissive nature having put pressure on me to advantage certain political forces over others. I had been without leverage in that particular struggle. Getting information on China’s strategic capabilities back to the States would give me the leverage to be able to return if I wanted.
And, increasingly, I’d had enough of a fling in the Asian environment. Increasingly, I just wanted to go home and see if I could rise up the ladder in professional tennis.
I didn’t have long to decide whether I took action or just continued to be the submissive that men used—and because of where I had now come, that men might just use up totally.
* * * *
I walked into the American Consulate in Beijing early in an afternoon. It wasn’t easy getting in and being seen by an officer—an intelligent agent sent over from the embassy’s “station,” the unit that I knew would be staffed by CIA officers. I had no passport or other papers to show I was an American. I didn’t even know if Fong had them. They could still be in Hong Kong with Mattison, I supposed. I did, though, had a couple of names that arrested the consulate official a Marine Guard eventually took me to—and a couple of telephone numbers that obtained respect.
Once some political sources in Washington were satisfied it really was me and that I was in Beijing and that I might have some leverage that would help protect their political tales, they started some balls rolling. Two hours after I’d managed to get as far as the consulate waiting room, an officer from the embassy’s station arrived, and action began to accelerate. That officer was the first one I told all of what I knew about the project James Fong and Lee Win were working on and how I knew—and why I had certain connections in Washington, connections, luckily, that worked in consort with the U.S. intelligence community. He agreed that I should be taken to the embassy compound and not leave there until I had been fully briefed and then only under U.S. protection.
I languished in a guest room at the embassy, seeing no one but a few officers for three days. On the third day, another man, older that the others and, quite obviously more important and more in command than anyone in Beijing Station, was ushered into the bedroom where I was virtually prisoner.
“Hello, my name is Sam Winterberry, and I’m here to help you help us,” he said.
Two days later, my whole world had changed. I had told Winterberry all I knew—not just about James Fong and Lee Win and the new strategic system the Chinese were building—at least what I knew about that—but about Mattison in Hong Kong, Gerson and the hotel manager in Bangkok, and even the senators and their sex club supplied with young men, in Washington.
I found that Winterberry was no different from any of the other men who had used me. He seduced and bedded me as well, and he was an expert and cruel master. This wasn’t really that new for me. Where Lee Winn used a whip or a flogger, Winterberry used a folded-over belt, but whereas Lee Winn required such stimulation to form an erection, Winterberry did it to assert and maintain control—and, I suspect, because he thoroughly enjoyed it.
What was new for me was that he gave me options, only one of which seemed survivable. That option was to work for him in U.S. intelligence, and the big change in my world that that led to is that, having extracted all of the information from me that would serve the CIA’s interests in any way, he wanted me to return to Fong’s compound and continue gleaning information. I was not going to be extracted from China until there no longer was useful intelligence I could learn here or until I was in such personal danger that I needed to be pulled out. Winterberry had already devised an excuse for Fong on my absence from the compound. I was to turn up in a hospital with a vetted story of a hit-and-run accident that had left me unconscious and unidentifiable for days.
The brutality and willingness to use his agents was quite evident in Winterberry in that, even having bedded me and made me his, he participated in beating me so badly that I, in fact, didn’t become conscious in the hospital for a day after Fong, cleverly guided, found me there. He was there when I woke. It was evident that he suspected nothing. He had me taken back to his compound and nursed back to health. I was too important a chit with Lee Winn for him to not ensure I recovered.
My life and existence in the compound of James Fong, complete with visits from Lee Winn continued. A new servant appeared in the compound who became my conduit to Beijing Station. Winterberry had told me that at some point I would be pulled out and put on another project that would fully use my abilities. I did not count on that, though. I wasn’t sure that working for Sam Winterberry would be any more affirming or survivable than working for James Fong . . . or Ted Mattison . . . or Helmet Gerson . . . or, for that matter, a variety of U.S. senators.