White Tiger

tide of pleasure began to recede; Ryoko slowed her actions, become less direct, more gentle, realizing that his nerve endings were now hyper-aware, overly responsive to even the simplest stimulation. She kissed the head of his penis lovingly; the fury of his erection was merely blunted, not defeated.

For a few minutes, he was content to lie on the couch. Then he reacted then with quick urgency. He swept Ryoko up in his arms and lowered her to the couch as he hovered above her. His fingers roamed over her clothing, unbuckling, unfastening, unbuttoning; within moments, she was completely naked, and he luxuriated in the sight of her: dark brown hair, skin the color of alabaster, firm and completely natural breasts, a narrow waist which served as the gateway to the gentle fluting of her hips and her slender legs. At their apex was the patch of crisp pubic hair, as dark as night, neatly-trimmed in contravention of her industry, in which most men preferred it to be wild and untamed. She did this for him, because it inflamed his desire even more. Ryoko parted her willowy thighs, and he could glimpse the sheen of moisture on her lips reflecting the wan light. Manning looked into her lovely eyes, and found them heavy-lidded in lust, her sensuous lips slightly parted, her white teeth gleaming. Manning lowered himself toward her, kissing her face, her lips, and her neck gently, lovingly now that the tide of his passion had been momentarily deflected. He kneaded her breasts for a time before favoring each peach-colored nipple with attention, making them rise and stand erect like small cherries. Ryoko quivered beneath him, writhing slightly, her small hands wrapped around the back of his head, allowing the pleasure to wash over her like a warm spring’s rain, surrendering to it. He displayed artistry of his own, fueling the raging fires that burned so insistently between her legs. As he trailed kisses down her flat, taut belly, she arched her hips toward him; he responded as she wished, the silky heat of her sex beckoning to him like a siren’s call to a sailor in the midst of a dark, foggy night at sea.

Ryoko gasped deeply when his lips finally brushed against her, and she clenched her fingers into balled fists. As Manning fed on her fire, the radiant heat coursed through her body like electricity through a wire; within seconds, her muscles rippled of their own volition, completely uncontrollable by her for as long as his lips and tongue continued their ministrations against the core of her sex. Her moans grew in accordance with the heat, and soon she was almost screaming as a fireball consumed her, racing outward from her hips to streak throughout her body, faster than a supersonic fighter jet. Ryoko shuddered spasmodically once, then twice as she suffered through another salvo, then yet again, her breath coming from her in great, ragged gasps.

Finally, she had to push him away from her, gasping for air.

“Enough,” she panted. “Enough. Kuso, you’re good!”

Manning kissed her wet nub, and the action elicited another cry from her.

“Glad you like it,” he murmured, and kissed her there again. Her hips jerked in response.

“Fuck me, Jerry,” she whispered in English, her chosen language for love. “Fuck me!” she ordered.

Manning swept her small frame up into his arms and lifted her from the couch. Ryoko wrapped her legs around his waist, her wet mount pressed against his thick tumescence, the contact transferring each throb from him to her. She seized his head in both hands and kissed him, her tongue like a hot poker. Manning held her in midair by grasping her behind the knees, spreading her thighs wide as he lowered her onto him. Ryoko cried out, still tonguing him, as the head of his thick phallus pierced her. He then impelled himself inside of her until he was hilted. Ryoko trembled and broke off the kiss.

“Ikasete!” she gasped in Japanese, her English forgotten for the moment. “Ikasete! Sugu ikasete!” she commanded, directing him to make her come now. Manning thrust into her as she grabbed his shoulders and lifted herself up and threw herself down upon his shaft with as much strength and vigor as she could muster. Manning increased his tempo, his hips slamming into her again and again until his breath grew ragged and his arms burned. Ryoko shuddered spasmodically once again, head thrown back, mouth wide, eyelids clenched shut as she rode the tsunami of heat once again.

“Ah…ah! Yes!”

When her tremors subsided, Manning pulled out of her. She made a disappointed sound, and looked up at him when he slowly lowered her to the carpeted floor, her eyes searching his face. Manning kissed her gently then guided her toward the window, where the lights of Minato-ku still burned even though it was almost 4:00am. She smiled suddenly, knowing what he had in mind.

“You say you always like the view from up here,” he said, and she reached out and grabbed the windowsill. The large panes of glass revealed all to her, and she bent at the waist. She needn’t have bothered; Manning grabbed her hips and lifted her in midair, so she was balancing on her hands like an acrobat in the middle of a performance.

“Yate! Fuck me!”

She cried out as Manning obeyed and his shaft split her once again. She braced herself against the windowsill as well as she was able while her lover worked in earnest, driving himself deeply inside her like a powerful machine, what the Japanese called piston undu, hard fucking. He kept up the pace, slamming into her again and again, and the night lights of Minato-ku swam in and out of focus as she erupted with her sixth orgasm, fueled by the heavy throbbing of Manning as he gasped himself and filled her with his seed, his spurts entering her like a heavy tide.

CHAPTER 5

Dalian, People’s Republic of China

At the Best Western Premier Dalian Harbor View Hotel, a name difficult to string together in any language, Chen Song tried to lose himself in the luxury of cable television, something that was found only in the upper-tier hotels or the homes of the wealthy or well-connected. After all, cable providers such as HBO and Cinemax served as windows to the decadent West, and the Chinese leadership in Beijing was not yet prepared for the unwashed masses that comprised China to be exposed to the true freedoms that lay outside the nation’s borders. Besides, there was nothing else to do; the suitcases he and his uncle had given to the Bai Hu had made their way onto a Japan Air Lines freighter, not a commercial flight, and they would not become available until tomorrow afternoon in Shanghai. This was another of a multitude of things which caused Chen Gui to agonize incessantly. The most immediate was that the hotel, Dalian’s best, was full; it was only through the efforts of Boss Tao that Chen Song and his uncle had found a single room to share. Chen Gui had groused at the lack of suites, but when faced with the choice between sharing a reasonably-clean hotel room with his nephew or risking even worse accommodations, Chen Gui had swallowed his considerable consternation and accepted what could be provided. He chose instead to prowl the entire room (which in Chen Song’s estimation wasn’t so bad, really), stalking back and forth like an angry tiger. He clutched his cell phone in his right hand like a man whose life depended on receiving one important call.

In that, Chen Song thought, his uncle might not have been very wrong.

One thing that irked Chen Song was the crowning indelicacy of Chen Gui apologizing to that toad Boss Tao for what he termed to be Chen Song’s “insolent attitude.” Boss Tao was much lower in station than Chen Gui, and by turn many stations lower than Chen Song himself; therefore, he deserved no consideration. Chen Song had brusquely and rightfully brushed aside Tao’s obsequious inquiries into his health, false as they were, something which earned him an immediate rebuke from his uncle. Even though Chen Gui himself despised Tao! Even now, Chen Song’s face flushed from anger when he thought back upon the moment, right after Tao had met them coming out of the Chinese customs area. He made a mental note to make some inquiries at a later time, to discover if Boss Tao had intentionally booked them the single room. That would make Chen Gui less inclined to treat the toad-faced fool with such equanimity.

Chen Gui continued to pace, his round, bowling ball-shaped bulk passing before the television every six or so seconds, as regular as the tick of a metronome.

“Uncle, stop pacing!” Chen Song shouted finally, almost at wit’s end.

Chen Gui whirled toward him, his moon-shaped face reddening. “Do not talk to me like that!” he raged. “Who do you think I am, one of your cousins? You’re my brother’s son, not mine, so show some respect! You’ve been nothing but trouble since this whole thing started! If you’d been a competent man, you would have taken care of the Fujianese like I told you!”

Chen Song’s own temper nearly reached the snapping point. He summoned all his remaining discipline and