The Middle Kingdom (63 page)

SHE CAME when it
was dark. Peskova took her up to the top room—the big room
beneath the eaves—and locked her in as he had been told to.
Then he went, leaving the House empty but for the woman and the
Overseer.

For a time
DeVore simply watched her, following her every movement with the
hidden cameras, switching from screen to screen, zooming in to focus
on her face or watching her from the far side of the room. Then, when
he was done with that, he nodded to himself and blanked the screens.

She was much
better than he had expected. Stronger, prettier, more attractive than
he'd anticipated. He had thought beforehand that he would have to
send her back and deal with Sung some other way, but now he had seen
her he felt the need in him, like a strong, dark tar in his blood,
and knew he would have to purge himself of that. He had not had a
woman for weeks—not since that last trip 'to the Wilds—and
that had been a singsong girl, all artifice and expertise. No, this
would be different; something to savor.

Quickly he went
to the wall safe at the far end of the room and touched the
combination. The door irised open and he reached inside, drawing out
the tiny vial before the door closed up again.

He hesitated a
moment, then gulped the drug down, feeling its warmth sear his throat
and descend quickly to his stomach. It would be in his blood in
minutes.

He climbed the
stairs quickly, almost eagerly now, but near the top he slowed,
calming himself, waiting until he had complete control. Only then did
he reach out and thumb the lock.

She turned,
surprised. A big woman, bigger than her husband, nothing cowed or
mean about the way she stood. You married below yourself, DeVore
thought at once, knowing that Sung would never have made Field
Supervisor without such a woman to push him from behind.

Her bow was
hesitant. "Overseer?"

He closed the
door behind him then turned back to her, trying to gauge her response
to him. Would she do as he wanted? Would she try to save her husband?
She was here. That, at least, augured well. But would she be
compliant? Would she be
exceptionally
good to him?

"You know
why you're here?" he asked, taking a step closer to her.

Her eyes never
left him. "I'm here because my husband told me to be here, Shth
Bergson."

DeVore laughed.
"From what I'm told old Sung is a docile man. He does what he's
told. Am I wrong in thinking that? Does Sung roar like a lion within
his own walls?"

She met his gaze
fiercely, almost defiantly, making the blood run thicker, heavier, in
his veins. "He is my husband and I a dutiful wife. He wished me
here, so here I am."

DeVore looked
down, keeping the smile from his face. He had not been wrong. She had
spirit. He had seen that when he had been watching her; had seen how
she looked at everything with that curious, almost arrogant stare of
hers. She had strength. The strength of twenty Sungs.

He took another
step then shook his head. "You're wrong, you know. You're here
because I said you should be here."

She did not
answer him this time, but stared back at him almost insolently, only
a slight moistening of her lips betraying her nervousness.

"What's
your name, Sung's wife?"

She looked away,
then looked back at him, as if to say, Don't
toy with me. Do what
you are going to do and kt me be.

"Your
name?" he insisted, his voice harder now.

"My name is
Si Wu Ya," she answered proudly.

This time he
smiled. Si Wu Ya.
Silk Raven.
He looked at her and understood
why her parents had given her the name. Her hair was beautifully dark
and lustrous. "Better an honest raven than a deceitful magpie,
eh?" he said, quoting the old Han adage.

"What do
you want me to do?"

He shook his
head. "Don't be impatient, Si Wu Ya. We'll come to that. But
tell me this—is Sung a good man? Is he good in bed? Does he
make you sing out with pleasure?"

He saw how she
bridled at the question, but saw also how the truth forbade her to
say yes. So, Sung was a disappointment. Well, he, DeVore, would make
her sing tonight. Of that he had no doubt. He took a step toward her,
then another, until he stood before her, face to face.

"Is he hard
like bamboo, or soft like a rice frond? Tell me, Si Wu Ya. I'd like
to know."

For a moment her
eyes flared with anger, but then she seemed to laugh deep inside
herself and her eyes changed, their anger replaced by a hard
amusement. "Don't mock me,
Shih
Bergson. I'm here, aren't
I? Do what you want. I'll be good to you. I'll be very good. But
don't mock me."

He looked back
at her a moment, then reached down and took her left hand in his own,
lifting it up to study it. It was a big, strong hand, roughly
callused from field-work, but she had made an effort. It was clean
and the nails were polished a deep brown.

He met her eyes
again. "My friends tell me you Han women wear no underclothes.
Is it true?"

In answer she
took his hand and placed it between her legs. His fingers met the
soft, masking texture of cloth, but beneath them he could feel her
warmth', the firm softness of her sex.

"Well?"
she asked, almost smiling now, determined not to be cowed by him.

"Strip
off," he said, standing back a pace. "I want to see what
you look like."

She shrugged,
slipped the one-piece off, and kicked off her briefs, then stood
there, her hands at her sides, making no effort to cover her
nakedness.

DeVore walked
around her, studying her. She was a fine woman, unspoiled by
childbirth, her body hardened by field-work. Her breasts were large
and firm, her buttocks broad but not fat. Her legs were strongly
muscled yet still quite shapely, her stomach flat, her shoulders
smooth. He nodded, satisfied. She would have made a good wife for a
Tang, let alone a man like Sung.

"Good. Now
over there."

She hesitated,
her eyes showing a momentary unease, then she did as she was told,
walking over to the corner where he had indicated. He saw how she
looked about her; how her eyes kept going to the saddle. As if she
knew.

"What do
you want me to do?"

DeVore smiled
coldly. He had watched her earlier. Had seen, through the camera's
hidden eye, how fascinated she had been with the saddle. Had
witnessed her puzzlement and then her shocked surprise as she
realized what it was.

It was a huge
thing, almost half a man's height and the same in length. At first
glance it could be mistaken for an ornately carved stool, its black
and white surfaces for a kind of sculpture. And in a way it was. Ming
craftsmen had made the saddle more than seven hundred years before,
shaping ivory and wood to satisfy the whim of a bored nobleman.

"Have you
seen my saddle?" he asked her.

She watched him,
eyes half lidded now, and nodded.

"It was a
custom of your people, you know. They would place a saddle in the
gateway to the parental home before the bride and bridegroom entered
it."

She wet her
lips. "What of it?"

He shrugged. "An
it was. A saddle. An. Almost the same sound as for peace."

He saw her
shiver, yet the room was warm.

"Have you
studied my saddle?"

She nodded
briefly.

"And did it
amuse you?"

"You're
mocking me again,
Shih
Bergson. Is that what you want me to
do? To play that game with you?"

He smiled. So
she had worked it out. He went across and stood there beside the
saddle, smoothing his hand over its finely polished surfaces. What at
first seemed a mere tangle of black and white soon resolved itself.
Became a man and woman locked in an embrace that was, some said,
unnatural; the man's head buried between the woman's legs, the
woman's head between the man's.

He looked across
at her, amused. "Have you ever done that with Sung?"

She blinked.
Then, unexpectedly, she shook her head.

"Would you
like to do that, now, with me?"

He waited,
watching her like a hawk watching its prey. Again she hesitated, then
she nodded.

"You think
you'd like it, don't you?"

This time she
looked away, for the first time the faintest color appearing at her
neck.

Ah, he thought.
Now I have you. Now I know your weakness. You
are
dissatisfied
with Sung. Perhaps you're even thinking what this might lead to.
You've ambitions, Si Wu Ya. For all your social conscience you're a
realist. And, worse for you, you enjoy sex. You want to be made love
to. You want the excitement that I'm offering here.

"Come
here."

He saw how her
breathing changed. Her nipples were stiff now and the color had not
left her neck. Slowly, almost fearful now, she came to him.

He took her hand
again, guiding it down within the folds of his
pau,
then heard
her gasp as her hand closed on him; saw her eyes go down and look.

DeVore laughed,
knowing the drug would last for hours yet— would keep him at
this peak until he had done with her. He leaned closer to her,
drawing her nearer with one hand, his voice lowering to a whisper.

"Was he
ever this hard, Si Wu Ya? Was he ever this hot?"

Her eyes went to
his briefly, the pupils enlarged, then returned to the splendor she
held. Unbid, she knelt and began to stroke him and kiss him. He put
his hands on her shoulders now, forcing her to take him in her mouth,
her whole body shudderr ing beneath his touch, a soft moaning in her
throat. Then he pushed her off, roughly, almost brutally, and moved
away from her.

She knelt there,
her breasts rising and falling violently, her eyes wide, watching
him. Almost. She was almost ready. One more step. One more step and
she would be there.

He threw off the
pau
and stood there over her, naked, seeing how eagerly she
watched him now. How ready she was for him to fuck her. With one foot
he pushed her back, then knelt and spread her legs, watching her all
the while, one hand moving between her legs, seeing how her eyes
closed, how her breath caught with the pleasure of it.

"Gods,"
she moaned, reaching up for him. "Goddess of mercy, put it
there! Please,
Shih
Bergson! Please put it there!"

His fingers
traced a line from her groin up to her chin, forcing her to look back
at him.

"Not like
this," he said, putting her hands on him again. "I know a
better way. A much, much better way than this."

Quickly he led
her to the saddle, pushing her face down onto its hard, smooth
surface, his hands caressing her intimately all the while, keeping
her mind dark, her senses inflamed. Then, before she realized what
was happening, he fastened her in the double stirrups, binding her
hands and feet.

He stood back,
looking at his handiwork, then crossed to the wall and switched off
all the lights but one—the spot that picked out her naked rump.

She was shaking
now. He could see the small movement of the muscles at the top of her
legs. "What's happening?" she asked in a tiny, sobered
voice. "What are you doing?"

He went over to
her and placed his hand on the small of her back, running his fingers
down the smooth channel that ended in the tight hole of her
anus, feeling her shudder at his touch.

Pleasure or
fear? he wondered. Did she still believe it would all turn out all
right?

The thought
almost made him laugh. She had mistaken him. She had thought he
wanted ordinary satisfactions.

He reached
beneath the saddle and dipped his fingers in the shelf of scented
unguents, then began to smear them delicately about the tiny hole,
pushing inward, the unguents working their magic spell, making the
muscles relax.

He felt her
breathing change again, anticipating pleasure; knew, without looking,
that she would have been newly aroused by his ministrations; that her
nipples would be stiff, her eyes wide with expectation.

He reached under
the saddle a second time and drew out the steel-tipped phallus that
was attached by a chain to the pommel. The chain was just long
enough. Longer and there would not be that invigorating downward
pull—that feeling of restraint— shorter and penetration
would not be deep enough to satisfy. He smiled, holding the hollowed
column lovingly between his hands and smoothing his fingers over the
spiraling pattern of the
wu-tu,
the "five noxious
creatures"—toad, scorpion, snake, centipede, and
gecko—then drew it on, easing himself into its oiled
soft-leather innards and fastening its leather straps about his
waist.

For a moment he
hesitated, savoring the moment, then centered the metal spike and
pushed. His first thrust took her by surprise. He felt her whole body
stiffen in shock, but though she gasped, she did not cry out.

Brave girl, he
thought, but that's not what you're here for. You're not here to be
brave. You're here to sing for me.

The second
thrust tore her. He felt the skin between her anus and vagina give
like tissue and heard her cry out in agony.

"Good,"
he said, laughing brutally. "That's good. Sing out, Si Wu Ya!
It's good to hear you sing out."

He thrust again.

When he was done
he unstrapped himself, then took one of the white sheets from the
side and threw it over her, watching as the blood spread out from the
center of the white; a doubled circle of redness that slowly formed
into an ellipse.

Hearing her
moan, he went around and knelt beside her, lifting her face gently,
almost tenderly, and kissing her brow, her nose, her lips.

"Was that
good, Si Wu Ya? Was it hard enough for you?" He laughed softly,
almost lovingly. "Ah, but you were good, Si Wu Ya. The best yet.
And for that you'll have your tape. But later, eh? In the morning.
We’ve a whole night ahead of us. Plenty of time to olav our
game again."