Silver Tiger

"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 man-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.