Tales from Old Shanghai

Shanghai, China, in the mid-to-late 1930’s. Old Shanghai. That Old Shanghai of the decades before the 1949 Liberation. That old Shanghai is a Shanghai far distant from the modern Chinese city of today, almost one hundred years later. That Old Shanghai, the Shanghai that was “the Paris of the Orient”, “the Capital of the Tycoon”, “the Paradise of Adventurers”, “the Whore of Asia”; that Shanghai has long disappeared into the distant past. Found now only in the surviving architecture from that era, in old memoirs and books, photographs and postcards, music and movies filmed there long ago in what was “the Hollywood of the East,” even the last survivors of that distant era are now fast disappearing as age and time take their inevitable toll.

Born in humiliation at the hands of the West, growing exponentially in the shadow of the Opium Wars and the forced opening of China to the sale of that most addictive and poisonous of drugs, Shanghai grew to dominate China with its power, its sophistication and above all, with its money. Its residents were primarily Chinese, but Shanghai was a Treaty Port, open to foreigners, ruled by neither China nor by the foreign powers whose citizens lived there. No passports or visas were required. British. Americans. French. Germans. Italians. Danes. Norwegians. Swedes. Jews. Spanish. Belgians. Romanians. Portuguese. Hungarians. Egyptians. Iraqis. Indians. Eurasians. Japanese. Koreans. White Russian refugees from the Bolshevik Revolution and the subsequent Civil War, now destined to be citizens of nowhere. Jews fleeing the Nazis, all lived an often precarious existence in this city which took in every nationality under the sun without restraint or restriction.

That Old Shanghai was an extraordinary city. Incredible wealth and unbearable squalor existed side by side. Children worked as virtual slaves in factories, young girls as prostitutes, hundreds and thousands lived and died in the streets, struggling to survive from day to day. Thirty thousand children were abandoned by their families every year, to scavenge for their food and survive on the streets. In winter, the frozen bodies of the poor were picked up daily in their hundreds by the death carts. Female babies were sold by their starving families to the criminal gangs, the triads, where they were gruesomely mutilated by the leaders of the beggar gangs, many of them deliberately blinded to arouse the sympathy of the foreigners. Young boys and girls, five, six, seven years old, worked from six in the morning to late at night over boiling vats of cocoons in the silk factories or in the textile plants.

Many of the most beautiful girls were sold to the brothels, others saw the brothels as preferable to life in the countryside where all they had to look forward to was a life of servitude, hard labor and bearing children. There was little choice for these girls, one of the few alternatives was the abject slavery of the mills and factories, slavery which would soon turn the most beautiful of girls into a haggard wretch. In 1930, when Shanghai’s population was three million, an international survey found that Shanghai had a higher proportion of prostitutes to population than any other city in the world. In Berlin, one in 580 was a prostitute. In Paris, one in 481, in Chicago, 1 in 430, in Tokyo, one in 250 and in Shanghai, one in 130. For females, there were very few alternatives. Peddling food or trinkets on the street, working as a domestic, a laundress, a servant, slaving in factories for a pittance.

Following the Bolshevik victory in the Russian Civil War, White Russian refugees flooded in to Shanghai, one of the few places in the world that, while it did not exactly welcome them with open arms, admitted them without restraint, thousands of them.

Side by side with that Shanghai of exploitation, outright slavery, squalor, misery and abject struggle for survival were other Shanghai’s. The Shanghai of the Chinese intellectuals. Shanghai saw the birth of the Chinese Communist Party. Shanghai offered Chinese contact with the west and an escape from China’s rigid social system. Western fashion, stylish Chinese fashion, politics, the new in everything. Many Chinese believed that Shanghai represented China’s future and saw its glittering modernity as a path and an escape out of the feudalism that had held China back for so long.

There were many other Shanghai’s. There was the Shanghai of the Modeng Girls, the modern girls, the “new women” of modern China for whom Shanghai was the epitome of stylishness and modernity, in fashions, in intellectual thought, in culture, in political thought. There was the Shanghai of the revolutionaries, for it was here that Sun Yat-Sen lived. It was here that the Chinese Communist Party was founded, it was here that Mao Tse-Tung lived for a number of years, it was here that Chou Enlai played an important part in the “Red Terror” and the Communist uprising in 1927

There was the Shanghai of the students, for students came from all over China to Shanghai to study in the modern schools and Universities. There was the Shanghai of the wealthy Chinese, the bankers, the businessmen, the industrialists. There was the Shanghai of the Chinese middle-classes, the Shanghai of the workers, the Shanghai of the rural poor, flooding in to escape the warlords, the fighting, the starvation that faced so many peasants. The Shanghai of the Clubs, Bars, Theatres, Brothels and Prostitutes catering to every taste. The Shanghai of the Triads, the Chinese criminal gangs with their leaders such as Du Yuesheng, “Big-eared Du”, the leader of the Green Gang who dominated Shanghai’s opium and heroin trade in the 1930’s and secretly funded the political career of Chiang Kai-shek.

There was the Shanghai of the foreigners, seventy thousand of them in Shanghai’s heyday. Foreigners of every nationality, for there were no restrictions on entry into Shanghai, no passports were required and Shanghai and an allure all of it’s own. The “Paris of the Orient,” the “Whore of Asia,” in its heyday, Old Shanghai was the most pleasure-mad, rapacious, corrupt, licentious, squalid, decadent, strife-ridden city in the world. Missionaries declared that if God permitted Shanghai to exist, he owed an apology to Sodom and Gomorrah. Greed was its driving force. Anything was for sale. Everything had its price. Every depravity known to man was catered to. Nightclubs never closed. Hotels offered heroin on their room service menus. Aptly nicknamed “Sin City,” Old Shanghai was a place and time where morality was irrelevant.

This is the world in which “Never Ending Love” is set. A world of depravity, immorality and decadence, a world where everything has its price. A world where everything can be bought or sold. A world where everything and anything is a commodity, a world where corruption and betrayal are everyday occurrences. A world where life was cheap, a world where nobody cared if you lived or died. That was Old Shanghai, and there are many tales of Old Shanghai in those far gone days of the 1920’s and 1930’s. This then, is one such tale…. Chloe

* * * Never Ending Love * * *

(不了情)

忘 不 了, 忘 不 了 (wang bu liao, wang bu liao)

How could I forget, how could I ever forget?

忘 不 了 你 的 錯 (wang bu liao ni di cuo)

How could I forget your mistakes?

忘 不 了 你 的 好 (wang bu liao ni di hao)

And how could I forget your sweet love

忘 不 了 雨 中 的 散 步 (wang bu liao yu zhong di san bu)

How could I ever forget our stroll in the rain?

也 忘 不 了 那 風 裡 的 擁 抱 (ye wang bu liao na feng li di yong bao)

And how could I forget our embraces in the wind?

忘 不 了 忘 不 了(wang bu liao, wang bu liao)

How could I forget, how could I ever forget?

忘 不 了 你 的 淚 (wang bu liao ni di lei)

I can never forget your tears,

忘 不 了 你 的 笑(wang bu liao ni di xiao)

And I can never forget your smile.

“Never Ending Love” (不了情), version sung by Tracy Huang

(search for “不了情 Tracy Huang” on youtube if you want to listen to it — and if you’re going to read this story you really should because the song really does capture the mood of this story, regardless of whether you understand Chinese or not)

* * * * * *

“How could I forget,” I whisper. “How could I ever forget?”

It is early morning. It is another Valentine’s Day. Yet another year has passed and there cannot now be many years left to me. As I do every year now, as I have done now for many years, I repeat the ritual, carefully easing the single red rose I am carrying into the delicate porcelain vase beneath that oil painting hanging on the wall. I’ve had that painting since I was eighteen. Since I was a girl. I brought that painting with me from Shanghai, concealed in my luggage, but I’ve only had it framed and hung here, on the wall in this room, after my American passed away, many years ago now.

Before then, I remembered him silently, in my heart. After my American passed on, I remember him openly, every Valentine’s Day. I come to this room, I place a single red rose beneath that painting and I sit in this room all day, remembering that love from long ago. Cherishing that love, treasuring those memories that will never be forgotten. Never. Never for as long as I draw breath.

Today is Valentine’s Day.

This is the day I remember him on.

This is the day on which I remember our love.

This is the day on which I remember our passion, the eagerness and excitement with which I first fell into his arms. I remember that first meeting, that first electric meeting of our eyes, so many years ago. That first kiss, that first sharing of our mingled breath, that first touch of his hands, the joy with which I first offered my breasts to his mouth, my body to his hands. That excitement with which I first gave myself completely to him, the anticipation, the fear, the eagerness, the joy, that love for him as he possessed me that first time and every other time thereafter.

I remember how his love transformed me. From a shyly innocent schoolgirl, I became a slave to love, a slave to his desires, a slave to my own desires, moaning, sobbing, begging, my hands and my body and my voice encouraging him, demanding more, demanding everything, giving everything as he brought me again and again to that taste of heaven in his arms. I remember his love, the love in his voice, in his arms, in his body, the happiness and joy I felt when I was with him and I smile at my younger self and my first love.

My only love.

“How could I ever forget,” I whisper, looking at that couple in the painting, so visibly in love and that painter of long ago captured that love so well. You can read that love on their faces, in the way they lie together, touch each other. That couple, they radiate love.

She, the Chuntao of eighty years ago, so young and beautiful. Her silken black hair falls in waves over one slender shoulder, falls to the red sheet on which she lies. He, Martin, the blonde-haired Englishman, lying behind me, one hand on my leg, resting slightly above my knee and I remember him doing that, exposing me to the artist’s eyes. My hand rests on his and I remember the shame and the embarrassment of posing naked with him for that artist.

I remember the excitement as we lay there there. Both mine and his. Martin lying naked behind me, his unseen erection pressed swollen and hard against me as the artist sketched us over that long morning and on into the afternoon. I remember also how our restraint and my inhibitions and shyness vanished the moment that artist left the room. I remember the wild excitement of that taking.

“How could I ever forget,” I breathe, knowing I never will, for how could I ever forget his love.

My love. Our love. That love, it is with me still as I gaze at my younger self, lying there, half-smiling, captured forever as I was when I was barely eighteen, still a schoolgirl, in my last year of Boarding School in old Shanghai. The old Shanghai of the late 1930’s. The Shanghai of my youth so long ago in time, only yesterday in my memories.

That Shanghai of 1938, the year that picture of he and I was painted, a lifetime ago, when we were young and in love and together. Chuntao and Martin. Martin and Chuntao. I, Chuntao, a young Chinese schoolgirl. He, Martin, a young man of twenty five, with the arrogant self-confidence of an Englishman in Shanghai who worked for Jardines Matheson, one of the largest of the hongs in China.

Martin. The world was at his feet when we met, a lustrous career ahead of him and he fell in love with me, Chuntao, a young Chinese girl, just as I fell in love with him. Love between an Englishman and a Chinese girl, the deep love that we held for each other, a love that knew no barriers, in those days that was, perhaps not completely forbidden, but certainly deeply frowned upon.

And yet, against all the odds, we loved each other utterly and completely. In that painting, that love shines through. We are so young and so confident, so in love, so optimistic that despite all the obstacles that would be thrown in our path, our lives were destined to be intertwined forever.

In that painting, I’m lying on an old wooden bed covered by a red silk sheet embroidered with flowers of gold. I can remember every detail of that that room, even now. I close my eyes and I am there. The polished wooden floor, the wallpaper, the wooden shutters, the bamboo blinds shielding us from prying eyes, the smell of incense from the neighbouring rooms in the air, the endless clanking and rattling of the old central heating, for it was mid-winter then, and Shanghai in winter is cold.

The noises from the street. That large bed on which we spent so much time together. The red sheet on which we lay. I remember that sheet. Its colors. That vivid red, the golden flowers. That fine silk against my skin as I lay naked upon it, smooth and cool against my back. The texture of that silk in my clutching hands clutched as I knelt for him. Its silky smoothness as his hands used it to wipe the sweat from my face, from my body. It’s fragrance as I buried my face in it and inhaled.

I remember everything about that sheet.

I possess it still, worn and fragile now, still retaining a faint scent of our love, so faint it is almost a memory. Almost, for when I bury my face in the fragile fabric, I breathe him in, a hint. Just a slight hint now, after all these years, all these decades. Nothing more than a hint, but I treasure that single red sheet.

It is the sheet on which we lay together so many times. It is the sheet on which I gave up to him my precious virginity, that virginity which a Chinese girl of my time, from a good family, should never sacrifice until marriage, but sacrifice that precious pearl I did, willingly. Eagerly. That sheet on which I loved him and he loved me so many times, long ago in Shanghai. I still have that sheet, with that now-faint discolouration that was the evidence of that long-ago offering I made to our love.

That sheet and this painting and the never ending love in my heart; that is all that remains of that love from that long distant past and how I wish there had been more, more than only those few brief months of love together. How I wish there had been that lifetime of love that we had hoped for and talked about together.

That girl, her eyes, those beautiful almond eyes, they glow with the innocence of first love. Her lips are slightly parted, reddened with the lipstick she had worn for him on that day, smiling. Those slightly pouting lips, painted in that time before they were kissed by a thousand men. She is slender, her small breasts so firm, her nipples so red and full and I remember them aching through that long afternoon, feeling his naked excitement pressed against me as I lay there, limp and flushed with my own arousal.

My nipples. I remember them aching with that swollen fullness that desired his hands, his lips. Engorged with the shameful excitement of lying naked before another man as he painted me, as he painted us, long ago in that time when I had only ever been naked for Martin and Martin alone. Long ago, in that time before those small firm breasts and those full red nipples were caressed and enjoyed by a thousand hands, a thousand eyes; a thousand mouths.

That girl, she lies there, on her side, facing the painter, her skin silken ivory, glowing. Slim-hipped, long legged, she lies there exposing her nakedness, one leg slightly raised, held by his hand to expose her delicate sex, touched then only by him and even now, eighty odd years later, how I wish there had only ever been him.

I do not regret my American, but how I wish it could have been otherwise.

Her sex is exposed, painted in such exquisite and lifelike detail that this could almost be a photograph. Delicate, pinkly flushed with her arousal, that Chinese artist of eighty years ago captured that slight parting of that young girl’s swollen labia, that hint of glistening wetness, the invitation of her hips, that hint of embarrassed sensuality conveyed by the angle of her body as she lies there.

That slender beauty, those long slender legs, those slim hips, that delicate sex, that flat stomach and narrow waist, those small firm breasts, those pouting lips, those sparkling eyes, that innocence, that love, all his. Only his. His until that innocence and then that love were shattered by the brutal realities of existence in that Shanghai of old where nothing was scared, where nothing was free, where everything, including innocence, had its price.

That slender beauty and that love, his, all his until that young girl was forced to choose survival over love, forced to stare reality in the face, forced to face that brutal truth. That simple brutal truth. Left alone, without family, on her own, her plea for his help not understood, all that innocent young girl had to survive with was her beauty and her smile. That girl, that innocent young girl, she was left to fall back on her own resources, to live or die, as she chose.

She chose to survive.

She chose to do what she must to live, and in making that choice, she lost he that she loved forever.

That slender beauty, taken and enjoyed by a thousand men. So many men in that time between Martin and my long-dead American. My American. I always called him that, never by his name, both when he lived and now. I married my American, but Martin was my love and I will never forget Martin. It is my American who took me from that life, who brought me here, who gave me my children and my beloved grandchildren and my great-grandchildren.

My American will always have my gratitude.

My Martin will forever have my love.

He has always had my love.

“Grandmother… grandmother… it’s time to go to dim sum.” My oldest great-grandchild’s voice calls me away from the past, away from that painting from long ago, when I was young and beautiful and so innocent and so in love. I take one last sip of my jasmine scented tea before she finds me in my tea-room and comes to help me to the car.
The tea-room that my American built and furnished for me so many decades ago.

He had this tearoom built for me almost the moment we arrived here from Shanghai and I have barely changed it since. The mother-of-pearl embossed rosewood couch with the matching chairs, the corner tables and the long rectangular rosewood coffee-table on which my precious guqin sits, my guqin that I paid for in shame and humiliation but which I treasure all the same. The eight foot tall dragon tree in its terracotta pot, the floors of polished wood, the windows opening out onto the garden with its beds of flowers and shrubs.

It was my refuge long ago, back when my American had it built for me, back when America was a strange and foreign land, back when a beautiful young Chinese sing-song girl married to a wealthy and far older American was a strange and exotic creature in this land of Texas.

It is my refuge now, a small taste of the tranquillity of my childhood home in Nanking, a soothing escape from the bustle and noise of my oldest son’s family, a place where I can come and sip my jasmine tea and gaze on my younger self and on the love I have never forgotten. The love for whom I would have abandoned even my American.

My American.

He was so much older than I. Thirty years older than I when we married, when he carried a young Shanghai sing-song girl, a Shanghai whore, for let us be honest, that is what I was when my American met me, when he carried me across the Pacific from Shanghai to this foreign land, this Texas which has been my home now for almost eighty years. My American has long passed away, forty years gone now, and I still miss him. His loudness, his brashness, his confidence, his Midas touch, for whatever he touched turned to gold.

I miss his unquestioning love for me, for while I never loved him, he loved me and he cared for me with a passion and a tenderness that warmed and soothed my shattered heart and my jaded soul. I returned that love, not with love, for I could never love another, but with caring and gratitude, as best I could and I do believe he never knew that always, always I have loved another.

Never would I have betrayed my American with that knowledge in his lifetime, but now, long afterwards, I can reveal the truth, if only to myself and thus I hung my painting on the wall of my tearoom, where I can sit and look at my younger self and my love from long ago. My only love. I sit, and I look and I remember.

“Grandmother, where are you?… Oh! I knew you’d be in here.” It’s Tien-chien.

My oldest great-granddaughter. She’s twenty three now, her English name is Terri and to all appearances she’s Chinese. Her father was my oldest grandson, the grandson of my American. His American-Chinese wife, she’s a banana through and through but she chose to give her daughter, my great-granddaughter, a Chinese name as well as an English name and I cherish my Americanized grand-daughter-in-law for that small gesture, for there is nothing else Chinese about my grand-daughter-in-law beyond her appearance.

Terri. Tien-chien, my great-granddaughter, she is tall, slender, long-legged, slim-hipped, small-breasted, black-haired, almost a mirror-image of that girl in the painting and I’m not the only one to see that resemblance. Even her face could be mine, so close is the resemblance and when I look at her, it is as if I look at my younger self.

“You were so beautiful when you were young, grandmother,” she says, standing beside me, reaching down, taking my hand in hers, looking at my painting with me.

“You’ll have to tell me about him one day. One day soon. Who he was, where you grew up, your family. You’ve never told anyone, you know. We know you were from Nanking, we know great-grandfather met you in Shanghai, we know that girl is you, Grandmother, but who was he? Where were you? What’s the story behind that painting? You should tell someone. Your story, its family history, Grandmother. It’s not something that should be forgotten, it’s not something that should be forever mysterious.”

Her hand squeezes mine, very gently, her shoulder brushes mine as I stand, for she is the same height as me, except that she stands tall and straight and despite myself, I stoop a little. Age creeps up on us, and I am old now. Old enough that no-one I knew in those long-ago days is left.

Only me.

“It’s a long story, Tien-chien,” I say, very slowly. “Long and very very painful. Do you really want to hear it all?”

“Yes, Grandmother,” she says, very simply, and I hear that truth in her voice. She does, she wants to know and she is looking at my younger self and I glance at her and I see myself there as she sees herself in my painting. That girl in the painting, yes, that girl could be Tien-chien as much as it could be I. The resemblance is striking.

I glance at her again, look back at my painting. Gaze at my younger self and my never forgotten love and I know it’s time, for I am old now and who knows how much longer I have left. Not long. One year? Perhaps two? Three at the most. I should tell someone, and who better than this great-granddaughter who looks so much like me. I look at myself there on the wall and I look at this likeness of my younger self standing beside me and I make up my mind.

It is Tien-chien. She shall have the story that no-one has been told, and she shall have the painting that is from near the start of that story. That long and painful story and I glance once more at my younger self, summoning all my courage, all my strength.

“We loved each other so much. This painting, it was his Valentine’s Day gift to me,” I say, my voice a whisper now, for I have never told this story to anyone and it is painful. So painful. “He gave it to me on Valentine’s Day, 1938. Sit with me here, this afternoon, Tien-chien, after dim sum, and I will share this story with you.”

And afterwards, at the family dinner this evening, I will tell my sons and my daughters and my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren that are old enough to understand that Tien-chien is to have this painting and my precious guqin when my time has come to an end. There is more than enough of everything for everyone else to share, but the guqin and the painting, my painting; those are mine to give and they will be my gift to Tien-chien.

My story, the story of my love? That too will be my gift to Tien-chien, entrusted to her.

The red sheet with the golden flowers on which I lie in that painting?

That, I will lie on in death as I once lay on it in life.

* * *

“Sit here, Grandmother,” Tien-chien says, helping me as I seat myself on my rosewood couch, facing my painting. Then, hesitantly. “Are you sure you want to?”

I smile, pat the couch beside me. “Pour some tea, Tien-chien,” I said, for she has already carried a pot of steaming jasmine tea in and placed it on the coffee table, together with the cups. “This will be a long story,” and I gather my thoughts and my memories as she pours gracefully.

“His name was Martin,” I begin. “He was an Englishman and we met in 1937 at the beginning of my last year at Boarding School in Shanghai…”

* * *

Hua and I, we share a bedroom. At our Boarding School, the Shanghai American Girls Private School, we Seniors don’t sleep in dormitories like the Junior girls. Senior girls have rooms. Two girls to a room. There’s a dozen other Chinese boarding girls now but Hua’s my good friend. We started school here, High School, at the same time, four years ago. She’s from inland, from far away, from Chungking and she’s beautiful in the way that so many girls from Chungking are.

My family was from Nanking and back then I was often called a typical Nanking beauty, delicate, gentle, well-educated, for my father was both educated and wealthy. My father and mother were early supporters of Sun Yat-Sen. Thus, I, the eldest daughter, born in the western year 1920, did not suffer the fate of so many Chinese girls in the 1920’s and1930’s. I was sent to a western-style missionary school near my family home in Nanking.

I learnt English, I met the occasional westerner, missionaries usually but sometimes businessmen for my father was a businessman in Nanking, although I have no memories of what business he was in other than that he was well off. Not rich, but wealthy at least. Wealthy enough that in 1933, when I was 13, my beloved parents send me off to Shanghai, to the Shanghai American Girls Private School, intending for me to study there and to then attend University, gain a University Degree and contribute in a small way to the recovery of China.

In this, I was fortunate, for in China, daughters were of no account. Daughters of poor families were often sold, even wealthy families did not exempt their daughters from such transactions and not just daughters. Families would sell widows. Husbands would sell wives and often the sale would be into a life of prostitution. Even at thirteen, I was aware of this and I was fortunate that my parents were westernized, educated, and willing to invest in my education where so many girls of my age and class were married off to men old enough to be their fathers.

I was privileged but I was not alone. There were other Chinese parents than mine who wanted more for their daughters than traditional Chinese society offered and life was changing. Our country was changing. Shanghai was the agent of that change in China. Shanghai was where Sun Yat-Sen had lived, in a house in the French Concession. Shanghai was where the modern world was introduced into China. Shanghai was where many Chinese students were exposed to a western European education.

Students such as myself.

I left home for Shanghai when I was thirteen, confident, ambitious, studious; eager to make my parents proud of me. Perhaps I was even beautiful in the way that thirteen year old Chinese girls can be, tall and slender, my long black hair hanging to my waist, delicate features, graceful, perhaps I was charming. I would never return to Nanking. I would never gain that University Degree. I would never realize those ambitions. I would never see my parents or my family again, my life would take an entirely unforeseen path, but that is in the future.

When I started at that school, the Shanghai American Girls Private School, I was one of only two Chinese girl-boarders. The white girls who boarded there did not want to share a dormitory with us, despite the egalitarian ways of the Americans. Egalitarianism only goes so far when it applies to oneself, despite the pious platitudes the families of the American and English girls uttered. Hua and I were allotted a bedroom of our own from the very first, with the Senior girls.

For that we were grateful, for the European girls smelt strongly of sweat and rotten milk and other nameless, and sometimes rank, odours and their cleanliness left much to be desired. The sight of their body hair, even on the girls our age, that was enough to turn our stomachs. So much hair. On their legs, their arms, some even had faint moustaches and Hua and I would giggle behind our hands and comment in Chinese on their hairiness.

Now, after so many years, I am used to Europeans but at that time, thrown into that sudden intimacy with so many European girls, I was shocked. Shocked by their solid dumpy bodies, with so much fat and softness, so much hair, such large feet. Shocked by the size of the breasts on the older girls, large and soft and white, like the udders of a cow. Shocked by their disgustingly thick and bushy pubic hair. Shocked that their pubic hair was not silky black but of all colors. Shocked by their awful diet.

Shocked not just by the odours and the hair and their bodies but by their behaviour. Their loudness, their lack of politeness, their lack of any common decency when using the changing rooms for sports, their physicality, their complete lack of understanding of China and their often expressed contempt for Chinese people.

“Not you, Chuntao, not you or Hua,” they would hasten to add. “You’re like us.” Almost like us, that was ever the unspoken qualifier.

Hua and I would glance at each other, expressionless, and nod politely, not wanting to disagree openly, but we knew we weren’t like them. We weren’t like them at all. We were Chinese, we were civilized. We came from a culture that had been in continuous existence for thousands of years, a culture that long pre-dated their Rome, that pre-dated their Egyptians, a culture that existed at the same time as their ancient Sumer. Far-back in the mists of their history, in their distant past when the ancestors of these white girls lived in caves and wore skins or even nothing, China was civilized.

Of course Hua and I gravitated to each other.

We were two Chinese girls, boarders in a foreign school, alone in the midst of primarily English and American girls. The token Chinese girls, tolerated but not entirely welcome. Not welcome at all to some. We became friends. Closer even that friends. Sisters. Almost, we were twin sisters. We were inseparable. Chuntao and Hua. We did everything together.

We almost died together in our third year at that School.

* * *

Walking out in the afternoons where we were permitted, we roamed the streets surrounding the School, cautiously at first and then, as our familiarity with our little corner of Shanghai grew, further afield. Always cautious, for the Japanese had occupied much of Shanghai and even for the foreigners, it was better not to run afoul of the Japanese. For us, Chinese girls, the Japanese were terrifying. It was best to stay within the confines of the International Settlement, as we found out, for our first display of independence was almost our last.

Two fifteen year old girls, in our school uniforms because as juniors, those were the rules, venturing out unwitting, innocent, not quite heedless of danger but far too innocent, far too unwary. We knew there was danger, but that danger was not to us. We were students in a foreign school, a protected species. We were not from rich families, the Triads would not kidnap us for ransom. We were students in a foreign school, identified by our uniforms.

No gang would kidnap us to sell into a brothel. It would cause too much trouble, the school would call in the foreign police. The foreign police would act, we would bring trouble and girls were cheap. And so, secure in that knowledge that we at least were safe, we took a rickshaw from outside the school, down through the clean cobblestoned streets of the French Concession, through the ancient arched gateway and, for the first time since we had arrived in Shanghai, into Nantao. The old City.

The China of a hundred years past.

Few foreigners dared enter Nantao, but we were just two anonymous Chinese girls, no different from other Chinese girls, a little out of the ordinary in our western-style uniforms but not enough to draw more than a casual glance. After the clean shaded streets of the Settlement, the green trams, the cars, the European style departments stores and cafes, the wafting aroma of fresh coffee and even more freshly baked croissants, entering Nantao was like returning home.

The International Settlement was almost a foreign land but this, the old City, this was like back home in Nanking for me. Women cooking on the pavements over small charcoal stoves. Old men sitting on stools in the gutters being shaved, other old men sitting and writing letters home for illiterate coolies, open shop-houses selling anything and everything.

Families living on the street, sleeping, eating, washing, cooking. Butchers beheading chickens, the ash from the cigarette’s they smoked drifting down into the meat they were selling. Stalls selling fish, chickens, pork, fruit, vegetables of all sorts and the noise, the constant noise. For the first time in over two years, I knew I was in my own country. China. Hua and I, we smiled at each other and I knew she was experiencing that same thought. This was not the foreigners’ country. This was our country.

This was our China. Not theirs.

Passing through a large square, a young man in western clothes jumped up onto an empty market stall and I knew his face. I’d seen him somewhere and I remembered. Nanking. He was from Nanking and his father and my father would drink tea and talk politics together, quietly, in a corner of the teahouse they both frequented. He and I, we also had talked and he’d been adamant that China needed to modernize, to liberate itself from the foreigners and from the feudalism of the past.

“Zhang,” I called out, loudly, waving my arms. “Zhang, it’s me, Chuntao.”

He saw me, he waved back, and then he was talking. A speech. Something about expelling the foreigners, fighting the Japanese, supporting the Zhongguo Gongchan Dang, the Communist Party of China and Hua tugged at my arm as I tried to push forward.

“Chuntao, don’t, he’s crazy, remember what happened here in 1927, we should leave. We need to leave right now.” She’d seen what I in my excitement had not.

A wedge of Chinese policemen battering their way through the crowd. Zhang too saw them, he jumped off the table on which he stood and he was pushing his way through the crowd with a couple of friends but the crowd was thick, their escape too late, too slow. The police caught them easily, beat them mercilessly, tied their wrists with rope as I watched, horrified.

Someone in the crowd pointed at Hua and I.

“These two, they were with them,” he called out.

Hua screamed once as hands pushed us forward. No-one wanted to be near us and then the police had us too. Our wrists tied painfully tight behind our backs, forced to kneel beside Zhang and his two friends. Hua wept quietly. Me, I was stunned, then terrified. Then, seeing another policeman walking towards us, tall, muscular, bare-chested with a shaven head and carrying a large sword, I trembled in sudden dread.

He pointed at Zhang.

Two of the policemen dragged him forward, Zhang looked at me as they bent him forward, his eyes met mine, he was afraid. His mouth opened, he was going to say something to me and then the sword swept down, his head leapt forward and fell to the cobblestones, rolling like a ball as blood spurted from his neck to pool beneath his now limp body and just like that, Zhang was no longer afraid.

He was dead.

His head was on the ground, staring at me, his eyes wide open, his mouth unmoving. The second student followed. The third, and this last boy wailed and struggled but it made no difference. His head rolled across the cobblestones before my eyes. The policeman with the sword looked at me and he smiled and I knew I was next, that in seconds I would be dead, my head rolling on the ground. Hua and I were both weeping in terror when an Englishman stepped out of the crowd, appearing as if from nowhere.

“These two girls are students at the Shanghai American Girls School,” he said, in perfect Shanghainese. “They had nothing to do with these criminals.” He gestured at the heads.

“Who are you?” the policeman holding the sword said, spitting, just missing the foreigner’s feet.

“Inspector Fleming,” the man said. “Shanghai Municipal Police.” He flipped out a brown leather wallet, displayed whatever was inside. “I will return them to their School. They should not be here.”

“Your badge means something in the Settlement,” the policeman said. “Not here.”

“Du Yuesheng plays poker with me on Wednesday evenings,” the foreigner said. “Perhaps I should mention this inconsequential matter to him?”

“You are correct, these girls should be returned to their school,” the policeman said. “They should not return to Nantao. They are your responsibility. Take good care lest anything unfortunate happens to them.” He never looked back to Hua and I, on our knees, shaking with terror, quietly sobbing. He turned and stalked away. His men scooped up the heads of Zhang and his two friends and followed, leaving the bodies on the street surrounded by pools of blood coagulating in the summer heat, already black with flies.
Hua knelt there, quietly sobbing. I looked at the headless bodies and the blood and I threw up. No-one even looked. The show was over.

“You two have had a narrow escape,” the white man said, a knife appearing in his hand. “You are fortunate I know Mrs. Innes.” A particularly evil looking knife with which he sliced through the ropes that bound our wrists, lifting us to our feet when we couldn’t stand by ourselves, waving over a rickshaw coolie, climbing in with us, sitting beside us as we sat there, trembling.

The rickshaw coolie jogged along, taking us out of the old City, into the French Concession, back towards our school. We passed under Zhang’s head, contained within a birdcage, already hanging over the city gate and I almost threw up again.

“Do not go back to Nantao ever again,” the foreigner said as the rickshaw halted outside our school. He climbed out, paid the rickshaw coolie, handed Hua and I down. “If that policeman sees you there, he will execute you on the spot.”

Neither Hua nor I ever ventured into Nantao again. Zhang’s head leaping from his body and rolling across the paving stones as his neck spurted blood featured in my nightmares for weeks. Shanghai had taught Hua and I our first harsh lesson in the realities of life in the City that never sleeps. Life was cheap. Death came quickly and unexpectedly. Nobody cared if you lived or died.

This was a lesson that Hua and I would learn all too well.

That was the way it was in Shanghai.

* * *

“They look so stylish,” I said to Hua, watching three girls in the latest Modeng style, “modern girls,” walking together. Dressed in the style of foreigners; short skirts, high heeled shoes, bobbed hair, and it was their hair that Hua and I examined.

“Is that the American flapper style?” Hua asked me.

“I think so,” I said. “I like their hair.”

“I’m not sure I want to look like a Modeng girl,” Hua said. “You know what people say about them.”

I did. We both did. Women of the New China, some said. Revolutionaries, against foot-binding and neither of us thought that was radical. My grandmothers both had the lotus feet and I knew how painful it was for them. My mother had escaped that and she had been adamant that her daughters would not suffer the pain of that horrible practice, despite some pressure from my paternal grandfather.

“I’d like to,” I said, watching those girls.

Elegant, assured, confident. Everything I wanted to be. I’d read an old article in the Mingxing yuekan, “The Star Monthly,” recently, describing the Modeng Girl’s favorite pastimes. “Taking a boyfriend for a stroll at dusk under street lights that had just come on; visiting the park with a boyfriend on a moon-lit night when flowers are in full-bloom; drinking coffee in a café; going to the movies; and going dancing in the dance halls.”

Hua and I, we looked like what we were. Students at a foreign school. Our uniforms identified us as such. To a certain extent perhaps they protected us, but I did not see that. I saw those Modeng girls, I saw the way men eyed them, I saw the way girls such as Hua and I looked at them. Enviously. With admiration, for these girls were the New China. The New Women. The future.

Modeng girls were not bound by the restrictions of the past, the chains of the patriarchal Confucian society in which we had been brought up. These girls were free. Free to enjoy amorous relationships with the opposite sex, free to stroll through the streets and the boulevards, freed to sit in cafes, watch movies, go to dance halls and dance with young men, all those things and more.

Modeng girls were progressive, intellectual, involved in radical politics and bettering women’s position in society although of course I had also read the gossip columns accusing Modeng girls of being empty-headed promiscuous young women preoccupied with trendy clothes and having fun. I did not care for that, but there was that appeal of looking fashionable, and style and appearance was everything in Shanghai.

So many advertisements showed Modeng Girls, the Modeng lifestyle so it wasn’t just me.

“I want to get my hair bobbed like that,” I said, watching those three girls walking away from his.

“I’ll do it if you’re going to,” Hua said.

“Let’s do it now,” I said. “There’s a hairstylists over there.” We’d walked by it often, it was always busy and I’d seen Modeng girls in there, having their hair trimmed.

I led the way, Hua followed.

“A trim?” the young man smiled at us as we walked in. Young, handsome, he was dressed in the western style. I smiled back.

“We’d like to have our hair bobbed. Like that.”

“This way,” he said, leading us in.

“You two have lovely hair,” the hairdresser said. Mine fell to my hips, long and black and silky. Hua’s was longer even than mine, and neither of us had ever had our hair cut since we were born. Only trimmed a little. She lowered her voice. “Are you sure? Most of the girls who have their hair bobbed, they are involved with the Chung-kuo Kung-ch’an-tang, the Communist Party or they are girls with no virtue.”

“We are neither,” Hua said. “We want to look like her.” The young woman with the bob having her hair trimmed.

“Her father is wealthy,” the hairdresser said. “For her, it is fashion, and nothing else. She has a new boyfriend every week. Her body guard is there, the Russian.”

We’d noticed him, an older man in a suit. Grey-haired, the bulge of a handgun beneath his jacket, and of course we knew. This was Shanghai. This was a fact of life, unnoticeable. If you had money or your family were wealthy, there were bodyguards.

“Nothing will happen to her because of her hairstyle,” the hairdresser said.

“Why should something happen because of her hair?” Hus asked, as puzzled as I was.

“You girls do not know what happened in 1927 do you?” she asked, her voice hushed.

“No.” I shook my head. “I was eight years old then. I lived in Nanking.”

Hua nodded. “I lived in Chungking.”

“It was terrible,” the hairdresser said. “I was your age then, when the Communist Party launched the uprising in Shanghai and took control of the city. In the end, Chiang Kai-shek allied with Du Yuesheng…” The leader of the Green Gang, and everyone knew who Du Yuesheng was. “…and the gangs and they attacked the workers militias and executed thousands. It wasn’t just the workers though. They rounded up every girl they saw with bobbed hair.”

She shook her head. “I was a hairdresser then, some of those girls, I cut their hair for them. They weren’t revolutionaries. They weren’t communists, like they said there were. They were just silly young girls who liked to follow the latest foreign fashion and they said they were communists and they cut their heads off or they shot them. The only reason was that they didn’t like bobbed hair. They thought if a girl bobbed her hair she was a revolutionary because so many of the progressive girls, they bobbed their hair, they said long hair was the old way that kept women oppressed. They killed them because they bobbed their hair. A lot of them still think like that.”

“I don’t think I’ll have my hair bobbed after all,” Hua said.

“I don’t think I will either,” I said, and I didn’t.

That was the way it was in Shanghai.

Death came for many reasons.

* * *

“They cut girls heads off and killed them because they had their hair bobbed,” Tien-chien interrupts me, incredulous.

“Yes,” I said. “They did. I asked, later. I asked people who were there in Shanghai when it happened and it was all true. One of the men I knew a little later, he was on a tram that day it all started. He said there was a girl seated in front of him, a student in her school uniform. She was reading a textbook, studying for an exam, she was making notes. They came onto the tram and dragged her off and she screamed, she begged them to stop. Told them that she was a student going to school and they ignored her. They told her she looked like a Modeng girl and she could join the rest of them.”

I remember the look in his eyes as he told me. He’d been horrified, even ten years later. “He said they dragged her off the tram and made her kneel on the road next to all the other bodies and they shot her right there. He never knew who she was, she would have just disappeared. Her family would never have known what happened to her. She would have left in the morning to go to school, and simply never returned.”

“That’s horrible,” Tien-chien said.

“It sounds awful now,” I said. “It was worse when you were there and you saw things like that happening.” I think back to that boy I knew from Nanking and his two friends, beheaded before my eyes. His head rolling on the cobblestones as Hua and I knelt there. The sick horror of that dawning realization that our heads were next. That in seconds our heads would join his. We would be dead for no crime except that I had waved to him.

And nobody had cared. Nobody had cared except that English policeman.

“I know how those girls must have felt,” I said, slowly. “Their only crime was wanting to look attractive, to dress in the Modeng style, to cut their hair in that bob, and it was very fashionable. For that, for wanting to look stylish, so many of them were dragged of the street and killed.”

There are tears in my eyes now for those girls, those hundreds of unremembered girls who died over the weeks of that ruthless massacre where thousands were killed. Forgotten, those girls are all forgotten and who remembers them now, those Modeng girls who were killed for the way they cut their hair. Who knows what happened to those poor girls before they were executed.

Girls like me.

“That is the way it was in Shanghai,” I said at last. “When you understand that, you will understand me better, Tien-chien. Life was so cheap back then. Nobody cared. Nobody at all, often not even their families and life went on, unchanged, as if none of it had ever happened. When you had nothing, you did what you had to do to survive, or you died, and if you died, nobody at all cared for you. Nobody.”

“You had your friend, Hua, Grandmother,” Tien-chien says and she is right, this great-granddaughter of mine. Hua cared for me, I know that. Just as I cared for Hua.

“Yes,” I say, slowly. “Hua and I, we had each other back then. That was all we had in the end. Each other, and we helped each other survive when without that friendship, I think each of us would have given up and died.”

* * *

There was enough there for us in the International Settlement and the French Concession, more than enough for us in those streets where the Europeans ruled. After the horror of Zhang’s death had worn of, we ventured out again, cautiously, carefully. Shopping on Nanking Road, sometimes taking a rickshaw into the French Concession, drawn by the croissants and pastries and the coffee, so different to Chinese delicacies and I did like coffee. There, in our western-style school uniforms, we were safe. We blended in for while there were many foreigners, there were far more Chinese.

Chinese like us.

The Bund fascinated both Hua and I. The Bund, stretching along the bank of the Whangpoo, it was the most famous street in the International Settlement, it exists today, with many of the old buildings I remember preserved in time. A beautiful park, open to all, even to Chinese, stretched along the waterfront while on the opposite side of the road were the buildings I loved to look at, to sketch.

Back then, when I was fifteen, my ambition was to become an architect, to design modern buildings that would reflect the greatness of a resurgent China. It would not be, I would never get beyond my second year of studying Engineering at the National Chiao Tung University, known even in those years of the 1930’s as the “Eastern MIT.”

Fate played its part, my studies would take a far different direction, but still, I am proud to see now how Shanghai has blossomed, once more one of the leading cities in the world. I am proud to see how Chinese architects have created buildings to rival any in the world, making Shanghai now a city of architectural marvels. American as I now am, yet I am proud to see my China resurgent.

Not quite matching the vision of Sun Yat-Sen, but I know my father would be content if he could see China now, united, strong, modernizing, taking once more its rightful place at the forefront of the world. Fate, destiny, bad luck, call it what you will. I played no part in that resurgence. With my family background, it is unlikely that I ever would have, even had I stayed.

The communists sent many whores to the labor camps when they seized power. With my family background and my means of surviving, if I had remained in Shanghai I would have been lucky if that was all that happened to me. I escaped that fate, I escaped Shanghai, but that was in my future back then, in late 1936, in my seventeenth year, in my fourth year at the American School for Girls. Back then, I was filled with ambition and hope.

Back then, I happily spent Saturday afternoons sketching those buildings along the Bund. The Bund. How can I describe that single mile along the banks of the Whangpoo. A solid mile of buildings built by the foreigners, stretching from the Garden Bridge over Soochow Creek to the old Chinese City where Hua and I had nearly lost our heads. This was modern Shanghai.

Alive with noise, foreigners and Chinese intermingled. Businessmen, visitors, peddlers, beggars, throngs of pedestrians, rickshaw coolies calling, competing for business. Vehicles of every sort. Carts, bicycles, rickshaws, wheelbarrows, motorcycles, cars, buses, trucks. The Whangpoo, stinking, noxious brown water, colored with oil from the boats that chugged everywhere, layers of detritus mixed with dead fish and who knew what else.

I did not come to the Bund to admire the Whangpoo. Nobody did that. I turned my back to the river and its fetid stench. Instead I admired and I sketched those buildings along the length of that glorious mile. A mile that held half the wealth and power of the Orient, and Hua and I were there, in the center of things and this was the golden age of Shanghai, when the Bund was at its most vibrant.

The McBain building at number one, built in a mix of neoclassicism and eclecticism with baroque touches. Simple. Elegant. Magnificent, I loved that building. The Shanghai Club at number two with its 100 foot long bar of dark polished mahogany. The longest bar in the world and I would never see it, for Chinese were not permitted in the Shanghai Club and neither were women. Perhaps I would never see the interior, but I sketched that exterior again and again. The baroque style exterior of stone, the huge windows, the columns, the imposing double doors.

The Union Building at Number Three, occupied by the Chartered Bank of India, Australia and China; the exterior baroque again, the columns in the ionic style. The Nishin Navigation building at number five with its modern design combined with elements of the Japanese. The China Merchants Bank at Number Six, in the Victorian Gothic style, and how I studied those architectural styles. I knew every nuance, I could sketch every detail, smiling as I contemplated my own architectural designs of the future, following my graduation.

Like every young girl, I had my dreams, my ambitions and in that long ago time, mine was that one of my designs would grace a renewed resurgent Shanghai. And so, I sketched, learning with every sketch that I drew, every treatise on architecture that I read. The Telegram Building at Number Seven in the French Renaissance style with those two baroque domes with the rococo touches. The Russell & Co. Building at Number Nine, only three stories in the neoclassical style.

The Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank Building at Number Twelve, the most outstanding piece of Western classical-styled architecture in all of China. The Customs House at number thirteen with its huge clock tower. The beautifully art-deco China Bank of Communications building at Number Fourteen. The Russo-Asiatic Bank Building at Number Fifteen in the Italian Renaissance style. The Taiwan Bank Building at Number Sixteen. The North China Daily News building at Number Seventeen with its modern neo-classic look, all mixed in with baroque towers, sculptures and classic pillars.

The Chartered Bank at Number Eighteen, the Palace Hotel at Number Eighteen, at the corner of Nanking Road and the Bund and as I sketched it, I stood wishing I could see the inside of that beautiful building, little knowing that in two short years I would become all too intimately familiar with the interior of its rooms as the “guest” of foreign men. Sassoon House at Number Nineteen, built for the wealthy Jew, Victor Sassoon, his home a pyramidical green glass penthouse at the top.

The Bank of China Building at Number Twenty Three. The Yokohama Specie Bank at Number Twenty Four, the Yangtze Insurance Building at Twenty Six, the Jardine Matheson building at Twenty Seven. The Glen Line Steamship Building at Twenty Eight. The Banque de l’Indochine Building at Twenty Nine, and at the far end, the British Consulate Building set in its manicured green lawns.

I sketched them all, again and again. Hua, always the entrepreneur, happily sold my sketches to tourists, the proceeds going towards our shopping expeditions. I enjoyed myself, becoming ever more skilful, even attempting sketches of Hua.

Her beauty proved even more popular, both then and, as it turned out, later.

I even sketched Garden Bridge but neither of us ever crossed that bridge. It was the bridge between the western-controlled part of the International Settlement and Hongkou. The Japanese section. Japanese warships were anchored in the river. Japanese soldiers patrolled the streets. Not just soldiers. The Kempetai, the dreaded Japanese Military Police, a name to be whispered in fear, for they dragged Chinese off the streets, seemingly at random, never to be seen again.

We were there one Sunday when that happened. I was sketching the bridge when the Japanese dragged a Chinese man away, out of the crowd of Chinese passing through the Japanese checkpoint. He was screaming with fear, screaming like a girl, his voice a wail of terror before they beat him into silence and dragged him away.

“I never want to come here again,” Hua said, crying, as we hurried away.

“Let’s go shopping on Nanking Road,” I said. And we did.

It was one of those shopping trips, it was in 1937 I am sure, because it was just before the fighting with the Japanese began again, that took our thoughts down a new path.

We ventured often into the French Concession now, exploring the streets, the Chinese shops tucked away down crowded side-streets and alleys. It was one such shop, a small shop selling old Chinese books, that drew us one Sunday afternoon. It must have been in early 1937, it was well before the fighting started, for I remember it was Spring and peaceful, the trees blossoming. Both Hua and I enjoyed reading, Chinese books as well as English, and these were used books, old books, cheap. We leafed through them, eyes open for anything interesting. Anything unusual. Anything like…

“Look at this one, Chuntao,” Hua said, glancing around, holding a book open for me to look at.

“What is it abo… aiyaaah!” My eyes flew wide open. “What is this, Hua?”

She giggled, closing the cover, pointing at the title. “The Plain Girl’s Secret Way.”

I took the book from her, opening it again. “Aiyaaah, it has illustrations.” My eyes widened. “Of…” Of course I blushed.

Hua giggled. “Yes.” Now she blushed. “I’m going to buy it.”

I looked. “I think there are more.”

At that time, in the spring months of 1937, shortly before the fighting in what would later be called the Battle of Shanghai against the Japanese began, we had not yet started our last year of High School studies. Both of us had also just turned eighteen and at times now our thoughts turned to more than our studies. We were young women after all, and Hua was more beautiful than I, and I was not unattractive.
When we were out, even in our school uniforms, men had eyed us in the way that men do and we were aware of the desire in those looks, those glances. In the summer of that year, 1937, we were allowed out in our own clothes and now we attracted even more looks. We both favoured the qipao, the dress that had become so popular with modern Chinese women in the 1920’s and 1930’s. At that time, in the late spring of 1937, I had just received the last letter from my mother that I would ever receive together with my allowance.

I was able to indulge myself in a little clothes buying. Not extravagantly, but my father was not a poor man and he was generous. Our qipao’s were in the latest style, form-fitting, figure-hugging and my most daring one had side-slits reaching the thigh. Hemlines had crept up too, one of Hua’s ended only a little below her knees and wearing it, she looked exquisite. The white girls, the English and American girls with whom we boarded, they looked down on our qipao’s, wearing western-style dresses as they all did.

Hua and I simply smiled, for no amount of rudeness could disguise the simple truth. Our long slender legs and in Hua’s case, her full firm breasts, were displayed to perfection in those figure hugging qipao’s, A figure-hugging perfection that none of our classmates could match, and when we were out together, it was Hua and I who the men’s eyes would follow, much to the chagrin of the white girls.

Now, at eighteen, Hua was more beautiful than I by far and I envied her that figure and the way she looked in her high-hemmed qipao. I had even sketched her in it, but by then there were fewer tourists visiting Shanghai, and our visits to the Bund had tailed away. There was no market for more sketches of Hua, but I enjoyed drawing her all the same.

Looking at those rather graphic illustrations in this book we had found, I was intrigued. Reading the text, I was a little confused, but I was more than sure that further study would help me understand. We found more. “The Plain Girl’s Secret Way.” “Secret Decisions in the Jade Chamber.” “The Art of the Bedchamber.” “Book of the Mystery-Penetrating Master.” “Prescriptions of the Immaculate Girl.” “Dream of the Red Chamber.” “Variegated Battle-arrays of the Flowery Camp,” a book that was full of further illustrations, some of which stunned me into silence, at least for a second.

“Look,” I said to Hua, showing her one. “Do men really desire to do things like this?”

Hua’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushed pink. She glanced at me, closed the book, placed it with the half dozen we had already selected in unspoken agreement. We paid, we carried the books home, we placed them in our small bookcase, secure in the knowledge that none of the European teachers or our School Headmistress, Mrs. Innes, who inspected our rooms, could read Chinese. Some of the Chinese servants might, but none of them would betray us to the foreigner, just as none of us Chinese boarders would give away their secrets.

Over the next days and weeks, we devoured those books, the texts and the illustrations of which opened our eyes to another world. A world of the sexes. The world of men, women and the act of love. We were Chinese, we didn’t have the reticence of the English and American girls when it came to sex. Of course, we knew, coming from the families that we did, that we were expected to be virgins when we entered the marriage bed, but a wife was expected to please her husband, and, too, we were women of modern China.

That was what we told ourselves, and as an excuse, it was flimsy, but it sufficed. We studied those books as hard as we studied our textbooks. With the fighting against the Japanese going on starting in July, we were not allowed out of the School under any circumstances. There were guards on the gates, White Russian guards that the School had hired. Restricted to school, we concentrated on our studies, fascinated by this new subject. It took some time to understand the euphemisms that the writers employed. Jade gate. Jade stalk. Cinnabar Crevice. Such terms were easy to understand, but what was “jing.” Essence?

“I think it is this?” Hua said, and she had one of our school biology textbooks open, pointing to the definition of semen.

“Oh,” I said, reading and re-reading, the Chinese text, the biology textbook. “I think you’re right.” And one more clue was solved.

“Listen to this,” Hua said to me, her cheeks pink. “The women’s left hand should hold the man’s jade stalk. The man will use his tight and to caress the women’s jade gate. This the man will feel the yin energy and his jade stalk will be stirred. It thrusts high toward heaven. The woman feels the yang energy and her cinnabar crevice will become moist with the liquid flowing downward, like a river coursing from a deep valley. It is now that coupling can take place.”

“Aiiyahhh,” I said, squirming a little. “My cinnabar crevice likes this.” I giggled.

Hua smiled, her cheeks pink. “I would like to see a man’s jade stalk,” she said.

“So would I,” I echoed, turning the page. “I wonder if they really look like this?”

It would not be too much longer before both Hua and I were granted our wishes. Far sooner than either of us expected, in fact, although Hua’s wish was granted rather more abruptly than mine.

“Aiiyaaah,” I murmured, the following Saturday. “I’m buying this.”

“What is it?” Hua asked.

“The Chin P’ing Mei,” I whispered, my heart quickening. The “Metal Vase Plum-Blossom”. Written and first printed four hundred years ago, even I had heard of this famous classic, banned until the fall of the Manchu’s.

“Buy it,” Hua said, her cheeks pink, and we did and as soon as it was ours, we returned to the School and our room, reading it together on Hua’s bed.

“Listen to this, Hua,” I said, reading, for I was a faster reader of Chinese characters than she and I couldn’t wait for her.

“She parted her trembling thighs and raised them reverently as if she was making an offering to a god. She offered up her furry saddle to Hsi-Men’s passionate eyes, a saddled reserved for the strongest men. Only he could stirrup himself to it and ride this passionate world at a furious gallop. Her nipples stiffened at the thought. Oh, he could bite them off with his strong white teeth if he wished and leave her bleeding. Already that tiny cherry of enchantment, set beneath the fur and hidden between those firm folds, was sending out is sparkling thrills to all parts of her lovely body…”

“What does furry saddle mean?” Hua asked, frowning.

I giggled. “Aiiyaahh, think about it, Hua.”

“No!” she squealed a second later. “That’s so… I am not furry. The American and English girls are, but not me!”

“It’s a manner of speech,” I said, laughing. “I’m not furry either.”

“That’s because you shave there,” she said primly.

“You should too,” I said. “Mother taught me just before I came here.”

“Alright, alright,” she said. “Keep reading.”

“Her satin skin was on fire. She writhed. A gasp burst through her juicy mouth, a low gasp but so filled with longing that it made the goblet, on a stool nearby, ring as if some jade-throated sing-song girl had torn the air with the purest note.

“Come, come!” she cried as she stared half in terror at his fearful spear of flesh, and he, wide-eyed, with the visage of a warrior who is about to plunge his spear down the gullet of a green dragon, leaped forward, grabbing the ivory waist with his two strong hands. Thus is the flesh of beauty bruised as magnolia petals by the lusty fingers of summer.

As he leaped, she raised her knees for protection and, pressed against his brawny chest, they barred his way but not for long. While Hsi-Men squeezed himself between her knees, his sturdy fingers sought under her creamy buttocks for heaven’s brown starfish; that second place of pleasure with which deft fingernails are able to spice the feast.

As his fingertips reached the tight little rim, she made way, and guided by nothing but his sure passion, the plump and palpitating head of his quivering charger pressed its course between her welling moistening folds and came to rest against the cherry of enchantment. But only for a moment, and what a moment! Gold Lotus felt as if her heart was there, her woman’s heart, bare and fluttering like caged butterflies.

Her entrance clung to his minaret…”

“His what?” Hua asked.

“Hua!” I said. “They’re using all sorts of fancy words to describe his jade stalk. His cock.”

“Oh!” Hua said, her cheeks pink. “I thought that was it.”

“Don’t interrupt,” I said, my own cheeks hot and I wriggled against the bed because something else was moist and hot and I wondered if that was how Gold Lotus had felt.

“Her entrance clung to his minaret, like the suckers on an octopus tentacle, drawing it inward past that cherry of enchantment…that’s her clitoris, Hua… sucking at it, pleading with it to plumb her narrow whirlpool, massaging it for the journey to her bottomless depths as the wife of a pearl diver oils the body of her husband before he dives into the sea to seek a treasure. Another cry left her lips, a sharp animal cry, of pain or pleasure one cannot tell. There is no word in China for such a sensation.

Her lily hands which were clinging to his back flew out on either side of her with fingers fluttering for he had thrust himself savagely into her scabbard. And on withdrawal he seemed the tear the sides of it and bring them up with him, as if it was a barbed sword. But a magic sword, on re-insertion it carries her pleasure-flesh back with it unharmed.

He plunged and reared while one finger dug deep into her starfish. He rubbed his finger along the inner walls of her cavern. Only a thin sheath of flesh separated his finger from his turbulent charger. He could feel it throbbing. Her thighs began to rock and roll on her mounting passion as a small boat is tossed by gigantic waves.

For the first time he sought the lips of her mouth and forced her tongue between her pearly teeth. Her mouth had been drawn against her hissing teeth, but now his tongue had parted them, her lips formed over his and sucked him into her fragrant throat. With ever-increasing fury his thighs beat against hers. It seemed as if a bird with giant wings was beating them against her hips, while its predatory beak shook and tore at her innards.

Now she tore his back with her mails, now she drummed against it with her little fists, and now she kicked her lily feet. The pleasure was unbearable. Short cries escaped from her mouth. She turned her head this way and that. No longer could she feel his finger digging into her starfish. She had got beyond the need for spice. Does a tigress need to spice its prey before devouring it?

Her passion rose higher and higher until at last his final violent ram presaged the molten lava erupting into her, scalding her in ways she never dreamed… and his charger in convulsions… and her whirlpool sucking at it… and aaaaah, a sensation which defies all description. Hsi-Men lay exhausted in her arms. He was her prisoner but a prisoner that does not have to be held fast by strong arms.

This they lay together until the phoenix grew its wings, again ready for flight. Twice again was Hsi-Men able to take his lover…”

“Ohhhh,” Hua moaned, and the bed moved. I glanced at her, lying face down on her bed and both hands were beneath her, her hips moving a little as she sobbed for breath. “Ohhhh… I would like that, Chuntao… I would like a man to do that to me… Ohhhhh I would… I would.” She turned her face to look at me and she was sobbing for breath.

“I wonder what it would be like, Chuntao, to have a man inside and his finger in my starfish.” Her breath sobs out, she half closes her eyes and her hips move, lifting, sinking and I know her hand is moving and I am so hot and wet and my jade gate wants to be touched. It demands to be touched and I slip one hand under me, pulling my skirt up, all the way up until I can touch myself through my panties.

“Ohhhhhhh,” I shiver as my fingers press and my cherry of enchantment, my clitoris, it is so sensitive. It’s so good and I do it again and again and I’ve never done this before, never touched myself like this and it’s good, it’s so good and I watch Hua’s face and she watches mine as we touch ourselves.

“I would like a husband, Chuntao,” she moans. “I would like a husband to plunge himself into me and take me as Gold Lotus was taken.”

“Ohhhh… ohhh… ohhhhh,” I moan, losing control of my body because that’s what I am also imagining and a golden wave overwhelms me, washes through me and my mind is a kaleidoscope of thoughts and images as I shudder on the bed before collapsing limply and beside me Hua shudders and moans and her mouth opens wide but no sounds emerge as she too finishes and afterwards we fall asleep and I dream of a man.

A foreigner. A white man. Plunging himself into me again and again.

* * *

I met Martin within a couple of weeks of the fighting against the Japanese ending. He was the first Englishman I’d ever really talked to. I’d met westerners, but apart from Mrs. Innes and our teachers, who were all older women, I’d never talked to a European man.

Martin? How did I meet him?

Yes, I’ll tell you. It was quite simple, really. It was just one of those chance things that happen. At School, Hua and I were friends, as much as a Chinese girl back then could be friends with an American girl, with Marjory. To Marjory, I suspect Hua and I were almost pets in a way. She never condescended to us, but there was always that feeling there that she felt good from befriending us, that she was doing a good deed.

I suspect it was that same attitude that you see in so many Americans towards minorities in these present times. Befriending us made her feel virtuous. We had no real inkling of that at the time, and when her parents invited us, the only two Chinese girls in the senior Class, together with all the other white girls in our Class to their garden party, a last autumn garden party before the bitter cold of the Shanghai winter set in, we were both suitably gratified.

Gratified enough that Marjory felt suitably rewarded for her virtuousness in insisting her parents invite Hua and I together with all the English and American girls. Mrs. Innes warned us to be on our best behaviour, to remember our manners, to behave in the western way. Only us. She reminded us that Hua and I were there as an example to the Americans and the English that China was modernizing, that Chinese could be westernized, that this next generation of young Chinese could assimilate successfully and be treated as, perhaps not equals, but certainly close to equals. Suitably humiliated, we prepared ourselves. We did have western-style dresses. We would wear those. We would display our assimilation to all.

“It’s going to be fine, Chuntao,” Marjory had whispered to us on Friday in class. She was American after all. “Mommy and Daddy are only inviting people they know who won’t get all sniffy about Chinese. You don’t need to worry. Some of the other girls will be there was well so you’ll know lots of people. Oh, and you should both wear those qipao’s. You look so lovely in them.”

“Would that be alright?” I’d whispered back. “We have dresses to, we were going to wear those.”

“Oh no,” she said. “I asked Mommy. She said it would be lovely if you wear your qipao’s. She said it would be so delightfully exotic for the other guests. We don’t invite many Chinese home, you know. It’s just not done, but you two are so…” Even Marjory hesitated, looking for the right words.

“You fit in so well,” she said. “Nobody would even know you’re both Chinese if they didn’t see you. You don’t even have that funny accent that most Chinese have.”

I actually felt rather proud of myself and so did Hua. We’d worried though.

* * *

We needn’t have. Everyone had been so polite. Friendly even. Very friendly.

“Oh, you both look so charming in those dresses,” Marjory’s mother had said as soon as we arrived in the car that Marjory’s father had sent to the school to pick us up. “Don’t you think so, Chuck?”

“Oh for sure, yeah, they do, Betty,” Chuck said, eying Hua’s chest. Chuck was Marjory’s dad. “Delightful, both of you.” He’d tucked Hua’s hand under his arm and led both of us off and he definitely wasn’t concerned with whether I followed or not. “It’s our garden party,” he’d said, “let me introduce you around before I give you back to Marjory.”

And he had, to a group of his male friends, first.

“His jade stalk is definitely feeling yin energy,” I whispered to Hua, in Chinese of course. “I think he likes your breasts. A lot. He keeps looking at them.”

She’d glanced down demurely and giggled. “His jade stalk is not the only one.” It wasn’t, and we’d both giggled as we’d been moved on, Chuck more than happy to monopolize us until Marjory came to our rescue.

“Daddy,” she’d said. “I need Chuntao and Hua, there’s some of our friends to introduce them to.”

Chuck had released us, reluctantly. “A dance, later, my dear?” he’d said. To Hua, not me.

“There’s dancing?” Hua had asked, surprised.

“This evening,” Chuck said. “After dinner.”

“We weren’t invited for dinner,” I said to Hua. “Marjory only invited us for this afternoon.”

“Say something to him quickly,” Hua said. “This is embarrassing.” Beside us, Marjory’s face had flamed pink. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cunningham, Sir,” I said, so politely. “We’re boarders at the School, we’re not allowed out for evenings, we had told Marjory we have to be back at School late this afternoon.”

“Nonsensical,” Chuck said. “You should’ve explained to Mrs. Innes, Marjory. I’ll have Dexter drive you both back to the school this evening. You’ll be perfectly safe.” He looked around, called out. “Betty. Hey, Betty, there’s been some sort of a mistake, the girls didn’t realize they were invited for dinner and the dance afterwards as well.”

“They wer…” Marjory’s Mom cut herself off. “I’m dreadfully sorry, girls,” she said, after a slight pause where she and Marjory looked at each other uncomfortably while Hua and I feigned complete obliviousness. Something we were used to doing. We’d been doing it for four years.

“Oh dear. There must have been a mistake with the invitations. After the garden party, we’re moving inside for dinner and a dance party. Of course you two are invited.” The glance she shot at her husband was barbed, her smile a little forced as she turned back to us. Beside her, Marjory had flushed an even brighter pink.

“That’s alright, Mrs. Cunningham,” I’d said. “Of course we understand and we’d love to stay but we should go back to School, really. Mrs Innes will be concerned if we’re late, we said we’d be returning late this afternoon and we don’t wish to cause her any concern.”

“I’m so sorry, girls,” she said, looking relieved. “Of course, our driver will take you back to the School.”

“Nonsense, Betty,” Chuck boomed, loudly enough that half the guests could hear. “It’s no trouble at all to squeeze a couple of beautiful girls like these in for dinner, I’m sure.” He beamed down at us and almost I was drunk on the fumes he breathed. “I’ll call Mrs. Innes right now and let her know they’re staying and we’ll have Dexter drop them back this evening.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Cunningham looked daggers at her husband, turned to smile artificially at us. “You’re most welcome to stay, girls. Please excuse me while I talk to the boy.” She eyed us suspiciously. “You’re both familiar with knives and forks? We’re serving American food, you might not like it?”

Her expression was so hopeful I almost giggled. It was a struggle to keep a straight face.
“Mommy,” Marjory said, her face even pinker. “We eat American food at school all the time. And of course they know how to use knives and forks.” Now she was looking daggers at her Mom as she led her away and we both heard her hissed whisper. “Mommy, I told you that you should have let me ask them. Don’t be so rude to them.”

“She didn’t make a mistake,” Hua whispered. “She didn’t want us here for dinner and the dancing this evening.”

“Of course not,” I said. “All she wanted was to show us off at the Garden Party, show everyone else how tolerant they are, inviting Chinese girls to show that their daughter is friends with us to make themselves look virtuous and tolerant and Christian.”

“I’m so sorry about that,” Marjory said, returning, her cheeks still pink. “You’re going to enjoy the dancing. There’s some other people coming this evening.” She smiled, not meeting our eyes. “Some younger people.” Her eyes sparkled now as Emily joined us. “Emily’s brother’s coming with some friends.”

“It’s so good that he’s back here,” Emily confided. “He graduated from Cambridge, you know. He’s a griffin with Jardine Matheson now. Daddy talked to Sir William you know and he had him taken on.” She smiled at Marjory. “Maybe he could take us to the movies.”

“Sure, I’d like that.” Marjory nodded. Marjory was like that. She liked men. She talked about men a lot. She went out openly with men in the weekends, and with her parents’ permission. It seemed rather scandalous to Hua and I. She’d gone out with American men and Englishmen and she’d even gone out with a Frenchman once. What man could possibly want to marry her after that? And the Frenchman was here too. Her parents had invited him. She pointed him out to us.

“He tried to touch me,” she breathed. “Under my skirt.” She’d smiled at us, confident in her superiority. “I didn’t let him of course but it was so exciting.”

Hua giggled. “Everyone knows white men prefer fragrant Chinese jade gates to stinky white girl’s jade gates,” she’d whispered to me, in Mandarin of course, while Marjory chattered on.

“Her father certainly does,” I’d whispered back and we’d both giggled.

“What was that?” Marjory asked, not really interested.

“Those Frenchmen, they have such a reputation,” I said. I’d seen Marjory’s jade gate in the showers after gym. It was not something I would have wanted to touch. So fat and hairy. If her mother’s was like that, no wonder her father’s jade stalk felt so much yin energy when he looked at Hua.

“Oh, yes.” Marjory was so oblivious.

* * *

Neither Hua nor I had ever been to a western-style dinner outside of school before and we were nervous. Where did one sit? What dishes were served? How should one behave?

“Martin!” Emily squealed. We all looked around. I saw what everyone else saw, a group of young white men walking out into the garden, a tall slim blonde haired young man in light trousers, a white linen shirt and a light summer jacket in the lead. He was smiling, a casually elegant wave of his hand to Emily, a hug for her as she flung herself on him in that casual way European girls had, a handshake for Marjory’s father, a kiss to the cheek of Marjory’s mother, a smile for Marjory.

He looked around, his eyes met mine and he froze, mid-sentence. His eyes looked into mine and it was as if I had suffered an electric shock that jolted my entire body, leaving my heart pounding, my body weak but my eyesight, my senses, it was if a shadow had been lifted from my eyes and everything was clearer, brighter, sharper.

I shall always remember that first glimpse of him. Tall to me, but much the same height as the other Englishmen in that crowded room, Slim, dressed in a cream-colored tropical suit, an open-necked white shirt, casual, elegant, his hair so blonde, his eyes a bright sparkling blue. Alien colors, a westerner’s hair and eyes and features, his pale white skin, the shape of his face, his mannerisms as he resumed talking, but his eyes returned to me again and again as I stood there, not hearing a word Hua was saying, confused, my mind whirling, my body full of heat.

The room took on new depth, an intensity of sensations that flooded me. The texture of the polished wooden floor on which I stood, the patterns of the Chinese rug on which he stood, the scent of floor polish and Europeans, the paintings on the wall, the furniture around the walls. It was as if I’d always been asleep and now, suddenly, I was wide awake and I had been transported into a new world as we looked at each other. This blue-eyed Englishman and me.

Emily was at his side, talking excitedly to him, he was talking back and always, always his eyes glanced at me, met mine and it was as if some force beyond myself was drawing me to him. That force tugged at me, but I was unable to move, unable to stir, not even to turn my head and look away and then a gaily smiling Emily was leading him towards us. Towards me and his eyes held mine.

He smiled.

I returned his smile.

“Hua, Chuntao. This is my brother, Martin,” Emily said, and his hand took mine in the European way, a strong gentle clasp.

“What does your name mean?” he asked, his hand not releasing mine. “It sounds beautiful.”

“Chuntao?” I said. “It means Spring Peach, you know, when the peach trees blossom.”

“Spring peaches are beautiful,” he’d smiled. “Like you.”

I didn’t say anything but my cheeks flushed pink and my heart beat a little faster. A lot faster and then my hand was released, he was introducing himself to Hua. He and I and Hua and Emily were talking. He’d grown up here in Shanghai but he’d been back in England for years. Boarding School and then University and he looked the part. Very English. Tall, slim, dressed immaculately in that casual European style and so polite.

We’d talked about school and he’d told us about his boarding school in England. Harrow, and he’d talked about University in England and his job at Jardines when we asked and I’d told him a little about myself, that my family was from Nanking, that my hope was to become an Architect or an Engineer, that I had no idea how one should behave at a European-style dinner party.

“You’ll sit with me,” he smiled. “I shall explain everything,” and he vanished. I found out afterwards he’d cornered Marjory’s parents’ head boy and slipped him some cumshaw to change the seating arrangements.

At the time and after he’d reappeared, I was just happy to have someone to explain everything to me with no fear of embarrassment. Thanks to his coaching, both Hua and I survived that dinner with no embarrassment and no gauche faux-pas’s, much to Marjory’s mother’s relief.

To our own relief as well.

* * *

“We’ll dance a little later,” Marjory’s mother said as dinner came to an end. The food had been strange, but not unenjoyable. Certainly better than the school fare. “Marjory and Emily are going to put on a little musical performance for us.”

Emily did play the piano well, and Marjory sang. After all this time I don’t remember the songs at all but they were popular hits back then and she sang them well.

“Say, do you girls play any Chinese music?” Marjory’s father, Mr. Cunningham, Chuck, asked, and I don’t think he was trying to embarrass us, he was just a little drunk and he was curious. “Got a couple here, there on the wall. Never heard what they sound like.”

There were more than a couple. A Pipa, a Guqin, and an Erhu, a Sanxian, a Dahu and the centrepiece, a Yunluo. I’d never seen any of them on a wall before.

“Chink music always sounds like cats fighting to me,” one of Chuck’s friends said, rather loudly.

“Uncle Mike,” Marjory nudged him with her elbow.

“What?” he said, then, “oh.” He didn’t look embarrassed at all though.

My expression didn’t change. “I play the guqin, Mr. Cunningham,” I said. “This one here.” The Guqin, on the wall. “Would you like me to play something for you?”

“Sure, let’s hear it,” one of the other men said. “Always thought it’d be interesting to hear one of them things played.”

“Here, I’ll get it down for you,” Mr. Cunningham said, standing, taking it from the wall, passing it to me and when I held it in my hands it was truly beautiful. A work of art, an antique, the thirteen hui, the mother-of-pearl dots as lustrous as small moons in the darkness of the midnight sky, the seven silk strings stretched on the soundboard, eager to once more sing their notes.

“Came from the Summer Palace,” Mr Cunningham said to the room, as if he’d picked it up in the street. “My grandfather picked it up back in 1860, he was with the British when you chaps stormed the place.”

My eyes welled with tears, tears of shame that this part of China’s precious heritage had fallen into the hands of these barbarians, tears of shame that this precious relic of the past sat unknown and uncared for on the wall of an unknowing foreigner, but my fingers plucked at those strings, tightening, tuning, and even after seventy five years they were in perfect condition.

“What the heck is it?” another of the men asked.

“The guqin,” I said, plucking at the strings, hearing their music whisper into the air of that room. “It is China’s oldest stringed instrument, it has been played as you see it for more than three thousand years, its history stretches back into the mists of the past and its music is China. It is inseparable from China and in our past, it was one of the four arts that scholars were expected to master. Legend tells us that the qin was invented by Huang Di, the Yellow Emperor, one of the three great founding emperors of China’s distant past. This qin that I hold here, that once dwelled in the Summer Palace of the Emperor of China, this qin was made by the Younger Prince of Lu for himself, he who ruled the Southern Ming Dynasty four hundred year ago. It was captured and taken with him to Peking, where he was executed. That history is written here, on this qin.”

Those beautiful notes faded as I caressed the embossed characters that told the story of this beautiful instrument, this treasure of China now in the hands of this American who had no idea of what he had on his walls. I smiled at no-one.

“I will play you High Mountains and Flowing Waters,” I said. “This piece was created by the great musician Yu Boya, in the Spring and Autumn Period of China, two thousand five hundred years ago. It is one of the great classics of Chinese music.”

I closed my eyes, meditating as my fingers plucked at this piece of our history, letting my mind flow, recreating that music, willing the high mountains from my fingers, willing the flowing waters to emerge, note by note as my fingers moved without thought, for I knew this piece as if it was my own heart, playing until that last note died away.

“That’s rather nice,” Mr. Cunningham said, but the tone of his voice said otherwise.

“Could you play another one,” someone asked, a gentleman whose name I didn’t then remember and I could tell he at least appreciated the beauty of the guqin.

My fingers plucked remembered notes. “This is the Song of Chu,” I said, the notes accompanying my voice. “It is about the defeat of the Chu general Xiang Yu by the founder of the Han dynasty during the period when the Qin dynasty was falling apart two thousand two hundred years ago. The Chu army is surrounded by the Han army and, his men surrounded, General Xiang Yu says goodbye to his wife Yu Ji, who commits suicide so that her husband will not fear for her fate in the coming battle. He and a few of his troops break free to no avail and at the end Xiang Yu rides off to commit suicide as well. There is a song that goes with this music.”

I smiled at Hua, for I knew she knows the words for this song. “Sing for me as I play, sister,” I said.

Hua smiled and moved to stand beside me, her voice rising to accompany the music as I drew the notes from this beautiful instrument, plucking, touching, pressing the strings and lifting, my fingers sliding up and down the strings in those complex combinations of finger movements that the guqin demands

“My strength can lift mountains,

My spirit can encompass society;

But the times are not appropriate,

(my horse) Zhui is no longer quick;

When Zhui is no longer quick, what can I do?

Alas, Yu Ji; alas, Yu Ji;

What will become of you?

Recalling his departure from Jiangdong

His spirit wants to consume the Qin rulers

At night he hears an iron di flute

His 8,000 soldiers are scattered

His brave spirit is dissipated

He cries at having to leave Yu Ji

He loses his way at Yin Ling

He will not cross at Wujiang.”

Hua sings the words in Chinese, in Mandarin and I translate them softly in English as she sings, telling the tragic tale of the great General and his beloved and heroic wife until that last note dies away and Mr. Cunningham has been watching her as she stands beside me, singing,his face rapt. Martin, Martin has been watching me and, conscious of his eyes, I smile.

“Sounds like a typical Chink general,” Uncle Mike says. “Crying, abandoning his men, losing the way and then killing himself. Typical farce.”

“It is an honor to hear you play, Miss Chuntao,” that other man said, and I remembered his name now, Mr. Standiford. The look he gave “Uncle Mike” was one that even Hua and I could recognize. “Your fingers, the way you play, it’s so expressive. I’d like to listen to you play again.”

“Enough, enough,” Mrs. Cunningham said, clapping her hands. “Thank you girls, that was marvellous. Now, let’s dance. Please, this way…” and you can tell right away she shared Uncle Mike’s opinion of chink music.

“That was beautiful,” Martin said. “I had no idea, I’ve only ever heard those Chinese opera singers before.”

I smiled. “That’s for theatres and street performances. Guqin music is for gatherings like this.”

* * *

“I’m not sure about dancing,” I’d said to Hua. “Father might not approve.”

“It’s a private party,” Hua said. “It’s not like dancing in a dance all, we’re not taxi dancers. And they teach us to dance at school.” She smiles. “I’m going to dance and enjoy myself. It’s not as if we go to parties like this all the time.”

She was right, we didn’t, and I didn’t think Mrs. Cunningham would invite us again. Especially not after her husband walked up to us and asked Hua for the first dance. She glanced at me helplessly, her cheeks pink, and walked onto the floor that’d been cleared for dancing with her arm tucked in his.

“May I?” Martin said.

I smiled as his arms took me and that first dance was magic. One of his hands holding mine, the other on my waist and just his touch was exhilarating and I was happy now that the School had taught us to dance.

“You better dance with someone else,” I said at last, after three dances.

He’d smiled, and he was looking down at me with that expression on his face that electrified me. I was used to men looking at me. I knew I was attractive. Hua and I both. Men looked and not just Chinese men. White men. They looked, and Martin wore that same look. The look men have when they desire a woman but this time there was something different.

The time I looked back and I desired Martin.

In his arms, there was excitement and anticipation. His hands on me sent shivers through my body. His proximity had me wanting him to take me in his arms and hold me tight and somehow we were closer together, almost touching each other and then something did touch me and my eyes widened. He jerked away from me, his cheeks pink.

“I say, I’m so sorry,” he said, his cheeks pink, and there was that moment of shocked awareness as I put two and two together and realized what had brushed me.

I smiled, my hear fluttered and my own body responded with a surge of heat and I knew Father would very definitely not approve but I didn’t care. Father wasn’t here and I was. “You better dance with Mrs. Cunningham for the next couple of dances,” I said, smiling, and when that dance ended, I joined Hua.

Her face was flushed, pink, her eyes wide and startled and one of her hands clutched mine as we sat down together.

“Emily’s father,” she whispered, and her eyes were alive, sparkling. She was smiling now. “He rubbed his jade stalk against me.”

“Aiiyaaah,” I said. “Really?”

“I think something happened,” she said, and she was breathing hard and half-giggling. “He was dancing with me and he was holding me really tight and I could feel it and remember the yang energy, and how your jade gate is supposed to become moist.”

“Yes.” I could barely speak, my mouth was so dry. “Yes, I remember.” I remembered Martin too. Brushing me and all of a sudden there was that heat and, yes, my jade gate was moist.

“He rubbed his jade stalk against me and my jade gate was really moist, Chuntao. I liked it.”. She swallowed. “He wants to dance with me again, later. I said yes, and I’m not sure if I should have.”

“It’s not as if we go to parties like this all the time,” I said. “He’s not going to do anything with all these other people here.” I squeezed her hand, smiled, thinking of Martin. Martin dancing with me and he’d brushed against me and that was his jade stalk. It couldn’t have been anything else and now I knew why Chinese frowned on the decadence of these western-style gatherings. I was so happy Marjory had invited us. So happy we’d stayed, despite Mrs. Cunningham so obviously not wanting us. “Let’s go talk to Marjory.”

But Marjory was talking with her Frenchman, and he did look like he wanted to slide his hand under her dress and the way Marjory was smiling at him, she looked as if she was encouraging him. Mr. Cunningham did dance with Hua again, but Mrs. Cunningham was watching him and he didn’t do anything with her again. Martin came over and asked me to dance and we did and I moved closer to him this time, because he was being so careful, but I wanted him to brush against me, I wanted to feel him and I did.

Within me, it was as if some strange flower was unfolding, stirring and his eyes were so blue. Blue sapphires looking down into mine, brushing my heartstrings as I had brushed and plucked at the strings of that guqin and his smile was so natural, not forced, his voice relaxed, unstrained and he was enjoying talking with me, he wasn’t pretending. He was interest in me and the flower inside me unfolded, blooming under the sunlight of his eyes.

“I’d like to see you again, Chuntao,” he’d said, almost inaudibly, as we danced, brushing together every now and then and every time I felt him I shivered and my jade gate was definitely moist, another flower unfolding.

“Hua and I go to the Saturday matinee at the Cathay Cinema on Avenue Joffre almost every weekend,” I’d said, very quietly and I hadn’t danced with him again after that.

Mr. Standiford danced with me though. He’d really enjoyed my qin playing. He’d said he’d talk to Mrs. Innes, he’d like to hear me play again.

His jade stalk brushed me and told me he’d like to play something else. I blushed and eased away from him.I’d told Hua about Martin after we got back to our room.

“You’ll get in trouble, Chuntao. You’ll get him in trouble too. They don’t like their English boys to have anything to do with Chinese girls. Especially girls like us.” And we both knew what she meant.

Anglicized Chinese. Chinese on the outside, European inside. Because we were, both of us. Anyone could look at us in our western-style school uniforms and the way we walked and talked and see that. We weren’t sing-song girls. They didn’t care about sing-song girls. They were there for one thing only and everyone knew that. Girls like us? That was another story.
I’d shrugged, then giggled. “He didn’t rub his jade stalk against me, at least.”

Hua giggled. “He was funny,” she said. “I liked him, even if he did do that.”

“You’ll get in trouble, Hua,” I said, and we looked at each other and then we both giggled.

Hua had gone with me to the Saturday matinee the following weekend. Martin had already been there, waiting. He’d already bought the tickets. I’d sat next to him with Hua beside me. We held hands right through the movie. Nothing else. He’d just held my hand in the darkness and I didn’t remember a thing about the movie. I couldn’t even remember what movie it was. Just his hand, holding mine, our fingers, intertwined, moving, touching, for two hours. Just his hand and mine, nothing else and I was helpless.

“Next Saturday?” he’d asked as we’d left, and he was blushing.

“We come to the matinee every Saturday,” I said, glancing at Hua. I was blushing.

“I’ll see you here,” he said, and then he was gone.

“You’re asking for trouble,” Hua said, after he was out of sight.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I said.

“I won’t,” she said. “But someone will find out. Someone always does.”

“Yes, I know,” I say. “But he’s different, Hua. I have to meet him.”

“I’ll come with you, she said, squeezing my hand. “You’re my friend, Chuntao.”

* * *

Next Saturday, he was there, before the matinee started, waiting for us again, tickets in hand.

“I’ll sit over there somewhere,” Hua said, with a glance at me that brought a pink tinge to my cheeks.

Martin led me to two seats off to one side, right at the end of the row, separated by a pillar from the other seats and with an abysmal view of the screen. I didn’t care, because as soon as the lights dimmed and the movie stared, he did more than hold my hand.

One arm slid behind me, resting softly on the back of my neck and my shoulders, the other brushed my cheek, turning my face towards his before caressing my neck, very delicately, very gently and I sighed. I rested my head against his arm and looked up into his eyes in the flickering light of the screen and just drank him in.

That face, that pale skin, that blonde hair, those round eyes. So strange and yet so handsome and he didn’t smell at all like other foreigners smelt. Mrs. Innes, the foreign teachers, he smelt nothing like them. A male smell, slightly sweaty, exciting, a faint whiff of cologne, and that freshly laundered scent from his white shirt and the light silk jacket he wore.

“Chuntao,” he breathed, his face almost buried in my hair. “You’re so beautiful. I’ve never met anyone as beautiful as you.”

“I’m not,” I said. “Not like Marjory.” Tall, with large breasts and hips and blonde hair and everyone, all the men, they looked at her. Not at Hua or me or even Emily. They looked at Marjory, and to me, she looked like one of those European actresses in the movies.

“You’re far more beautiful, Chuntao,” Martin said, and his nose brushed mine. “I love you,” he added, out of nowhere and his lips brushed mine and I wasn’t sure what to do but he’d said he loved me and I looked at his face and I knew.

I knew I loved him and I wanted him to kiss me as the white people kiss. Chinese men didn’t kiss, not that I’d ever been anywhere with a Chinese man, or even a Chinese boy. I’d watched movies though, I’d seen westerners kiss in the movies and I was sure that was what he wanted, but really, I didn’t know how.

It didn’t matter. He lowered his head and he kissed my neck where his fingers had been stroking me and his lips and tongue on my neck send shivering electric thrills right through me. His free hand stroked my arm, the skin of my arm because my top was short-sleeved, a western-style top that went with the western style skirt I wore. His lips sucked lightly at my neck. One of my hands brushed the back of his neck and now I felt him shudder against me.

“Chuntao.” He breathed my name, lifted his head; looked into my eyes. His nose brushed mine, his lips found mine and he kissed me and his tongue edged and slipped and pushed against my closed lips.

He lifted his mouth from mine. “Open your mouth a little, Chuntao,” he whispered, before his lips found mine again and I wondered why but I did, I separated my lips, opened my mouth a little and I found out why.

His lips sealed themselves to mine, guiding my lips further apart, his tongue slipped into my mouth and came alive, like some beautiful snake flicking and pushing and sliding against my tongue, the roof of my mouth, the insides of my lips, everywhere and then, without lifting his lips from mine, he withdrew his tongue from my mouth and there was a sudden moment of shock as he sucked my tongue deep into his mouth.

Now it was my turn and my lips were sealed to his, his hand at the back of my head, holding me in place. My tongue explored, tentatively, tasting him, sliding against his, tasting him and he was holding me closer and I wanted that closeness, I wanted everything and when his hand cupped my breast and his tongue pushed back into my mouth I instinctively opened my mouth wider to him, turning a little, shuddering as his hand moved, cupped my breast through my thin cotton top and my bra and I was pushing my breast against his hand, wanting that pressure, wanting his hand touching me there, wanting his kiss, wanting that closeness.

We kissed, on and on and on, his lips locked to mine, his tongue in my mouth, mine in his, backwards and forwards and I became more daring. He didn’t need to suck my tongue into his mouth. My tongue took the initiative now, timidly exploring, tasting, sliding into his mouth and then I was sucking his tongue into my mouth and he was taking control, strong and yet so gentle and we kissed on and on and I wished he could hold me in his arms the way he had when we’d been dancing.

I wished I could feel his jade stalk rubbing against me.

I didn’t remember a thing about that movie either.

“Next Saturday,” he’d said when we parted.

“Next Saturday,” I’d agreed breathlessly.

I wanted him to kiss me again soon.

I wanted him to hold me so tight.

My jade gate was so moist.

He was a foreigner.

I didn’t care.

* * *

Hua is reading on her bed after dinner. She studies all the time, like me. Our families have invested in us. A western education, and I know my father has placed great hope in me. Father has decided his daughters must be educated in the western style and I am the oldest. It is to me to set the example and do well. Not just do well. I must excel. I’ve studied hard all the years I have been here at this American School.

Hua is reading on her bed and I’m thinking. I’m thinking about Martin. About meeting him at the Cathay Cinema. We’ve met twice there now. He’s held my hand. He’s kissed me. Not just one kiss. We kissed for the entire movie. We did almost nothing but kiss and I know my father would be angry and upset with my behavior. He’d tell me I’m bringing shame on the family. I’m betraying his hopes and his faith in me. This school is so expensive. My father is well off, but we’re not one of those really wealthy families that girls like those Modeng girls in their western-style clothes and aping western hairstyles and behavior come from.

Sending me here is a huge commitment for my family. Especially I’m a girl. I have little brothers, two of them, the youngest was a baby when I left home. He must be six now, the other must be eight. They’ve grown up without ever knowing their big sister, and my two little sisters, I know they remember me, they wrote me a short letter that was with my mother’s last letter to me and I miss them. I do, the oldest must be twelve now, almost as old as I was when I was sent to school here five years ago.

I was thirteen when I left my home and my family. Five years of study. Five years without seeing my family, only letters exchanged between my mother and I, and the occasional short note from my father in his usual style, extolling me to study hard, to reward my father’s faith in me. To do well. In those five years I have changed. I am eighteen. I am a young woman, not a child. I have been on my own here all that time. In all that time, Hua has been my constant friend and companion, my only Chinese friend.

All my other classmates, all the other girls who board here, they are American or English girls. Friends, but not friends. We know each other, but we come from entirely different worlds and at times they seem to alien to me. Strange creatures from another planet, aliens with pale skin and large round eyes whose thoughts are so different from ours. But now, now there is Martin with his blonde hair, his pale skin, his blue eyes and he is alien too, but alien or not, westerner or not, picturing him in my mind has my heart fluttering and I am torn. So torn.

Torn between duty and loyalty to my family and how I feel about Martin.

He said he loved me and we kissed, his hand was on my breast and I think, I really do think that perhaps I do love him and I’m eighteen. I’m a women. Many of the girls I know back in Nanking, I’m sure they are already married now and their husbands have made women of them. Probably almost all of them are married and I’m lucky. So lucky to have escaped that fate. So fortunate that my parents are modern parents, that they trust me with this new future.

They trust me, and Martin has kissed me and I have kissed him back, and not just once. Many times.

I am seeing him again tomorrow. I hope I will be seeing him again tomorrow and for many other tomorrows and I hope he wants to kiss me again. If he does, I know I will permit him to kiss me. I will do as I did last Saturday and surrender my mouth to him, I will be held in his arms and I am torn. Torn between what I feel for Martin, for this Englishman whom I should not love but whom I am unable to resist, torn between what I feel for him and the duty I owe my family.

I don’t know what to do.

I know what my father would say. He would forbid this. But he is not here and I have been on my own for over four years now. I know what I should do, and I know what I am going to do.

I am going to go to the Cathay Cinema tomorrow.

I hope Martin will be there, but really, I’m not sure that he will be. I’m Chinese. He’s English. A westerner. He said he loved me, but what does love for a Chinese girl mean to an Englishman? I’m not a sing-song girl, I’m not one of those girls in the street a man pays for. I have kissed Martin, I have permitted him to kiss me and to hold me but more than that? No. I do know my duty to my family and I will not bring shame on my family, even though these feelings for Martin dominate my thoughts.

A tap on our door distracts me and I welcome that distraction, slide off my bed; walk to the door, open it. It is one the servants that looks after this floor. She cleans our room, washes our laundry, scrubs and dusts. Her name is Suyin, she’s from the countryside. She’s our age, perhaps a little older.

“A letter for Miss Hua,” she says, and it is. A real letter, a letter written in English so it cannot be from her parents. I think that’s the first thought of both of us. Her parents, and her eyes light up.

The door closes as Suyin leaves. I hand the letter to Hua, unbearably curious, seeing the puzzlement on her face as she opens the envelope, eases out the single sheet of paper inside, unfolds it, begins to read.

“It’s from Mr. Cunningham,” she says, glancing up. “Marjory’s father. Why is he writing to me?”

“Why?” I say, giggling. “He wants to dance with you again.”

“No,” she says, wrinkling her brow. “He says he enjoyed talking to me very much at the Dinner Party and he apologizes for his wife’s impoliteness.” We both giggle. “He says a dear friend of his whose daughter is at this school will invite us both to a family dinner party and gathering the weekend after this and while we do not know her, he hopes we will both accept and he looks forward to seeing both of us there.” She giggles. “Especially me.”

“You have an admirer,” I say, smiling.

“Yes,” she says, and she’s looking thoughtful.

“Will you go if you’re invited?” I ask.

“Will you come with me?” she says.

“If we are invited,” I say. “And if Mrs. Innes says we can go. Yes, I will. Maybe Martin will be there too.” Now it is my turn to smile.

Hua frowns. “Martin is English, Chuntao, not American.”

“Not like Mr. Cunningham.” I giggle.

“No, not like Mr. Cunningham.” Hua doesn’t giggle. “You shouldn’t encourage Martin, Chuntao. You know what the English are like. They’re not relaxed about it like the Americans are. That hong he works for, Jardine Matheson’s, they’re even worse than most of them, that’s what I heard from Emily and you know what they think of Englishmen and Chinese girls. If he gets serious with you, he’ll lose his job. Besides, everyone’s going to think you’re a sing-song girl or a taxi dancer when they see you with him.”

That’s not what I want to hear and I am sure my face tells her that.

“Chuntao,” she says, patiently, and I know she wants to persuade me not to see him. “This is not one of those romance stories you like. He’s English. He’s a foreigner. He’s Emily’s brother. You know she won’t like you seeing him. If she finds out, she’ll talk to Mrs. Innes and he’ll get into trouble as well and we won’t be allowed out, we’ll have our privileges revoked.”

“She won’t find out,” I say, flatly. “Martin knows not to tell anyone.”

He does, and he asked me not to tell any of the English or American girls either. None of the girls at School would dare go to the Cathay Cinema either. It’s far too Chinese for them. They’d be scared. For Martin it’s alright. There are always some white men there, often with Chinese girls. Sing-song girls. Taxi dancers. Those kind of girls. Nobody thinks twice about it.

Maybe Hua is right.

Maybe other people will think I’m a sing-song girl if they see me there with him but it doesn’t matter. It won’t be anyone Martin or I know and Martin knows I’m not a sing-song girl. Martin knows that and he loves me and that’s all that’s important and we have to meet somewhere. We have too. I couldn’t bear not to see him, not now, not after we’ve met. Not after we’ve kissed.

Not after he’s said he loves me.

Hua’s reading the note again. She’s thinking about something, I know she is and I should study, I know. but I’m too distracted by my thoughts, by those memories of Martin’s kisses, his hand on my breast, by my anticipation of more of those kisses.

“Chuntao,” Hua says, and when I glance across at her, her cheeks are pink.

“Yes,” I say.

“When you kiss Martin, do you really share saliva?”

“Aiyaaah,” I say. “It’s… I don’t know how to explain. It’s hard to describe. He puts his tongue in my mouth but that’s different from describing it.” I hesitate. “Why do you want to know?”

Hua blushes. “I want to know,” she says. “I was watching you and Martin at the movie.”

“Hua!” I say, blushing. I never even noticed, but then, it was a crowded movie theatre. She probably wasn’t the only one watching us. There were lots of other couples.

“I was reading about it,” she says, putting the letter from Mr. Cunningham down, picking up the book she was reading, holding it up. The “Romance of Genuine Cultivation.” It has a long and detailed description of kissing. There’s a lot of emphasis on tongues and saliva and it’s hard to relate it to how Martin and I kissed.

“It’s not like the book at all,” I say.

“Oh,” she says.

“I’m meeting Martin tomorrow at the matinee. Can you come with me?” I ask, after a pause.

“Sorry, what was that?” Hua is reading her book again.

“I’m meeting Martin at the matinee. Can you come with me again?”

We’re not allowed out on our own. Mrs. Innes is strict about that. Very strict. Us senior boarders, in our last two years, we’re allowed out after school and on Saturdays and Sundays, in pairs and Hua’s come with me so far but I should ask her. We’re not allowed out singly and not to meet boys and we have to be back by the curfew. If we’re seen with a boy, privileges are revoked. It’s happened once or twice, not very often. And that’s English or American girls.

A Chinese girl meeting an Englishman? I know why Hua is concerned.

I’d probably be expelled and she knows I can’t afford that.

But I know I can’t not see Martin either.

Hua agrees to come with me.

“I can show you how he kisses me,” I say, and my cheeks are a little pink.

“How can you do that?” Hua is puzzled.

I smile now, and I stand up and it’s hard to explain what happens next because I’m not really thinking. It is as if something draws me from my bed across the room to Hua’s, and she watches me as I lie down beside her on her bed. We’d done this often, lain together on our beds. When we were younger, in our first year here, sometimes we’d even sleep together the way each of us used to at home, with our sisters, all sharing the same bed and we’d missed that companionship.

This is different and as I lie beside her, propped up on one elbow, our eyes meet and we both realize that and something inside me twists and churns and tightens.

“Turn over,” I say, “and lie on your back.”

Hua looks at me and turns over without a word, lying on her back, looking up at me and her cheeks are pink.

“Like this,” I say. “He kisses me like this.”

“Chuntao?” she says, and her voice is high-pitched, nervous, but she doesn’t move. She stays still, her eyes looking up into mine as I run my tongue over my lips, as I lower my face towards hers, as my lips brush across hers the way Martin brushs his lips over mine.

“Open your mouth a little,” I whisper, my heart pounding, and she does and I kiss her the way Martin kisses me. My lips seal themselves to Hua’s, my tongue slides between her lips, she tastes faintly of cherries and my lips guide her mouth open as Martin does with me, my tongue finds hers, dances with her inside her mouth and then I suck her tongue into my mouth and we’re actually kissing and I can’t help doing what I do next.

I move closer to her, my body pressing against hers, one of my legs over hers and one arm is under her the way Martin’s arms slide around my shoulder and my other hand is on her arm as I kiss her again and again and we’re both in our pajamas. School regulation cotton pajama pants and a buttoned top and that’s all, because it’s the end of summer and it’s still hot and my breasts press against her and without any thought, my hand cups her breast.

I lift my mouth from hers, my hand remains on her, cupping her breast, large and firm under her thin cotton top and we look at each other and we’re both panting. “That’s what he does,” I whisper.

“This too?” Hua asks, one of her hands moving to rest on mine.

“That too,” I say, and I do what I would like Martin to do to me. I squeeze her nipple.

“Oh,” she gasps, her back arching. “Oh my god… oh my god… Chuntao… do that again. Please.”

Is it that good? I do and she squeals and her body moves and I’m moving against her, rubbing myself against her thigh and my knee is almost between her legs now and I’m wet and hot and so sensitive and the friction as I move is delicious and I moan softly myself and Hua half turns towards me and he’s moving against me and she’s wet. I’m wet. The thin cotton of our pajama’s is wet, wet through.

“Is this… is this what it’s like with Martin?” she gasps.

“Ohhh,” I sob, my hips moving and I want to rub and rub and rub myself against her, I can’t stop and I’m thinking of those books, the illustrations in them and those descriptions and so is Hua, and her memory, she remembers everything. She is quoting from that book, The one she was reading.

“When man and a woman are making love for the first time, their bodies touch and their lips press against each other. The man sucks the woman’s lower lip and the woman suck’s the man’s upper one. When sucking, they savor each other’s saliva. Now the woman’s left hand should hold the man’s jade stalk. The man will use his tight hand to caress the woman’s jade gate.”
“Like this,” I gasp, and my heart pounds as my hand moves from Hua’s breast to touch her through the clinging wet cotton. My fingers move, stroking, exploring her, and I have touched myself there, but with Hua, it’s so different.

“Oh,” she gasps, and her left hand reaches over and touches me just as I am touching her and I can’t help it, I go limp at her touch, moaning softly because her hand on me sends hot waves of excitement racing through.

“Oh,” I gasp and we move closer to each other.

“Is this what it is like with him?” Hua gasps. “My jade gate… I’m so wet.”

“So am I,” I gasp, wondering if it would be like this with Martin. “Hua?”

“Yes, Chuntao?” she gasps, her fingers touching me through the thin cotton.

“Those positions in the books.”

“Yes?”

“I want to see what they’re like.”

Hua giggles and moans at the same time. “You want to see what it’s like with a man, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I gasp, and I’m easing myself over, onto my back and Hua’s moving with me, looking down at me and her fingers move to unbutton my pajama top, brushing it open, exposing my breasts and hers are pushing at me through her pajama top. “Take yours off,” I whisper, and as she does, sitting up, peeling her top off, I shrug mine off and her breasts are beautiful.

Large and firm and her nipples and swollen and reddish brown and we look at ourselves. At each other. Her breasts are bigger than mine, mine are small and firm but my nipples are larger and they hurt now. They ache and next second Hua has me on my back and she’s kissing me the way I kissed her, the way Martin kisses me. She’s taking control, her tongue gently possessing my mouth and I open wide for her, my tongue dancing with hers and both of us are moaning now as we kiss.

“It feels good,” she gasps and her hand is on my breasts and when she squeeze my nipple I arch my back, shivering with pleasure.

“Lie on me,” I gasp. “Lie on me like a man would.”

She moves over me and we’re both clumsy, we’re not sure but when one of her knees moves between mine I ease my legs apart and then she’s between my legs and lying on me and I remember the illustrations of this position. It is the Flying Dragon, where the woman is on her back and the man is over her with his knees placed on the bed and Hua is in the position a man would be in.

Her thighs push against mine and I draw my knees back and she rubs herself against me and we both gasp with that delicious friction and she is rubbing against me and I’m whimpering with the pleasure of it.

“It’s good,” I moan. “It’s so good,” and I wonder how this would be with Martin, because his jade stalk would be inside me and that must be better than this. It must me and Hua is moving faster, breathing hard and he breasts crush against me and her skin on mine, I love it and she’s moving, she’s pushing her pajama pants down and kicking them off and my face is pink with embarrassment.

Her hands tug at my pajama pants, I help her, we peel them off and we were both baked and she is rubbing her jade gate against me and I have read about this too, in one of those books and I’m not ashamed or embarrassed anymore, I’m carried away and her jade gate is slippery against mine and we’re holding on to each other, not kissing, moving. Skin against skin and my legs are wide apart, my knees drawn back and her skin is like silk and we’re both so wet and something is building inside me.

“Oh,” I moan. “Oh… oh… oh,” and my head is tossing from side to side and Hua is merciless. She moves, rubs, she’s enjoying this and I’m close to something, I’m so close and Hua squeals and bucks and shudders and slows and I need it, I need what she was doing and as she slows I roll her onto my back and now I am on top, I am between her legs and I push her legs back and rub myself against her and that friction is everything I need as I move and move and move.

“Ohhhhhh,” Hua sobs. “Ohhhhh,” and she is bucking beneath me and I’m watching her face as she does that. Something is happening to her. Something intense and I’m close to something. So close and I can’t stop and then it hits me and I shudder and buck down against her, my jade entrance spasms, dances, the pleasure is unbearable, waves of pleasure rolling through me and we collapse into each other’s arms, shuddering in the aftermath.

“Oh,” she says at last, after I have rolled off her and we are lying side by side holding hands and I am unbearably tired. “I think it must be even better with a man.”

“Yes,” I whisper, thinking of Martin. “I think it must be.” I know that is a dangerous though and as we pull the quilt over us and lie together in Hua’s bed, all I can think of is that I would like to lie like this with Martin, naked in his arms. I would like to give myself to him and have him possess me as a man possesses a woman and my body glows and tingles with renewed excitement. With desire.

With love.

I love him, and he’s English and Hua’s right, I know that. I shouldn’t see him, he shouldn’t see me, not like this. I’m not a sing-song girl. Englishmen don’t marry Chinese girls. Perhaps in my dreams but I know Hua is right. This isn’t a romance novel. This isn’t make-believe. This is real life and on Saturday, I will tell him that we cannot go on like this. I will not give him what a sing-song girl gives men. For me, it can only be marriage and that will never happen, not between Martin and I.

Not between an Englishmen and a Chinese girl. It was foolish of me to even think there might be a chance and Hua is right, there isn’t any chance. His parents, his employer, his friends, they will all oppose this, just as my family will when they find out about him. I will tell him this on Saturday. I will tell him to forget me and I will do my best to forget him. He will understand. I know he will.

It hurts so much to know I will not see him again.

* * *

Martin is waiting inside the foyer of the Cathay Cinema as he is every time we’ve come here for the last three Saturday’s and my heart sinks. I’m going to tell him, but now now. One more afternoon with him and them I will tell him, as we are leaving. It’ll be easier like that. Hua takes her ticket from his hand and smiles. “I’ll meet you here after,” she says, and she’s gone.

As soon as she’s out of sight, Martin takes my hand in his and he leads me, but not inside as I expected him too. He leads me through the doors and up the stairs to the balcony seats. The expensive seats. I’ve never sat up there before. It’s where the Europeans and the wealthy Eurasians and Chinese with money all sit. My father’s wealthy but my allowance isn’t enough to encourage me to waste money and I haven’t heard from my parents now since July, just before the fighting in Shanghai against the Japanese started.

I’m worried about the fighting that’s going on, you can hear the guns even this afternoon, but as Martin leads me up the stairs to the balcony seats, I’m not worried. I’m elated because there’s two whole hours ahead of us, just him and me, together, and my heart’s pounding as we walk up the steps to the back row. The seats are different, double armchair seats, perfect for couples and there’s no armrest in the middle and for the first time, I’m sitting next to him.

Right next to him, my thigh against his and he turns towards me, his arm around my shoulder and I look up at him and a second later we’re kissing frantically, even before the lights have dimmed and his lips are sealed to mine, his tongue slides into my welcoming mouth, meeting my tongue, dancing with mine and I’m almost shaking in his arms with the intensity of my feelings for him as I suck his tongue into my mouth, tasting his saliva and this is so much better than any book can ever describe.

“I love you, Chuntao,” he breathes, our lips separating for a moment. Only a moment, but I’d rather have his kisses than his words, however much I enjoy those words and now it’s my lips that seal themselves to his, silencing him. My tongue is sucked into his mouth, my tongue runs over his, exploring as I turn towards him and I’m almost on my side, both arms clinging to him, my breasts pushed firmly against him as we kiss and this is even better.

That sensation as my breasts are crushed against his chest, that swollen aching of my nipples, assuaged momentarily by that crushing pressure as he holds me tight, as his arms encircle me, as his tongue takes possession of my mouth, forcing my tongue back, sliding into my mouth, on and one, each of us as frantic as the other and I want more. More of his kisses, more of his tongue, I want him deeper in my mouth, I want to give my mouth to him, I want his body against mine, I want his hands to hold me and crush me against him.

I want…

The lights dim, the movie starts and in the back row of the balcony seating we’re not alone, but it’s dark and there’s nobody right next to me. I’m close to the aisle, the double seat next to me is empty. There’s another couple beside Martin, a European man with a Eurasian girl, they’re as engrossed in each other as we are and I ignore them, I can’t even see them as Martin’s lips brush across my face and I turned my face up to his lips as a flower turns to the sun.

Trailing brushes of his lips over my cheeks, my neck, returning to my lips and now when his tongue slips into my mouth I suck on him, suck his tongue in, meet it with my own and we’re turned towards each other, my arms around his neck and one of his arms is behind my back, holding me as I turn to him, holding me tight and his other hand is brushing my arm, slowly, up and down, up and down and I’m shivering as his mouth devours me.

His mouth slides down, his lips taste my neck, he’s breathing in, inhaling me and I’m stroking his hair, blindly looking over the top of his head and I realize I’m looking at the couple in the seat beside him and that Eurasian girl, she’s my age and it’s dark but in the flickering light from the film, I can see enough to see she’s wearing a western style dress and her legs are wide apart and the man’s hand is under her dress. His hand is moving, she’s making little noises and Martin is kissing my neck, his lips brushing my skin, his breath hot on me and that girl shudders, her head arches back. She moans.

I can see his arm moving, moving in circles and her legs edge wider apart and it’s obvious he’s doing something to her and that whatever it is, she’s enjoying it and she’s biting her bottom lip and whimpering. Martin’s hand cups my breast, very slowly, very gently, as if he’s afraid I will push his hand away. Last time, last weekend when he kissed me, his hand cupped my breast and it was good. This time, I almost know what to expect and it’s even better because I’m not scared. I arch against his hand, wanting his touch, whimpering myself as my nipple reacts to that new pressure, that touch, ripples of pleasure and excitement pooling at my center and my jade gate isn’t moist, it’s hot and wet and sensitive and the Eurasian girl on the other side arches back, her head arches back and she moans, loudly, shuddering and something has happened to her.

“I love you, Chuntao,” he breathes, his breath hot against my neck and I shiver.

Does he? Does he really love me? Is it just words? I don’t think so. I’ve seen the way he looked at me as I walked into the cinema, as I walked towards were he waited for me. I’ve see those glances as we walked up the stairs together. I saw how his eyes followed me as Hua and I walked away from him last weekend. I’ve experienced the heaven of his kisses, of his mouth on mine and I know there is more.

Something’s happening to me. Martin is kissing me, his lips sealed to my lips again, kissing me slowly, his tongue slipping into my mouth and his fingers fumble at one of the pankou’s, the knotted and embroidered buttons that angle diagonally down from the base of the collar of my qipao to my right side and I know what he wants. I know and my heart flutters and I lie back into his arm, feeling his fingers and he doesn’t know how to undo those toggles.

Should I? I’m not sure what I want, I’m not sure what I’m feeling, I’m not even sure what I’m thinking but he loves me. He said he loves me and don’t want him to stop what he’s doing. I want to. I want his hand on me. I want to experience his touch on my skin. Not just on my arms, my cheeks, my neck. I want his hand on my breast and I abandon myself to his kisses as his hand finally unfastens that first pankow and he’s working on the next.

His mouth lifts from mine, his lips suck on my bottom lip, tug lightly and he understands how those pankou’s unfasten now and he’s worked the next one open, and the next and the next and the next, almost down to my side and his fingers brush along the gap where my qipao is loose and I know what his hand wants and my hearts not fluttering now, it’s pounding and I’m limp and tingling and scared and excited.

“I love you, Chuntao,” he breathes, his lips brushing mine again and again.

“I love you, Martin,” I breathe, waiting and I know if he does this, I will let him.

His nose brushes mine, his fingers edge in under my qipao and I know what he will find. I’m wearing a camisole, that’s all. No bra. My breasts are small and firm and I don’t need a bra and they’re uncomfortable and my qipao is figure hugging. Except now, it’s not. The front is unfastened and he hesitates, he kisses me. I open my mouth wide to him, suck on his tongue, find my tongue sucked into his mouth and we are kissing passionately.

His hand slides inside, under my qipao, his fingers sliding over my camisole, discovering I am not wearing a bra, cupping my breast, covered only by that thin layer of silk and lace and it is he that moans into my mouth as we kiss. It is he that first shudders with pleasure as his hand cups my breast, as his thumb discovers the swollen excitement of my nipple. Brushes, explores, and now his kisses are slower, more gentle as his hand moves on me, curving over my breast, fingers sliding, ripples of pleasure shivering through my body at his touch.

“Chuntao,” he whispers, his lips brushing mine, breathing my name into my mouth and I inhale, breathing his exhalations, sharing my breath with him, sharing my pleasure with little gasps now as his hand moves on me, as his thumb plays across my rubbery-hard nipple and it aches. It aches so much, it is so firm and swollen that it hurts as it did with Hua, but his hand on me is far more exciting tham Hua’s hands. “Chuntao,” he breathes again. “Chuntao.”

He says my name as if it is some rare and wondrous thing and in that moment, in that way he breathes my name, I know he loves me and I love him. I know I love him.

“I love you,” I whisper, all thought of telling him this must end vanishing with those whispered words. My back arches, pushing my breast into his hand and I wish my camisole wasn’t in the way. I want his hand on my skin. I want him to touch my body, to caress my breast.

“I love you,” I whisper and my other hand strokes the short blonde hair at the back of his neck and he shudders under my touch as I am shuddering under his. His hand continues to explore my breast, to tease my nipple, to cup me and hold me as his mouth seals itself to mine and in these double seats I can twist and press myself against him and I do, one leg over his, pressed against him almost as I was with Hua, my Jade Gate pressed against his thigh and I shudder with that exquisite friction.

I remember his jade stalk, how hard he was when we danced and I want to feel it again but in this seat, it’s impossible and I’m too shy to touch him. What would he think of me and so we kiss, on and on and on. Nobody can see us together, not in the darkness of the Cathay Cinema’s balcony and the first half is over far too quickly for me and I hastily fasten the front of my qipao.

It’s only intermission. There’s another hour to go and I’m panting for breath as the lights brighten and around us other couples are separating, sitting upright, straightening their clothes and I’m one of those girls, although my qipao doesn’t need adjusting because I’ve already done that.

“Icecream?” Martin asks me.

I nod and he disappears, returning soon enough with two icecreams and I sit there eating it gratefully with him, my mind wash with images of that Eurasian girl next to me and when the lights dim and the film resumes, I’m eager to return to Martin’s arms. So eager that as soon as the lights dim, I unfasten my qipao for him, welcoming his hand as it returns to my breast. Welcoming his mouth as it returns to mine and I’m almost shaking with my excitement and my need by the end of the movie. All thought of telling Martin we must end this has vanished from my mind.

“Next Saturday?” This time it is Martin that asks, reluctant to release my hand as we walk slowly down the stairs to find Hua.

“Yes,” I say. “I wish it could be sooner.”

“Me too,” he says, and he stands there watching me as I walk to meet Hua and we leave.

* * *

“Hua,” I say, late on Saturday evening, and we’re both reading our Chinese books, the ones on the act of love and the art of the bedchamber.

“Yes?” she says.

“What do you think it’s really like? When you do this with a man?” I’m remembering that man next to me, his erection, his jade stalk, so large and hard and white in the darkness and his enjoyment as that Eurasian girl used her mouth on him, and I show Hua the illustration. The one where the girl has the man’s jade stalk in her mouth and the text is describing what to do with your mouth. It’s so hard to understand the meaning.

“Well,” Hua says. “It is certainly bigger than our fingers.” She examines one finger and I burst out laughing. She looks at me and she giggles.

“I saw a girl in the cinema,” I explain. “She was doing that to a man. He enjoyed it.”

Hua’s cheeks are pink, she’s not smiling now. “I have seen that too,” she said. “A foreigner asked me to do that today. He wanted to pay me. It was very embarrassing.”

“I think you better sit with Martin and me,” I say after a moment. I smile. “He only kisses me, so as long as you don’t look.” I’d feel better if she was with me. Girls don’t sit by themselves, not in the Cathay. That’s an invitation to men.

“I won’t look,” she says.

I nod. “It is alright if you do look,” I say. “We are sisters. Sisters should help each other.”

She says nothing, but she nods. I know she will look. Really, I don’t mind if she does. All she will see is Martin and I kissing and his hand on my breast.

* * *

“Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says, on Sunday after the morning Church service. “I have a request from a gentleman I know,” she says. “About playing some kind of Chinese musical instrument. He says you played it at the Cunningham’s and it was delightful.”

“Yes, Mrs. Innes,” I smile, a little shy. “It was the guqin.”

“The gentleman asked if you would be willing to give a small recital for him, Chuntao,” Mrs Innes says. “He suggested perhaps at the School. He’s very interested in Chinese music.” She coughs. “He suggested perhaps he could compensate you for your time in some way and I know you can use the money.”

“Oh?” I say, and of course I’m interested. “Yes, I remember him. I think that was Mr. Standiford,” I say, smiling. “He did seem to enjoy that music.”

“Oh no, not Mr. Standiford,” Mrs. Innes says, and she’s smiling. “It was Mr. Maynard. He’s rather a gentlemen, very interested in China. He’s coming to the school to have lunch with me this afternoon. Why don’t you join us and perhaps you can play for us after lunch. I must confess to never having listened to any Chinese music. Mr. Maynard has me intrigued. I had no idea you played anything other than the piano, Chuntao.”

We learn the piano here at school. I play the piano badly.
“I was learning the guqin from when I was very young,” I say, blinking with surprise. “My grandmother taught me. She is an accomplished guqin player, but I have had no practice since I left home and I do not have a guqin.”

“Yes, I advised him of that, Chuntao. He said not to be concerned, he will bring one for you to play.”

“When?” I ask.

“Perhaps this afternoon,” Mrs. Innes says. “We’re having lunch together. Perhaps you’d like to join us.”

“Yes,” I say. I have no idea who Mr. Maynard is but no doubt I will find out. I’m puzzled though. Mr. Standiford was the only man there who seemed to really enjoy the guqin. Still, whoever he is, he will give me money and I need that. I have not heard from my family for some months now and I do not have much left. I am frugal, but I am also worried. Father is always on time with my spending money.

* * *

“Chuntao, you might remember Mr. Maynard from the Cunningham’s,” Mrs Innes says as I stand to greet the gentleman she ushers into her sitting room. “Micheal, this is Wang Chuntao.” She introduces me in the Chinese fashion, surname first.

“I am so pleased to meet you, Mr. Maynard,” I say, very politely, my eyes widening, and I am startled. Mr. Maynard. The one that was so rude about the song at the garden party. It’s him. Marjory’s Uncle Mike. He smiles at me. I blush.

“Miss Wang,” he says. He places the guqin on the coffee table. “This is a gift for you, my dear.”

I can’t restrain myself. “For me?”

“Yes,” he says, smiling. “I talked to Chuck Cunningham, persuaded him that guqin was wasted hanging on his wall and that he should give it to someone who would truly appreciate it.” He grins. “Me, of course, and he owes me a few favors so I cashed my chips in, so to speak.”

I don’t really have any idea what he’s talking about. Chips? Favors I understand, and he has the guqin I played, the beautiful treasure from the Summer Palace. He’s brought it here for me to play, it’s sitting there on the coffee table before my eyes and my hands reach for it without thought. I kneel on the floor before the coffee table, my fingers run over the strings, drawing music from it with the desperate need to hear those notes flow through the still summer air of Mrs. Innes’ sitting room.

“Miss Wang,” Mr Maynard says, and I look up. “Chuntao, it is a gift for you.”

My heart jolts in disbelief. I gasp, shocked. This guqin from the Summer Palace, it once belonged to the Emperor of China and it is a treasure beyond price. Mr. Cunningham has given it to him? He has given it to me? Just like that? This cannot be.

His hand reaches out, rests on mine. “I am serious, Chuntao. It is yours. It is my gift to you, young lady. I can see you are an artist who appreciates this instrument. The way you talked about it at Chuck’s, the way you played it, it deserves an artist like you to belong to, my dear.”

“That is too generous, Mr. Maynard,” I say, knowing I will accept his gift. Knowing this will place me in his debt, for this guqin is priceless. Once it hung in the Summer Palace, the possession of the Emperor and it has been gifted to me by one of China’s oppressors. One of those foreigners who exploits and tears apart our country for money, caring not the damage that they do to our land and our people, but still, this guqin. I cannot refuse this gift, no matter the price.

“Nonsense, Chuntao,” he says. “This guqin deserves you and you deserve it. It is yours.”

Almost, almost I hate this man for the casual ease with which he disposes of our China’s patrimony, our cultural heritage, but at the very least he is giving it to me and I am Chinese. I know what this treasure is, I know what it represents and I will treasure it and I will care for it and honor it and here in this room, I will play it for him. That is a small price to pay and I will humiliate myself by accepting this gift, knowing that in doing so, in accepting this humiliation and shame, I am helping preserve a little of our China’s precious heritage for the future.

“Thank you, Mr. Maynard,” I say politely, bowing my head, concealing my shame at having to accept this treasure of China as a gift from a foreigner.

“Let us have lunch now,” Mrs. Innes says. “Chuntao can play after lunch.”

* * *

“That is this guqin?” Tien-chien asks, looking at the guqin that sits on my coffee table.

“Yes,” I say, reaching out, plucking the strings; effortlessly drawing the notes from my gleaming instrument, filling my tearoom with the beauty of that music as ably as I did eighty years ago, when I was eighteen.

“Yes, this is that very guqin, that once dwelled in the Summer Palace of the Emperor of China, that was made by the Younger Prince of Lu for himself, he who ruled the Southern Ming Dynasty four hundred year ago. That history is written here, Tien-chien.”

My fingers point to the Chinese characters embossed into the wood, but I know Tien-chien is a banana through and through. She may look Chinese on the surface but she does not read Chinese, the only Chinese she can speak is to order dim-sum and her mispronunciations even of those simple words are an absurdity and an embarrassment. But still, still she is Chinese enough to recognize her Chinese cultural heritage, Chinese enough to recognize the priceless heritage of this instrument.

“And this is that song I played the evening I first met Martin,” I say. “High Mountains and Flowing Waters.”

“You make it look so easy,” she says, watching, listening as my fingers coax that ancient music composed so long ago, centuries ago, centuries before even that Roman Empire of the Europeans was founded and still this music lives where that Empire of the Romans has died long ago. My fingers coax that music from the strings, as easily as they did on that long ago evening. As easily as they did on that long ago afternoon when Mr. Maynard gifted me this guqin and I played for him, that first time of many.

Tien-chien eyes me. “Just like that, he gave it to you, Grandmother?”

“Just like that, he gave it to me,” I say. “But I paid for that gift in the end. I paid dearly, but in the end it was a price I would have had to pay, if not with him, then with another. It was my fate.” I fan my fingers across the strings. “Yes, it was my fate and I ran out of options. That is all it was. I will go on with my tale now, Tien-chien.”

* * *

“We’re invited to a dinner,” Hua says excitedly on Monday after classes end. “It’s from Miranda’s parents.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Miranda Alexander,” she says. “She’s another of the day girls.”

“When is it?” I ask.

“Friday evening.” She looks up. “I think this is the one Mr. Cunningham asked us to accept.”

Asked you, I think, but I say nothing and when we ask, Mrs. Innes already knows about the invitation, gives us permission and lets us know Mr. Cunningham’s driver will be picking us up.

* * *

Hua is excited. So am I, even though I’m not sure that Martin is coming. Miranda and her mother greet us, I recognize her mother from Marjory’s. I recognise Miranda’s father, standing talking to Mr. Cunningham, and they both come to us. I find myself on Mr. Alexander’s arm as Mr. Cunningham takes possession of Hua. Mr. Alexander is entertaining, his wife retrieves me from him and she is rather friendlier than I have been expecting her to be.

“Ah, the young men are arriving,” she says, and my eyes light up as I see Martin. I want to run to him, throw myself into his arms but I restrain myself. I’m alive though, my senses on fire, tingling, glowing and his mere presence in the room, our eyes meeting intermittently, that’s enough for me. The evening moves on, dinner, and then dancing. Slow dances, and I dance with Mr. Alexander, I dance with one or two older gentlemen and then I’m dancing with Martin and I’m overjoyed.

“Chuntao,” he breathes, as we circle the small dance floor, part of the party and apart from the party at one and the same time, lost in our own world, just the two of us. The room is dimly lit, the party more and more boisterous and I am a little shocked at the drinking but I am with Martin and nobody notices us as we edge into a corner and then into a small alcove overlooking the garden and circle there, in view of all and yet discretely concealed.

His hands tempt me closer and I respond, infinitesimally, until I’m brushing him. His hands tighten for a second at that first contact, he jerks away. I look up, my eyes meet his, I smile and smiling, I deliberately ease closer to him and there is no mistaking what I am doing as I press myself against him, closer, melding my body to his and my lips part but I dare not whisper to him to kiss me.

“Martin.” I whisper, gazing up at him. “Martin.” Nothing else. Just his name. He’s hard. His jade stalk, it’s hard and it’s pressed firmly against me and in my high heels, my one and only pair, I’m taller and he’s pressing against me where I’m so moist and hot and sensitive and I shudder with that delightful excitement.

“Chuntao,” he breathes, and me moves against me and that slight movement sends ripples through me. Delicious ripples and I know what he is doing, my books have told me of acts like this and how friction will stimulate a man’s jade stalk and after Hua, I know what this does to me and I welcome that delicious pressure.

“Chuntao,” he groans, softly, moving again.

“Martin,” I gasp, my breasts pressed against his chest and I move myself, my hips move, I move against him and his breath gasps outwards and he’s moving more vigorously, rubbing himself against me and I’m trembling in his arms and his hands are holding me tighter.

“Chuntao… Chuntao… I love you… I love you.” His movements against me are more obvious, he’s breathing hard and I forget any pretence of dancing, my arms vine around his neck as he edges me back, back still further and we are out of sight completely, I’m pressed up against the wall and we are hidden, unseen, and I’m gasping with his movements and there’s no pretence now that either of us don’t know what he’s doing.

“Yes,” I gasp, “yes,” as he rubs himself against me.

“Chuntao?” and it is a question, gasped in my ear as he moves as his erection is rubbing, prodding, big and hard.

“Yes, yes, it’s alright, Martin. Don’t stop.” I look up at him, flushed, weak-kneed myself, not smiling. I don’t feel like smiling, I just want him to hold me and move against me like he is doing, his jade stalk, his erection, big and hard and rubbing against me though our clothing and one of my hands brushes the back of his neck and I wonder what is going to happen and then I find out.

“Ohhhhhh, Chuntao… Chuntao.” He groans in my ear, he crushes himself against me, he bucks hard against me once, twice, a third time and then he shudders, stiffens, his breathe gasps out, he groans again, juddering against me convulsively and then he relaxes, holding me but his grip is almost limp and his breath is coming in hot panting gasps.

“Martin,” I breathe, resting my flushed face against his shoulder, the top of my head brushed by his lips as he shudders against me.

“You… you don’t mind?” He almost stutters.

“No,” I say, very simply, because I do and I think I understood what has happened and no, I don’t mind. It is part of love, it is natural and I don’t know how to explain that at all and anyhow, now is not the time or the place to talk. Now is the time to hold each other and we do and I Think love him. I think? I know I do.

“I need to…” Martin says, and he’s still breathing hard and I smile.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be here, waiting for you.” There’s a seat tucked away behind a curtain and I want to be alone, I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want silence and peace while I absorb what has happened.

“I love you, Chuntao,” Martin breathes again.

“Martin,” I whisper, and I don’t say it but I smile and he smiles and he’s gone and I sink into that seat, still breathing hard myself and I’m weak and shivering with my own excitement and I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to be naked with him as Hua and I were naked together and I very much think I would enjoy that a lot.

I’ve only been sitting there a couple of minutes, my heart is back to normal, my breathing has slowed when I hear voices, and one of them is Mr. Cunningham’s.

“Of course, my dear, just tell me what your problem is and I’m sure I can help you.”

The other voice is Hua’s, I’m sure it is but her voice is so soft and quiet I can’t make out her words, but she’s talking.

“I do understand, my dear,” Mr. Cunningham says, and they’re closer, they’re in the alcove and I sit, almost concealed by the curtain, frozen, unmoving, not want to appear as if I am listening. Of course, I am listening.

“Can you help me?” Yes, it is definitely Hua’s voice, anxious, and through a crack between the curtains I can see them, Mr. Cunningham is dancing slowly with her in his arms and if his jade stalk is hard, Hua is close enough to know. “I’ll… I’ll do anything you want.”

“Yes, I could help you,” Mr. Cunningham says, so quietly I can barely hear him and I watch his hand slide from Hua’s waist down to her hip and rests there. “You do understand what anything implies, don’t you my dear?” His hands moves up and down on her hip before sliding around to her butt and holding her there and then he pulls her firmly, unmistakably, against him. “I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding, it’s a lot that you ask for, my dear.”

“Oh,” Hua gasps, and I gasp with her. My heart jumps as hers must be jumping. My eyes widen as Hua’s widen.

“Anything?” Mr. Cunningham asks.

“Yes, I understand,” Hua says, very quietly, and she’s looking up at him and I experience a moment of shock as I realize what she is offering and why.

She has not heard from her family for longer than I. Her school fee’s, her boarding fees, I know they’re overdue and how will she pay? She’s been worrying about that for months now, there is no way for her to return home, no-one to help her, and I understand. This is her solution. Mr. Cunningham will pay, and she will give Mr. Cunningham what he so obviously wants from her and I want to cry for her. How I wish I could help, but I have nothing.

“Then I believe we have an arrangement that is satisfactory to both of us, Hua,” Mr. Cunningham says. “I’ll speak to Mrs Innes and make sure she understands. There will be no need for you to say anything to her.” His hand caresses her butt, slowly.

“Thank you, Mr. Cunningham,” Hua says, and she actually sounds grateful.

“We’ll meet next week,” Mr. Cunningham says, looking down at her. “I’ll let you know where and when after I’ve met with Mrs. Innes and made the arrangements.” He smiles. “Once a week will be perfectly satisfactory for me without imposing too much on your schoolwork, Hua.”

“Yes, Mr. Cunningham,” she says.

“And I’d better circulate now, my dear,” he says, patting Hua’s butt. “Don’t want to start any gossip. And warn that pretty little friend of yours not to make herself so obvious with that boy.” He chuckles. “Lucky young dog.”

He releases Hua, eases away, slips out of the alcove and as he turns, I can’t help seeing. Yes, he has a massive jade stalk and it must be packed with his yin energy because it’s enormous and my jade gate pulses hotly at the sight. I stay, frozen, watching Hua as she stands there for a minute before slipping outside herself.

Only then to I stand and slip out and over to the window. Were we that obvious, Martin and I? We need to be more careful. We can’t risk meeting where anyone could see us. Not even at party’s like this. I’m there, looking out into the garden, my thoughts in turmoil, when Martin returns, his voice soft and loving behind me.

“Chuntao.”

I turn, smile, step into his arms and we dance out onto the floor, mingling with the others and the evening continues on. I dance now with others, as does Hua, until we’re tired and it’s time for us to depart and it’s Mr. Cunningham’s car and driver that are returning us to the School.

“Tomorrow,” Martin breathes as we part.

“Tomorrow,” I smile. I’ll talk to him then. Maybe he’ll know somewhere we can go where there’s no risk of him being seen by anyone he knows. I’m not worried about me. Outside of School, nobody here has any idea who I am and Chinese girls with foreigners, that’s a common sight. They’re not Chinese girls like me, they’re sing-song girls but Martin knows I’m not one of those. That’s all that’s important.

I hold Hua’s hand in the car as we are driven to the School. Neither of us say anything, not then, not as we climb into our beds, not on Saturday morning as we prepare for our outing and I have a surprise now for Martin. There’s somewhere I want to take him, I was handed the pamphlet last night as we climbed out of the car outside the school and this is something I want to go to.

* * *

“Come with us, Martin,” I say, excitedly, and yes, I’m so excited I’m bouncing up and down like a little girl and Hua is laughing at me. “We’re not going to watch a movie today.”

“Where are we going?” he asks, because I’ve already dragged him over to a rickshaw and give the rickshaw coolie the destination as I climbed in.

“North Szechwan Road,” I say, holding his hand as Hua squeezes in on the other side of him. “We’re going to a speech by Jiang Qing, she’s talking about Ibsen’s “Nora” and how it relates to the position of Chinese women in China today.”

“Sounds absolutely scintillating,” Martin replies, smiling. I know he’s laughing at me. I don’t care. “Who’s Jiang Qing?”

“She’s in the news all the time,” I say. “She’s a movie actress and she plays Nora in the play. She’s been in some other movies too.”

“Yes,” Hua says. “I loved her character in “Blood on Wolf Mountain,” she’s so good and the way she played Yu Yueying in “Goddess of Freedom,” that was so inspiring.”

“Oh, Chinese movies,” Martin says, as if they were nothing, and he smiles down at me.

“We’ll take you to one,” I say. “You’ll see. Some of them are really good.” Hua giggles.

“If you take me, I’ll come, Martin says, looking down at me, smiling, squeezing my hand and I know he will and I love him so much and I rest my head against his shoulder as our fingers move, intertwining, caressing, and I love him so.

* * *

“Who’s the foreigner?” one of the girls at the door to the teahouse asks as we go to walk in.

“He’s a friend,” Hua says. “We asked him to come with us. He won’t understand though, he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

“One of them? Oh alright, but you two, you shouldn’t associate with foreign men. That only leads to one thing. Please be careful, sisters.”

“Yes, we well.” Hua gives me a barbed look and I shrug. She hasn’t told me yet, but I know and her look annoys me a little. Martin is oblivious, looking around, fascinated. The teahouse holds an eclectic collection of men and women. Modeng girls in their western-style dresses and bobbed hair. Older women in qipaos. Students such as myself and Hua. Men in suits, some younger men. Students perhaps? A few workers in ragged trousers and shirts.

And one European. Martin. Oblivious to the glances coming his way.

A girl stands up at the front. “Welcome,” she says. “Before Miss Qing gives her talk…”

“What was all that about?” Martin asks, three hours later, as we are leaving and I’ve been totally enthralled by Jiang Qing’s speech and all the questions and answers that followed.

“Have you read Ibsen?” I ask. “She talked about his play, “A Doll’s House”, and how Nora is a model for modern Chinese women, the way she gives up being her husband’s Doll to make her way in the world. Jiang Qing plays the part of Nora and she talked about her as an example for modern Chinese women.”
“It’s very progressive,” Hua says, and she’d asked so many questions. “I’d really like to go and see the play, it’s still running.”

“Me too,” I say. “It’s so inspirational.”

“Who’s putting it on?” Martin asks. “I could take you both if you’d like to go.”

“Would you? It’s the Shanghai Amateur Actor Association. We better hurry back to school though. We need to get back before we’re late.”

“I’ll get a taxi.” He does, almost right away and it won’t take long to get back and he turns to me and I’m in his arms, Hua beside me, forgotten as we kiss and his kisses are heaven and joy and delight and love, on and on until Hua coughs.

“We’re here.” She climbs out.

“I love you,” he breathes. “I love you, Chuntao,” and he kisses me again, gentle and hard, lips sealed to mine, his tongue possessing my mouth as I cling to him.

“I love you, Martin,” I gasp before, reluctantly, we part. “I love you.”

“You should be careful, Chuntao,” Hua says as the guard passes us in through the side gate. “Maybe he does love you, but that doesn’t mean he’ll marry you. You know the English. Emily’s our friend here, but not many of them want anything to do with us outside of school. Marjory’s family, they’re an exception and her mother doesn’t like us now.”

Marjory’s father likes Hua a lot though, but I don’t say that. I know what she means.

“I know,” I say, “but Hua, he loves me. He doesn’t care that I’m Chinese and he’s English. He loves me.”

“His family cares,” Hua says. “The English care. His company cares, they won’t permit it. It’s okay for those Englishmen to have a Chinese girl, sing-song girls, girls like those ones, but marriage, no. They won’t permit that. If they find out, they’ll send him away. Don’t get your hopes up, Chuntao”

“I’m not a sing-song girl,” I say, indignantly. My father had sent me here to Shanghai to a modern school, an American school, to become one of the New Women. Maybe not a Modeng girl, that’s going too far, aping the westerners so completely, but an educated woman.

“Maybe not,” Hua says. “But the English won’t see it like that. We’re Chinese, Chuntao, nothing can change that. We’re not part of his world and he’s not part of ours.”

“Things can change,” I say, doggedly. “He loves me and I love him. It can work. There are some Chinese girls that marry Europeans. Even Englishmen.”

“Not many, and they aren’t accepted,” Hua says. She reaches for my hand. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, Chuntao. Promise me.”

“I promise,” I say, and I promise myself I will be, for this love is a many-splendored thing, a precious thing. Too precious by far to place at risk and I remember his jade stalk, his erection, pressed against me as we danced together. Pressed against me as we stood hidden in that alcove kissing, and the way he moved against me and shuddered and tensed and groaned and that look in his eyes, that look of love and I smile.

That night, late, after lights out, I can hear her crying quietly. I want to go to her bed, hold her, comfort her, but I don’t. I don’t know what to say, I have no idea how to comfort her and in the end her crying dies away and I sleep.

She has dark rings under her eyes in the morning and on Sunday night I do what we used to do when we were younger, in our first year here when we were thirteen, lonely and scared. I switch the lights out and I don’t ask, I don’t say a word. I climb into her bed and I take her in my arms and I hold her the way I held her when we were first at this school together, young and separated from our families, alone and frightened with only each other and I stroke her hair.

“Chuntao,” she says. “I’m so scared, Chuntao. I haven’t heard from my family for so long.”

“Shhhhh,” I say. “Sssshhhh,” and I’m scared to because I haven’t heard from my father for so long now either and I sing her an old cradle song my nurse used to sing to me when I was young and scared of the dark and Hua cries against my shoulder and holds me and we sleep together all night.

We sleep together and she shivers and cries in my arms. I know what she’s afraid of but we don’t talk about it. She doesn’t say and I don’t ask, for what can I say? There is nothing I can do. Nothing except hold her and sleep with her and do my best to comfort her and that is what I do.

Unspoken is that knowledge we both share.

This is Shanghai, where life is cheap. This is Shanghai, where nobody cares if you live or die. This is Shanghai, where a pretty girl is just one more commodity to be bought and sold and Hua is lucky. She is in a position to make her own choices and we both know that the choice she has made is the best possible one she could make for what else is there? She and I, we have one thing we can sell. As the old Shanghai saying puts it, a girl has her skin and her smile, and when survival is at stake, you do what you must do.

That was the way it was in Shanghai in those days.

You did what you had to do to live.

If you didn’t, you died.

Hua has chosen to do what she must, and she has chosen Mr. Cunningham as her means to survive. I hope he will be kind to her. I hope he will look after her and remembering the raptness of his gaze, I think perhaps he will. At the very least, he is better than any of the alternatives. Me? I hope to hear from my father soon, but if not, Martin loves me. Martin will look after me. He will save me from this sad fate that Hua has had to surrender herself too in order to live and now I cry silent tears for my friend for there is nothing I can do. No help I can offer her.

Nothing but hold her in my arms.

* * *

On Sunday, I play my guqin, and already I think of it as my guqin. I play for Mr. Maynard. I play for him in the sitting room next to Mrs. Innes office. He sits there, drinking tea and listening to me play, watching me as I play. He asks me questions about the music, I speak to him of what I know and he listens. Afterwards, after I have played for two hours, he thanks me and leaves.

“Next Sunday, Chuntao,” he says. “You play beautifully.”

“Next Sunday, Mr. Maynard,” I agree.

* * *

On Monday, Mrs. Innes ask Hua to be her office at eight that evening and I am sure it is to meet Mr. Cunningham. Hua’s face is pale as we return to our room after classes are over. She bathes, she dresses in one of her qipao’s, the one that she wore to the Cunningham’s for that garden party just a few weeks ago. She slips on her high heeled shoes. She brushes her hair again and again and her face is so pale and it is almost eight.

She glances at me and at last she stands. I can’t bear to see her so scared but what can I do. I stand myself, I take her in my arms, I hold her and only now does she say something.

“I’m scared.” Her voice quavers.

“I know,” I say, and she’s trembling in my arms as I hold her. “I wish I could…”

“Oh, Chuntao,” she says. “I didn’t think it would be like this.”

“I know,” I say. Except I don’t, not really. “I know.” I know what she is doing. I know why, and her look says she knows I know without either of us speaking. “I wish…”

“It’s alright, Chuntao,” she says at last, and she takes a deep breath but she’s still shivering and I know she’s frightened and I feel a little sick myself. Sick and helpless and I am frightened for her. I want to help her, I want to do something but what is there that I can do?

“There’s nothing you can do, Chuntao, and I have to do this. There has been nothing from my family for over a year now. I know I’m on my own and it will be worse if I don’t do this.” She swallows convulsively. “He seems like a nice man and he has said he will take care of me. He has talked to Mrs. Innes. He has already made the arrangements, I am safe now.”

“Ask him to be gentle,” I say, and how I hope he is, for Hua’s sake.

“He told me he will be,” Hua says, squeezing my hand. “I must go, he’ll be waiting.” She glances over her shoulder at me as she walks out the door and her eyes are haunted.

“I love you, Hua,” I whisper. “I’ll be here for you.”

Her eyes thank me and then she is gone and I stand there, listening to her footsteps in the hallway as they fade into silence and only then do I cry.

* * *

I can’t sleep. I am fearful for Hua, fearful of what must be happening to her. I lie awake in my bed, listening to the sounds of the night, listening for Hua’s return but she doesn’t come back and all I can do is think. These years together, four and a half years since we arrived here, we’ve shared our hopes, our dreams; our ambitions. I want to become an architect, I want to help design the buildings of a new China, a China once more taking her place in the world, strong and free of the foreigners. Free of the Japanese.

A modern China, such as Sun Yat-Sen dreamed of.

Hua? She came here with such high hopes.

To go to University, study medicine, become a Doctor and that is where her heart is. She has always wanted to help people, I know that. We’ve talked, she and I. I know how much she admires the Chung-kuo Kung-ch’an-tang, the Communist Party. They are helping the people. Their aim is to liberate China from feudalism, to raise the peasants and the workers up, to create a new China where everyone has equality of opportunity.

A new China where the poor do not starve to death in the streets, where girls such as us are not forced into prostitution or sold for the pleasure of men, where children the age of my little brothers and sisters do not slave in the silk factories, forced to scoop the silk from the vats of boiling water in which it is separated with their bare hands, the skin scalded and burnt and hanging in tatters.

They work like that to make money for the wealthy Chinese, for the foreigners who own these factories. Their skin is scalded from their hands. Day after day, their hands dart into the cauldrons of boiling water to retrieve the silk and they are in agony. Constant agony, their faces drawn and haggard and I know most of those children sicken and die, they have tuberculosis, they eat and sleep and live in those fetid factories, their only wage is their food and they work until they die from the tuberculosis or from the infections in their hands and when they die, their bodies are thrown into the streets to be collected by the death carts.

There is more. There are the children forced to work in factories where their gums turn blue and they die from lead poisoning within two or three years and for that short time, all they are rewarded with is barely enough food to survive on and a corner to die in. The young women from the countryside forced into prostitution. The coolies who pull the rickshaws, lucky to make enough each day to buy enough rice to live on, sleeping on the streets wherever they can find a space, dying from sheer exhaustion after a few years between the poles of the rickshaws they pull.

This is only some of the evil that the Chung-kuo Kung-ch’an-tang, the Communist Party, struggles to free China from. All of China.

Hua believes in them now.

So do I now, for in Shanghai I have seen enough.

Neither of us talk about it, it’s dangerous, we would lose our heads.

And now, Hua, my friend, she too has fallen victim to Shanghai, for here, nobody cares whether you live or die. Hua has made her choice, she is strong, she has chosen to live and I hope she does not regret the choice she has made.

Neither of us have heard from our families. The Japanese are advancing now, the war is open. There is fighting between the armies of the Kuomintang and the Chung-kuo Kung-ch’an-tang. Civil War. War with the Japanese as they advance towards Nanking. China is helpless, a fallen giant. Everything is in chaos. Hua and I, we are trapped in Shanghai and there is no escape. Perhaps her Mr. Cunningham will help Hua, perhaps he will not only look after her but help her to escape. Perhaps Martin will help me. I hope so, but in the end, we have only ourselves to rely on and war is everywhere.

How I hope he is gentle with Hua.

I think of myself too, not just of Hua. I haven’t heard from my family, not for months and Mrs. Innes has asked me. She’s heard nothing and there are school fees owing, boarding school fees. Hua has found a way to pay hers. Will I have to do the same? My heart sinks at the thought, and now I’m shivering. Now I’m afraid for it dawns in me that if I do not hear from my father, I may have to do what Hua is doing. Like Hua, I have no family in Shanghai. Like Hua, there’s nobody I can ask for help and now, in the darkness of the night, alone, I know that same desperation and fear that Hua must have been feeling.

Martin. He loves me. I can talk to Martin. I can ask Martin for help.

He loves me and surely he will help me, and not in the way that Mr. Cunningham is “helping” Hua. Martin loves me. He hasn’t said anything, but some Englishmen have married Chinese girls. It won’t be easy. Not for him and not for me, but it has been done. It can be done if he has the courage and he loves me enough. I’ll talk to him. Next weekend. I don’t know how I’ll explain it to him. Maybe I should just be honest but I have to be careful. He says he loves me. He says that every time we meet now but we’ve only known each other for a few weeks. I don’t want to scare him away.

I don’t want to seem desperate.

But I am desperate.

Martin loves me. I cling to that hope. That he loves me enough to save me. He’s said he loves me. He’s said that now so many times, and I see the way he looks at me. I’m sure he loves me enough to want to marry me and I love him too. I won’t have to do what Hua is doing and I’m sorry for her, I truly am, but I’m sure now that there’s an escape for me and I drift off to sleep thinking of Martin holding me and whispering that he loves me.

I wake up in the early hours, dawn is still far away, jolting upright in my bed and the door is opening slowly. It’s Hua, she stumbles inside and I can smell her from my bed even as I throw my quilt off and dart across the room to her. Her hair is dishevelled, she smells different. Of sweat, both her sweat and a man’s sweat. Cigarette smoke. Alcohol. And something else. A different smell and I almost recognize it. She clings to me.

“Chuntao… Chuntao.” Her voice is a whisper.

I hold her, hold her tight as her body begins to shake. She sobs quietly as I hold her, as I stroke her hair. “Come,” I say. “Come, sit down, I’ll run you a bath.”

I lead her across the room to her bed. She walks slowly, wincing with every movement, almost as if she’s injured herself and I’m sick with fear. What has Mr. Cunningham done to her? Was it that bad? I ease her down to sit on her bed and in the darkness she sits there, silent, but I know she’s crying from her breathing and I don’t want to leave her for a second.

“I’ll run the bath,” I say, stroking her shoulder. She clings to my hand for a second before releasing me. I hurry, almost running as I push the plug in, turn the taps on full and the water floods in, lukewarm and then hot and I return to her.

“Stand up,” I say, taking her hands. “Let me take this off.”

She stands slowly, unresisting as I unfasten her qipao, ease it from her shoulders and she’s wearing pretty silk lingerie I have never seen before. It’s not what she was wearing when she left yesterday evening, a plain white bra and underwear. The bra is black, some sort of transparent material, accentuating her breasts, which are much larger than mine. Almost as large as the English and American girls here at school but far more beautiful. Full and firm. Hua has always been very proud of her breasts and I’ve always been jealous of them because mine are so small.

“He bought them for me,” she whispers. “He wanted me to wear them for him so I did.” She reaches behind her back, unhooks her bra, lets it fall to the floor except I catch it and place it on the bed.

“Come,” I say, quietly, taking her hand in mine and she follows me into the bathroom. The tub is half full, I adjust the temperature quickly, turn the taps off and she’s just standing there, tears in her eyes. Tears that I see now, for I turned the light on earlier.

She has dark rings under her eyes. Her face is pale, strained, her lips puffy, her lipstick is smeared and I’ve never seen her wearing lipstick before. Her nipples are swollen, reddish brown as mine are, but now they are puffy and large, there are faint bruises here and there, on her tender skin, on her thighs.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t look,” and she turns away and pushes her underwear down but I can’t not see the dried blood on her inner thighs. Her sex is puffy, pink, inflamed and she turns away from me.

“Here, let me help you into the bath,” I say, softly, holding her arm, helping her in and her scent is strong. Sweat and that cigarette smoke and that smell of a foreign man.

“Ow.” She cries out once as she sits in the water and I do what I haven’t done with her for a long time. I slip my own pyjamas off and I step into the bath and slide in behind her and I take the soap and begin to wash her back, slowly. Her shoulders first, then down her back to the water and she sighs and slowly, very slowly I feel her muscles relaxing, loosing that strained shivering tautness.

She leans back against me, her head on my shoulder as I shampoo and rinse her hair. She washes herself, slowly, carefully, and I hold her, I pillow her and when she is quite clean I help her out and I help her dry herself and slip her pyjamas on and I lead her to her bed and slide in under her quilt with her and I hold her. She is shivering now, but she smells of Hua and I hold her gently, saying nothing. She will talk if she needs to talk and I will listen and I will comfort her if that is what she needs, for I am her friend. Her sister.

“Sleep now,” I say.

“He was gentle with me,” she whispers, “but it hurt when he put it inside me the first time. He was gentle though, up until the end. He cares for me, he cares for me, Chuntao. He told me he did. He will look after me.”

Only then does she begin to cry and I hold her tight.

“Oh Hua,” I say, and I am so thankful that at the least he was gentle with her and I hope he was, I hope he does care for her, I hope she isn’t trying to stop me worrying, and I sing her that old cradle song, and she is exhausted, she is asleep before I finish and I hold her until I too sleep and I am still holding her when it is time to wake for breakfast.

* * *

I hear Mrs Innes’ voice before I walk into our room after classes have ended for Tuesday. I hesitate, hand on the doorknob, listening.

“I understand, Hua,” Mrs Innes says. “I don’t like this either, but we must pay the school fees somehow and I can’t think of any other way, my dear. I’d help you myself but the school fees here…the Board of Governors, I have already asked too many times.” She hesitates. “I’m so sorry, Hua. I dislike this, but the alternatives, my dear, for a girl like you alone on Shanghai, they are so much worse. You don’t know enough to work as a teacher, and a part-time job as a salesgirl won’t give you enough money to survive, my dear. I’m dreadfully sorry, Hua, but there’s nothing else I can do. God knows I’ve tried.”

Mrs. Innes sobs. “Mr. Cunningham assured me he would look after you, and he’s already paid the arrears on the school fees. He will pay your fees going forward. He told me he will take good care of you.”

“I know,” Hua says, her voice a whisper. “He told me. It’s just…” She sobs.

I turn and walk away. I’ll return later, after Mrs. Innes has left. When I do, Hua says nothing. Her eyes are red but she smiles and we study together as we usually do, after dinner. That night, I sleep with her and this time she doesn’t cry, she doesn’t shiver but she does cling to me. She sleeps. I sleep with her every night that week. It is Thursday night before she speaks of Mr. Cunningham to me.
We are in her bed, I am holding her, her back is to me and I am breathing in the scent of her hair as I hold her. One of her hands holds mine.

“It wasn’t that bad,” she says out of nowhere, her hand squeezing mine and it takes me a second before I understand what she’s talking about. “It wasn’t what I thought it would be like and it hurt the first time, but he was gentle most of the time.”

I don’t know what to say so I hug her.

“He’s paying my school fees now,” she whispers. “He says he will pay for University for me.” She turns over in bed, facing me, her eyes looking into mine in the darkness. “I’m so scared for my family, Chuntao. There’s been nothing. Nothing for over a year now.”

I swallow because she’s reminded me of my family and I hope they’re safe. I haven’t heard from them for so long now either.

“Do you really love Martin, Chuntao?” she asks me after a long silence.

“Yes,” I say. She’s going to ask me not to see him and I can’t agree to that. I won’t.

“Before I left home, my father told me this was the New China,” she says softly. “That in the New China women should make their own choices and decisions on marriage. He said he would not arrange a marriage for me, only if I asked him to and I should only marry someone I cared for and who cared for me.”

“I know,” I said, for we have both talked of this in the past. My parents said similar words to me.

“I always though the first time I made love, it would be with my husband,” Hua says. “Not with a man who has paid for me. Not with a foreigner. I never thought I would have to sell myself.” Her body shakes and I know she is crying in the darkness and I hold her tight and I hurt for her. Her pain is mine, for she is my sister. “I am so ashamed of myself, Chuntao.”

“There’s no shame, Hua,” I say. “There’s no shame in staying alive.” For that is what she has done, and I think of my family and swallow sickly, for without Martin, I would have to make the same choice as Hua and how I hope Martin loves me enough to save me from that.

“Chuntao?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I say.

“If you really love Martin, don’t be afraid, Chuntao. Take his love while you have it. Promise me you will, Chuntao. Promise me.” She sobs. “Do not let what has happened to me happen to you, Chuntao. It should be with someone you love. Afterwards…”

“I promise, Hua,” I say. “I promise.”

* * *

This weekend, this Saturday, Martin and I are meeting at the cinema again and I remember his hand on my breast last Saturday. I want that again and I wear my uniform skirt, my white blouse. I do not wear a bra or a camisole, only a light coat and a hat for it is autumn now, and colder. I ask Hua to come with me.

“I can’t, Chuntao,” Hua says, her face a little pale. “I’m going out this afternoon. Mrs. Innes has arranged it for me. Mr. Cunningham wants to see me again.”

“Oh,” I say. I’ve heard Mrs. Innes say something quietly to her. I’ve written to father again, I haven’t heard from him or my mother for weeks now and I know there’s fighting very near Nanking. The Japanese are advancing inland further and further and in the news, it sounds bad.

“Yes,” Hua says. “Everything’s fine. There’s nothing you can do by waiting at school for me. Mr. Cunningham is bringing me back in the morning. Why don’t you leave with Geraldine and Elaine, they’re going out.” She’s pale. “I’ll be alright now. I know what Mr. Cunningham wants.”

“Alright,” I say, hugging her. I leave with Geraldine and Elaine. Once we’re outside the school I abandon them and flag down a rickshaw. Martin is waiting for me in the cinema foyer, smiling as soon as he sees me and he already has the tickets.

“Chuntao,” he says, reaching for my hand. “Where’s Hua?”

“She couldn’t come,” I say, and his eyes light up.

“Can I take you somewhere else,” he says. “I was going to ask you for next weekend but if Hua’s not here, I can ask you now.”

“Where?” I say.

“Somewhere we can be alone together,” he says. Then, “not like that. I mean, I hate having to kiss you where everyone can see us.”

“Me too,” I say, suddenly shy. Blushing. In a cinema, we can kiss but little more. Alone? I will bring shame on my family. But my family isn’t here and Martin is and he loves me and my mind is made up, just like that. “Do you have somewhere?”

“Yes,” he says. “Would you like to look? If you don’t like it, we can leave.”

“Alright,” I say, not quite sure what he means.

He waves down a cab, gives the driver a card with an address. I sit close to him, beside him, holding his hand tightly as the cab takes us into the French Concession. The streets are lined with trees, less crowded, green, but I’m nervous as the cab turns into a narrow lane and stops. I’m going somewhere with him and we’ll be alone. He and I, alone, and my heart pounds.

“In here,” Martin says, after he’s paid off the driver. He takes my hand, leads me into an apartment building. “There’s no elevator,” he says, apologetically.

We climb the stairs, my hand in his. It’s three floors and we’re in a small hallway on what must be the top floor. He leads me down to the end, opens the wooden door and I follow as he steps inside. I look around as he closes the door behind me. It’s a room, a small room with wooden floors and it’s dark. The windows are shuttered, there’s a faint scent of incense and sandalwood. He turns the lights on, takes my hat and coat and hangs them on the stand by the door, his coat joins mine.

There’s a bathroom with a bathtub, a small kitchen, the room that we are in and a veranda, with bamboo blinds shading it. There’s a bed against the wall, a large one in the European style and now my heart sinks. He’s bought me to the sort of room you take a sing-song girl too and I’m not one of those. There’s a couch and a wooden coffee table, and outside, on the enclosed and roofed veranda, there’s a large wooden daybed and some large clay pots with green plants. I have no idea what they are.

“Do you like it?” he asks, and now I’m a little afraid. Does he really think I’m one of those Chinese girls, the ones that do this for money? “I leased it. I thought we could be alone here.” He smiles, he takes my hand, leads me outside onto the veranda. “It’s beautiful out here.”

It is, and I walk to the edge, to the brick balustrade and I stand there, looking out over the rooftops before my eyes, not sure what to think. What does he mean? What does he intend? He moves up behind me, his arms encircles me, he buries his face in my hair and inhales, his body warm behind me.

“It’s not…” he says hesitantly. “I don’t mean to offend you, Chuntao. I know you’re not like those other girls. It’s just… it’s just I want somewhere where we can be alone, just you and me. I hate kissing you where everyone can see us, it’s so… it’s so… I love you, Chuntao.” He blurts that last out. “I love you so much and kissing you, that’s for you and me, not for anyone else.”

My eyes water, my heart soars, my fears evaporate instantly. “I love you, Martin,” I whisper, saying it out loud for the very first time, saying it myself, tasting those words on my lips. “I love you… I love you.”

“I love you, Chuntao,” he says, kissing my ear, nuzzling me. “I love the scent of your hair. I love everything about you. I love you, I love you, I love you.” He speaks as if he is reciting a magical incantation and it is, his words are magic to my ears.

He hugs me tight and my hands move up to rest on his and suddenly I’m aware of this hardness pressing firmly against my butt. My heart jolts, I gasp, my knees are suddenly weak and I remember the dinner party. Dancing. Held in his arms, his movements, shuddering against me and that exquisite excitement as his jade stalk pressed against me.

In the English words, I know he has an erection. He’s excited. It’s pressing against me and the feel of him sends sudden heat washing through me in a slow wave of rising anticipation.

“I love you, Martin,” I say, resting the back of my head against his shoulder as his arms hold me. He’s told me he loves me many times now. For me, here in this enclosed veranda, this is the first time I’ve actually said it. The first time I’ve allowed myself to admit my love for him and I half close my eyes, bursting with joy. With happiness. And yes, with excitement and my heart beats faster. “I love you.”

“Chuntao,” he breathes, and just his voice saying my name fills me with new emotions. “The first moment I saw you, I knew it was love.”

I swallow, half close my eyes, luxuriating in his arms around me, his body against mine, his erection hard against me and I want to feel him pressing against me the way he pressed against me at that dinner party and I’m so conscious of his arousal against my butt.

“Yes,” I sigh, giving in to those emotions that fill me. “I knew too. I saw you and I loved you.”

I know now and I turn in his arms. Turn to face him, looking up at him, my arms vining around his neck, drawing him closer, pressing myself against him and today I wear no bra. Today I wear a western-style dress and top and my coat and hat that hang by the door and my breasts are crushed against his chest, our skin separated only by his linen shirt and my thin cotton top.

“Martin.” I look up at him and there’s a black hole inside me. A black hole of fear and suspense and terror, for I need to be honest with him.

“Yes, Chuntao?” he says, kissing my nose.

“I’m not a sing-song girl,” I say. “I will not bring shame on my family. I love you, Martin, but I’m Chinese. You’re English. Is there a future for us together?” It hurts me so much to say this, but I must, even if I risk losing him. I owe this at least to my family and I persevere, the words struggling out as I struggle to think. To make him understand. “We’ve only known each other for a few weeks, Martin.”

And I want to know you for a lifetime of you and I together. That is what I think but I do not say that. I dare not. It is too soon, and he is English.

“One look was enough to know I love you, Chuntao,” he says, and he kisses my nose again and his hands stroke my back. “I know you’re not a sing-song girl,” he adds, and his lips on my ear send delicious shivers down my spine. “I love you and I want you to be mine.”

His eyes look down into mine. Those eyes of sparkling blue, so alien, his skin so pale, his hair is that strange white blonde and I love him. I love him so much and I want to be his and I remember Hua’s words. I promised Hua and he loves me and I love him.

“Is there a future for us, Martin?” I whisper, looking up into his eyes. “Together?” I swallow, terrified that he will say there isn’t, that it cannot be and within myself, I know it cannot. “Not just for a few weeks, a few months. A future for us together, forever? You and me, forever? Your family…”

“Chuntao,” he says, holding me so tight. “I love you, Chuntao. It will be difficult.” Now it is he that swallows and I sense his nervousness. “My family will not approve… my hong…”

“Your hong will not approve,” I say, but how I hope he will brave their disapproval. I hope, but I do not expect him to. He works for Jardine Matheson, and they are strict. An Englishman seeking to marry a White Russian would be sent somewhere remote and distant immediately. A Chinese girl? Someone like me? They would never approve. Never, and I know that and I hope but my heart sinks.

“No,” he says. “But there are other hongs, other companies. There are Englishmen, Americans, others with Chinese wives.”

He’s said it. He’s said wives. He’s said that word and my heart leaps with joy and I smile now, relief filling me and he smiles back and I sense his courage building now. His love. He loves me. He does. He loves me enough to think about that.

“It will take time, Chuntao,” he says. “What about your family?”

“My father will not approve, but he will agree,” I say. “It will be hard for him, but for Chinese families, sons are more important. Girls don’t matter.” Even to my father, and he is a modern father. Progressive in his views, but still, I am a girl. I smile. “It is your family who must agree.”

I swallow, and my voice is small now, nervous. “You do mean what you say, Martin? That there is a future together for us? I cannot shame my family. I must not shame my family.”

“I mean it, Chuntao,” he breathes. “I love you with all my heart and soul and there is a future for us together.” His lips brush mine. “As man and wife.” He smiles now. “Chuntao, will you be my wife?”

“Yes,” I say, and my heart threatens to burst with love and with happiness and with joy. “Oh yes, Martin. Yes.”

“It will take some time with my family,” he says. “And Jardine, well, they forbid their griffins to marry, and never to marry a Chinese woman. That’s forbidden. I will have to find another position somewhere.” He swallows. “That will disappoint my father, he called in a lot of favours to get me into Jardine. And my friends.” Now he smiles. “But to have you in my life forever, Chuntao, that would be worth everything to me.”

“Oh, Martin.” My smile is tremulous, I am on the edge of tears as I bury my face in his shirt and I remember anew Hua’s words. My promise to her that I would not follow her path. That my first time with a man should be an act of love, with someone I love and now I know that it will be. I know now that Martin is my future. I am to be his wife and I lift my face, I ease away from him, I take his hand in mine.

“Come.” Heart pounding, I lead him back into the room. There’s the bed, or there’s the couch and I don’t hesitate. I lead him those half a dozen steps across the floor towards the bed.

“I didn’t…” He hesitates and I turn towards him. Turn into his arms.

“Kiss me,” I say, arms around his neck. “Kiss me, Martin, kiss me like you did last night.” I press myself against him shamelessly and he’s hard. He’s so hard and his hardness presses against me and I shiver, remembering what happened in that alcove at Miranda’s family’s house where he moved against me, where he shuddered and groaned and I knew what was happening to him and I want that pleasure for him now.

I want to give him that pleasure.

“Chuntao,” he groans. “I love you, Chuntao.” His mouth finds mine, his lips brush mine, seal themselves to mine, his tongue floats into my mouth, deep inside my mouth, gentle, not pushing or probing, gentle and tender and I suck on him, suck his tongue deep, offering my mouth up to him as his hands stroke my back, my shoulders, my sides and I’m catching fire. I’m on fire and I want his hands everywhere on me as I press myself against him and his hardness presses against me.

The bed is behind me and my heat pounds, beating like a Thunder Drum and my body is shaking as I draw him with me.

“Chuntao?” he gasps as I draw away from him and sit on the bed, breathing hard, panting, almost moaning with my excitement.

“Come,” I gasp, tugging at his hands as I slide to the centre of the bed and lie on my back. “Come.”

He says nothing, his face flushing as he slides onto the bed and he’s lying next to me, propped up on one elbow and I look up at him and I want him closer. I want him pressing against me. I want him kissing me and I want his hands on me and I want to feel his weight one me.

“Kiss me,” I whisper and now he moves closer, he slides closer, pressed against me, one arm beneath my shoulders and he’s hard against my thigh and I’m limp with excitement. Limp and burning, my skin on fire, tingling and my jade gate is wet and slippery and pulsing with excitement and I remember him rubbing himself against me and I want that again, I want to see that look in his eyes and on his face as he shudders and groans against me.

“Chuntao, I love you,” he breathes, his nose brushing mine, and his hand, his free hand, moves to cup my breast and there’s no bra, no camisole, nothing but the thin cotton of my top between his hand and my breast and my nipples are swollen, rubbery-hard, aching. Oh god, his hand. His hand on my breast and my back arches a little, I gasp, his thumb brushes across my nipple and I moan softly. Helplessly. He does it again. And again.

“Martin,” I gasp. “Martin, do you really love me? Do you really mean it?”

“Chuntao,” he whispers, and his lips brush mine fleetingly. My lips part, they beg for his. “Chuntao, I meant everything I said. I love you, Chuntao. I want you to be my wife. I want you to marry me.”

“I love you,” I whisper, and my hand moves to rest on his where he cups my breast. “I love you, Martin.”

His lips brush mine again, my mouth opens wide, we kiss again and his kiss is magical, exhilarating, the touch of his lips against mine an elixir of love and I give myself completely to that love. Give myself completely to that kiss, to his mouth, to his hand on my breast and my nipples are tight and hard and they hurt now. They ache, they want more, more than just his thumb brushing me there and I twist and my hand presses his hand down on my breast, hard. I hear myself moan, moan into his mouth, a faint helpless sound and he swallows my moans, his mouth devours me.

“Chuntao,” he groans, his mouth lifting from mine for barely long enough to breathe my name. “Chuntao.” His mouth seizes on mine again and now his kiss is harsher, less gentle, more urgent, more demanding and my mouth is his, all his. His fingers move under my hand, find the buttons of my top, fumble blindly with them and my heart is beating wildly as he unfastens that first button.

“I have to see you,” he breathed, his fingers working the next button undone. “I have to.”

“Martin,” I gasp, my hand falling away from his as his fingers work.

The next button, and the next, and the next and then the last and my heart jolts as he brushes my top open, exposing both my breasts to his eyes, and he looks, the heat of his gaze burning my skin and I tingle everywhere as I lie there, exposed to him, waiting. Wanting.

“You’re beautiful, Chuntao. Beautiful,” he breathes, looking and my skin burns under his gaze. I’m on fire, my nipples swell, ache, they want to be touched as he touched me last Saturday and now I move. My hand finds his where it rests on my hip, I take it, I lift it, I place it on my breast and now I shudder, eyes half closed. His hand is on my breast, his male hand and it rests there for a long moment, shaping itself to me, cupping me and I savor that touch.

He says nothing, his blue eyes look down into mine, his hand cups my breast, my heart beats like a birds, fluttering wildly as that pool of hot excitement within me grows and now I am conscious of his hardness against my thigh as he presses himself closer to me and I welcome that closeness. I want that closeness. His face draws closer, his nose brushes mine, his lips brush against my skin and blindly my mouth opens, seeking his kisses as a flower seeks the sun.

As the sun’s bright light causes the flower to open its petals, his lips brushing mine cause my lips to part and that kiss, that kiss is one of passion, of excitement, of desire, morphing from a brushing of lips to a desperate merging of our souls in a bare second. His lips crush down on mine, my mouth opens wide, his tongue invades and I surrender, I am his, my mouth is his and his hand moves now on my breast and my back arches. I push my nipple against his palm, I welcome his fingers running over me, seizing my nipple.

“Ohhhhhhhhh.” I moan into his mouth and I want more. I want him as I did last night, moving himself against me and I half turn towards him, my hands urging him to move over me, to lie on me and he does. He does and I moan again as I tug at him and I know he is not sure what I want.

“Lie on me,” I gasp, my mouth separating form his for just long enough.

“Chuntao.” His weight is on me, his legs straddling mine, his hardness presses against me and he kisses me yet again, gently and possessively and my mouth is his and his weight on me, lying on me, the skin of his chest hot against my naked breasts, it’s exquisite and when his mouth moves on mine, when his chest moves against my breasts, against my aching swollen nipples, I moan into his kiss, my breathe shared with him as I taste his tongue. As I swallow our shared saliva.
“Martin,” I gasp. “Martin.”

“Chuntao.” He groans, his mouth possesses mine, her quivers against me, his breathing hot and hard and I sense his need, as I did last night.

“Move on me, Martin,” I gasp shamelessly, my hips quivering and I am so wet and so sensitive and he’s so hard. Big and hard. “Do like you did last night.”

“You don’t mind?” he groans, holding himself back and he wants to. I know he wants to. I want him to.

My arms vine around his neck, my mouth searches blindly for his. “I love you, Martin,” I gasp and then my lips find his, we are kissing and he is moving on me. Moving slowly, rubbing his hardness against me, our clothing between us but I can feel him. Feel his special hardness. He’s moving backwards and forwards, slowly, as if he’s afraid that will stop him but I didn’t stop him last night and I’m not going to stop him this morning.

His mouth is sealed to mine, his tongue and mine dance together, his breath mingles with mine for our lips do not part now. His chest is hot and hard against my breasts and I would like to feel myself naked against his naked body but this is enough and I arch my back, my breasts crushed against his chest, his weight on me and this is delicious, this is better than in the cinema, this is wonderful.

“I love you, Martin,” I moan as his mouth lifts from mine. His breathing his harder, faster, his movements against me are far more obvious and he’s groaning softly, shivering, tense and I think that he’s close and I move myself beneath him, lovely ripples of pleasure washing through me.

“Chuntao… Chuntao.” He groans, his movements are fast now, fast and fierce, his mouth possesses mine, I suck his tongue deep into my mouth, I crush my breasts against his naked chest and then he bucks hard against me as he did last night. His body shudders, he bucks again, shudders again, a third time and a fourth and I know what is happening.

“Chuntao.” His voice is a hot groan against the side of my head, his face pressed into the sheet beside my head and he’s limp on me now, shuddering, his breathe coming in great panting gasps and I know he’s finished and my hands clutch at his back. His naked back and his skin is smooth under my fingers, his muscles relaxed now and my hands rest on him, I inhale is scent. Milky, sweat, soap, clean and foreign and I want to rub my face against his skin and inhale that scent forever.

“I love you,” I sigh, happy that he has satisfied himself and he’s not hard against me anymore.

“I love you, Chuntao,” he breathes, easing himself up and off me to lie beside me and now we face each other, his arms around me, one of his hands running over me. “You skin’s so silky,” he marvels, his fingers tracing a circle around one breast and he’s watching my nipple. “So beautiful.”

“You have so much hair,” I marvel, running my fingers through the thick blonde hairs that cover his chest, wet with his sweat and I smile and rub my face against those chest hairs, coating my face with his exudations, inhaling the scent of him and he eases onto his back, his arm moving me to half lie on him.

“Will you come here with me next weekend?” he asks me, his hand brushing my hair back from my face as I lie beside him, lie against him, my head resting on his shoulder, his arm around me and my heart pounds as I wonder what it would be like to lie beside him, completely naked. As naked as I had been that night with Hua.

“Yes,” I say, after just a moment. “Of course I’ll come.”

Then I giggle because my hand has discovered something. “Why don’t you wash, while I wash your trousers?” Because there’s a huge damp spot and I’m sure I know what it is. His essence. His semen.

He’s embarrassed. He’s blushing. “I’ll wash them.”

He does, I listen to him in the small bathroom and I wonder when he’ll realize he’s going to have to give them to me to dry and I smile because he’s going to have to come back to the bed and lie with me beneath the quilt. I think about that and about what he has said to me, that he loves me. That he will marry me. That I will be his wife and my heart is alive with love and with joy and happiness.

I hug myself as I listen to him in the bathroom, water splashing and I smile and I unfasten my skirt and wriggle out of it so that all I am wearing now is my underwear and my skin burns and tingles, my face flushes and my breath quickens. He will have to come back to bed and he is washing his trousers and underwear and he will be naked and I almost moan out loud as shame and excitement and anticipation war within me.

He emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist. There must be towels in there and he must have thought of this and I wonder what else he’s thought of as he hangs his trousers and underwear in front of the stove to dry.

I lie on my side under the quilt watching him hesitate. He’s blushing. It’s not even midday yet and we have the rest of the morning and all afternoon before I have to be back. Hours and hours are ahead of us and it is less than an hour since we walked in the door.

“You’ll get cold,” I say. “Let’s lie together under the quilt.” There is a quilt. There are no sheets on the mattress. I’ll buy one for next Saturday, and already I have decided that I will be coming here again, and I wonder what it would be like to live here with him, in this room. Him and me. It’s a very Chinese room, not at all like the large house where Marjory’s parents live and I wonder if he and Emily and their parents live in a house like that one.

They won’t live in a room like this. They won’t live in a big family house like my father’s house in Nanking where my parents and my grandparents and my uncles and aunts and cousins all live together and for a long moment I think of that house, my parents, my grandparents, my little brothers and sisters, my uncles and aunts and all my cousins and the Japanese advancing on Nanking and I hope my parents and my family are safe.

I hope my family is safe. I hope my father has sent the money to the school for my school fees. He hasn’t sent me anything and I don’t have much money left but I smile because I have Martin now and he has asked me to be his wife. He loves me and he will marry me and we will be together and I don’t care where as long as it’s he and I together. I know it will be hard. Hard for him and hard for me but as long as we are together, as long a we are man and wife, I will not care about any obstacles set in our way.

“Come,” I say, smiling and I hold up the quilt a little and he sits on the bed and his face is flushing as he looks at my naked breasts. I see the direction of his gaze and I smile, let drop the quilt, cup one of my breasts with one hand and offer it to him, smiling. “Kiss it,” I breathe. The books say this is something than men enjoy and he has asked me to marry him. He wants me to be his wife.

I am sure I will enjoy Martin kissing my breast. I enjoyed his hand on me there.

“Chuntao?” he says, turning and he’s lying on the bed now, propped up on one elbow, his cheeks pink.

“I love you,” Martin, I say, and my own cheeks are pink. “You asked me to marry you and as long as you mean that… as long as you really want to marry me…”

“I do, Chuntao,” he says, his voice soft and he reaches out with one and to caress my cheek. “I love you and you’re going to be my wife.”

“Come,” I say, casting the quilt back a little and sliding closer and he moves at the same time, taking me in his arms and his skin is hot against my breasts and I want him to hold me tight, to crush me in his arms and he does. Not quite crush me but he holds me tight and I’m burning everywhere as he showers me with kisses and he’s hard. I can feel him against my thigh and his hand is on me, on my hips, my thighs and his eyes widen as he realizes my skirt is gone.

“Chuntao,” he breathes and his kisses becomed more fervent, one arm is beneath me, his free hand roams over me. My hips, my thighs, my waist, my breast, my shoulder and arm, his hand is everywhere and he has an erection. The thin cotton towel doesn’t hide it, it accentuates it, his erection pushing the towel up and out and it falls loose, his erection springs free, brushes against my leg and he’s embarrassed, his face is bright red. He tries to cover himself with the quilt.

“I didn’t mean to…” He stutters.

My hand finds him, clasps him and my face is burning as I hold his erection in my hand, not quite sure what to do now. Reading is one thing. Reality is another and my heart is pounding wildly.

“I want to see you,” I gasp, turning towards him and that look on his face, I know he is helpless. He is in my power and it is the first time I have seen that look on a man’s face. It will not be the last.

“I want to see you,” I repeat, and I’m moving, turning, lifting myself, the quilt falling away as he slowly lies back. He lies on his back, naked and I see all of him, from his head to his toes, and he is beautiful. So beautiful with his blonde hair, his chiselled face, that pale skin and those smooth muscles. His stomach is taut, flat, his waist narrow and his hips slender. His thighs are muscular without being thick but it is his erection that draws my eyes.

I have seen the illustrations in the books that Hua and I read. Never have I seen an erect male member before and my heart flutters as my hand holds him, as my eyes examine him. To my innocent eyes it seemed enormous, long, thick and hard, jutting upwards from its thick thatch of curly blonde hair and below them were what I knew at once were his testicles, large in their sac’s of loose skin.

“It’s big,” I breathe, looking at it, protruding from my clasp and it jerks in my hand.

My eyes widen. “Why does it do that?”

“Your hand,” he gasps. “It feels so good.” His hips thrust up, is cock moves through my clasp and his cock throbs under my fingers.

I remember those books. Men like to have their cocks stroked. I’m not sure how. “Can I stroke it?” I ask, curious and I’m not embarrassed or shy now. He’s naked with me and his cock is in my hand and I know he’s going to marry me and I’m fascinated by this and I really want a closer look so I shuffle around a little in the bed to look at him.

His hand brushes my ear. “Stroke it,” he says, and he’s so tense. “Slowly.”

I nod eagerly. “How do I stroke it? Like this?” I have no idea. “Do I rub it like this?” I begin to stroke him with my hand, slowly, carefully and holding him, I can sense the latent power his cock contains, the energy, the vibrant hardness.

“Yes, yes, like that, Chuntao.” He’s breathing hard. “Only not so hard, don’t grip it in the same place, slide your hand up and down on the skin.”

“Like this?” I do as I am told, looking down at him, watching as that swollen head appears and then disappears beneath his foreskin.

“Not so fast,” he breathes, “it’s not a race, there’s no hurry.”

My hand is working on his cock, up and down, stroking him in long leisurely strokes as he looks down at me, his hand brushing my hair back from my face. “Is that right?” I gasp.

“That’s great, Chuntao.” His smile, his quickened breathing, all tell me that it’s great for him and I’m enjoying this too. I can feel him tensing as my hand strokes him, faster, harder. That seems to be what he enjoys so I do it and I smile happily. His cock is so beautiful, holding him is so exciting and that heat inside me grows and grows and I’m wet and slippery and I’d like him to lie on me again but this time I want to see what happens when he finishes.

I know there is semen, the biology text book talks about that and the Chinese books Hua and I have read, they talk about a man’s essence spurting out and flooding inside the women and now I wish I’d asked Hua, but if I had, that would’ve been so insensitive but I need to know. I know he had to wash his trousers so there must be a lot of it and I want to know what it looks like.

“Chuntao, you’re so beautiful.” His voice is soft as my hand holds him, strokes him, and he’s sp so hard. Thick and rigid and so long. So big in my hand. I love the feel of him, I love knowing that I am doing this for him. I love hearing his breathing quicken, I love the excitement on his face and when I stroke him faster, I love seeing his immediate reaction, I love seeing the pleasure I am giving him with my touch.

“Is that good?” I gasp, and I cannot tear my eyes away from his cock.

That’s good,” he groans, and he’s so tense as he lies there, almost groaning and I like it that I am doing this to him. I love the look on his face. The intensity, the excitement, the desire. For me. All for me. I love knowing that I am pushing him over the edge. That he’s lost control to me. To my hand and he’s so hard under my fingers as I stroke him. So excited, straining, as he was earlier when he lay on me. I know he is near.

“Don’t stop now, Chuntao,” he groans, one of his hands resting on my back and I can sense the tension there. “Don’t stop, Chuntao,”

I want to ask him what’s going to happen but I don’t want to display my complete ignorance and besides, I don’t know how to ask and my hand is stroking him as hard and fast as I can and my arm and my wrist are getting sore but I’m not stopping for anything. Not until he finishes and I have seen what happens when he does.

“Uuughhhhhhhh.” He half turns towards me, groaning as I stroke him and his cock is pointing towards me, he’s thrusting at my hand and I watch, breathing hard, almost moaning with excitement myself.

“Uuuggghhhhhh,” he groans again, his body shuddering convulsively and a jet of white explodes from the tip of his cock, a solid rope of white that spurts towards my face and I have no time to move. It jets out, splatters across my nose, my cheeks, my lips, into my open mouth, thick and hot and salty on my tongue and I swallow without thinking.

“Uggghhhhhh.” My hand continues to stroke him, feeling his cock throb again under my fingers.

Another thick white rope of white that splatters onto my chin, my neck, spurts across my breasts, trails across one nipple and I taste him in my mouth, salty, astringent, and I watch with rapt excitement as spurt after spurt of his cum continues to jet outwards in thick ropy trails, splattering thick white cream across my skin.

There is so much of it. So much. A flood that never seems to end and I stroke him hard, stroke him without thinking and I’m hypnotized, I can’t tear my eyes away even as I lick him from my lips and another jetting spurt erupts onto my skin, white bursting across olive brown, splattering thickly onto me and my hand continues to stroke him hard and fast as another spurt and then another erupts from the tip of his cock.

“Ohhhhhhh.” He groans, low and long, he shudders under my hand as he spurts again, his semen again splattering thickly on my skin. On my stomach this time.

“Ohhhhhhh.” And again, but this is smaller, there is less fluid and now my fist is coated with his white fluid and my mind catches up, blending what’s happening with those textbooks and those old Chinese books Hua and I read together.

“Oh god, Chuntao, I love you. I love you.” He collapses backwards, groaning. He’s lying on his back on the bed. His bed. Our bed. He’s lying beside me on his back, naked and my hand is still holding him and dripping and his white stuff; that must be his semen, his male emissions, his essence and it’s all over my face and my neck breasts and my stomach.

“I love you, Martin,” I breathe, my body burning and I want to touch myself and if he touched me now I would let him but he doesn’t, he lies there with one arm around me, breathing hard as I look at his semen on my skin and lick him from my lips and I almost like his taste.

“I better wash,” I say after a moment.

“Alright.” He smiles, he watches me as I walk into the small bathroom and when I glance over my shoulder, he smiles at me.

I bring him off twice more with my hand that afternoon before I must return to the school and now I know what happens when he finishes. His cock spurts semen, thick and white and hot, and the last time he does that, I lie there and rub his semen over my skin with my fingertips as he watches and I smile at the look on his face.

“I love you, Chuntao.” Those are his last words to me, outside the school gate, and I treasure them.

* * *

Hua does not return that night. She does not return until Sunday morning and she is tired, she barely talks. “I’m alright,” she says to me as she climbs into her bed. “He is gentle. I do not like it that much but at least he is gentle.”

She bathes and she is asleep when I go to play my guqin for Mr. Maynard. Hua and I study together on Sunday night, and she says nothing more of Mr. Cunningham and she does not ask me about Martin. She does not mention Monday evening either, and when she leaves our room on Monday to go to Mr. Cunningham, she is not pale and scared. She comes back late, in the darkness of the night and now I recognize that strange smell on her. It is semen, Martin’s semen had that scent as well and I say nothing but after she has bathed, I lift my quilt for her and she climbs in and she sleeps with me.

I know what she is doing and I am sorry for her but my thoughts turn to Martin even as she drops off to sleep in my arms. Martin. My love. I cannot wait for next weekend, for next Saturday when Martin will meet me again and we will go to his room and we will do those things together and I cannot wait for him to be my husband. I cannot wait to give myself completely to him.

* * *

“Chuntao.” He takes me in his arms the moment the door to our room closes behind us. His hands peel my hat and coat from me, throw them on the chair as I frantically kick my shoes off and we are undressing ourselves and each other in a fumbling confusion of hands and kisses. There is no coordination, no rhythm, only desire. I fumble at his shirt buttons, he fumbles at my qipao. He shrugs his shirt off as I unfasten his belt, then I unfasten my qipao and peel it off as he works himself free of his trousers.

His eyes widen as he sees what I wear beneath my qipao. Black lace underwear that Hua gave me. My qipao gone, that is all I am wearing and Martin’s erection is stiff and hard beneath his underwear and we are in each other’s arms and the room is cold, even with the radiators, for winter is here now and there was a little snow during the week. It is gone now, but it is still cold.

“Bed,” I gasp, and I reluctantly turn to the small shopping bag I have carried here. Inside is a sheet and I peel the quilt from the bed, hurriedly spread the sheet over the mattress and Martin helps me. He is eyeing the sheet and it is very Chinese. It’s of red silk embroidered with flowers sewn in with gold thread and I think it’s beautiful. “Flowers on a Sinful Sea,” that’s what the old women call sheets like this, red sheets and gold flowers, and I know why.

The word for flower can also refer to a woman and red, well, red implies sexual desire and love as well as many other things. As soon as that sheet is on the bed, I am on that sheet, drawing the quilt over me and Martin is there, under the quilt beside me and he has no idea of the symbolism but he sees me lying naked on that new red sheet and he is instantly erect.

“Take them off and lie on me,” I breathe, and I am wearing nothing but that flimsy underwear that Hua has given me and I want him naked. I want his weight on me. I want him to rub himself against me and finish quickly this first time, for we have all day.

He removes his underwear, devouring me with his eyes as he does so and neither of us speak. There is no need for words as he moves over me, straddling me and he is naked and hard now. Rigid, his erection firm and hot against my thighs and my sex and my lower belly and now we kiss. We kiss on and on and on and our kiss, his body on mine, his skin hot against mine, every inch of us in contact with each other, it is love and it is bliss and it is heaven and when he begins to move against me, to rub himself slowly against me, that is not heaven.
It is Paradise and I am at the gates.

His kisses, his movements on me, my little bucks up against him as his shaft rubs across my clitoris, they become more urgent. My hands urge him on, my voice encourages him, his breathing becomes harsher, his movements, his mouth, his hands, everything about him becomes more demanding and in this moment I know that if he moved to take me as a man takes a woman I would surrender myself to him, but he does not.

He groans, he shudders, that hot flooding wetness spurts over my belly and I moan myself, shuddering with my own pleasure as he gains his culmination and my love for him is endless, boundless and I cling to him, my panting hot against his ear as his culmination wracks his body, his emissions flood onto my skin and outside, it is only the morning and we have all day but even all day is not enough and how I long now for that day when I am his wife, when we will be together and the nights will be ours and he will take me as a husband should and I want that so much.

“I love you, Chuntao,” he breathes, shuddering against me. “I love you.”

“Martin… Martin… I love you,” I hear my own voice sobbing as that exquisite pleasure floods through me and I know we have hours and hours ahead of us and now we will wash and next time will be slower and I know what I am going to do. I am going to use my hand on him.

* * *

“I’m alright, Chuntao,” Hua says on Sunday morning, and she’s there in our room when I return from early morning Church service. She smells of soap and shampoo and she’s lying on her bed, curled up on her side, hugging one of her pillows and she’s pale. “I’m fine, really. I am.”

She comes to breakfast with me. She won’t talk about her night with Mr. Cunningham though, she just looks down at her plate and eats silently and I am afraid to ask. I don’t say anything to her about Martin either. I don’t want to hurt her, even though I’m elated, glowing with happiness and it’s so hard not to sing and I do want to tell her. I want to share my joy and my happiness but that would be cruel.

There’s a knock on our door. Mrs Innes walks in.

“Good morning, Hua,” she says. “The gentleman we talked about is here. Would you like to join me in my office as soon as you’re ready?” She smiles, perhaps her smile is sad. Perhaps it is meant to be reassuring. I do not know. “Wear something attractive, perhaps one of your new qipao’s?”

Hua’s face could be carved in ivory as Mrs Innes leaves. I reach for her hand, hold it and she’s shaking. She swallows hard and stands.

“Hua,” I say, confused. Concerned.

“It’s alright, Chuntao,” she says. “It’s alright,” but it’s almost as if she’s trying to persuade herself, not me. I watch her as she changes everything and the lingerie she replaces her white cotton school underwear with is made from black silk, beautiful and quite daring. More daring than the lingerie she gave me to wear for Martin and never have I imagined such lingerie as she wears now and my eyes widen. The bra she’s wearing is black, it’s transparent and I can see her breasts and her nipples through the sheer lace.

She slips into a new qipao, the cut slender, form-fitting, slit higher than normal on the sides, all the way to the hips in the style that the girls that go with men wear. The silk is thin, sheer, almost transparent; immodest and when she walks, I can glimpse her underwear. She has new high heels, very high, in the latest Modeng Girl style from Paris. She has a new handbag also, she slips a light coat on over everything and she’s standing before the mirror, applying lipstick.

Lipstick is against the school rules.

But so is everything else.

“Hua?” I say.

“I need to go, Chuntao,” she says, not looking at me.

She says nothing as she leaves our room. I say nothing, confused. She’s dressed as I imagine one would dress if one was a taxi dancer or a sing-song girl, an expensive one, and I wonder if it’s Mr. Cunningham again but she was with him overnight. And Mrs Innes asked her to join her in her office. Puzzled, I stand at our window, looking down at the courtyard.

A large black car is there.

An expensive car, a limousine and as I watch, a man leaves through the school’s front door. An older man, a white man and I don’t recognize him. It’s not Mr. Cunningham. He’s leaving with a Chinese girl in a long coat on his arm. I recognize Hua as the driver holds the door open for them. She climbs in, looking back once and her face is pale, her lips red. The white man follows her and it is not Mr. Cunningham. The driver closes the door.

I watch the limousine leave, not knowing what to think.

When I looked in her drawers, there’s another bra, identical and it’s from Paris. I read the label. Ferrero. There’s matching sheer back lace panties, transparent, concealing nothing and looking at them, I shiver and I think of Martin seeing me in these and doing what he did yesterday afternoon, his semen, his yang essence, spurted onto my skin and I want my own lingerie like this. I want to wear something like this for Martin but in my heart, I am sad for Hua and it is hard to study.

So hard, but I will be having lunch soon with Mrs Innes and Mr. Maynard and playing my guqin for Mr. Maynard and he has given me that priceless heirloom as a gift. In playing, I forget everything. I can lose myself in the music and I do as they sit and listen, the afternoon passing so quickly and I am engrossed. I have missed playing the guqin for so long and now, now I could play for hours as my fingers remember and the old tunes come back to me.

* * *

Hua returns early in the evening and this time I don’t ask but I can smell her. Sweat and cigarette smoke and that acrid smell that makes me wrinkle my nose and now I know what it is. It is a man’s essence, a man’s semen and she has not been with Mr. Cunningham. She sits on her bed and I say nothing as I run the bath for her, help her undress and she is tired.

“Wash my hair, Chuntao?” she asks when the water is ready for her, and I nod, slipping my pyjama’s off, sliding into the bathtub behind her and I wash her hair, slowly, thoroughly, rinsing it and washing it again and then I hold her as she lies back, her head resting between my breasts and she’s soaping herself, slowly, washing herself between her legs, and I notice she has no pubic hair now. It’s gone.

She sees the direction of my gaze. “Mr O’Mara likes it like that,” she says.

“Was that him today?” I ask.

“Mr. O’Mara? Yes,” she says, resting back against me as I soap her breasts and her stomach. Her firm flat stomach. Flat and firm like mine. “He is new. Mrs. Innes arranged him for me,” she says. “He will see me once a week now.”

“Are you going with Mr. Cunningham tomorrow night as well?” I ask, washing her.

She closes her eyes and her face is tired. “My father didn’t send any money for the school,” she says, and her not-answer is an answer. “Mr. Cunningham and Mr. O’Mara are both helping. They both like me. They are gentle. It was easier with him tonight than I thought it would be. He was very understanding. I agreed to an arrangement with him as well, Chuntao.” Her eyes sparkle and I know she’s trying not to cry. “I never thought I would have to do something like this, Chuntao, not with foreigners, not for money.”

“I know, Hua,” I say. “I’m so sorry, if I had any money…” But I don’t and I’m worried about myself now. It’s been far too long since I last heard from father and my own eyes sparkle as I hope that father and mother and my little brothers and sisters are safe. The news from Nanking is not good but at least I have Martin and he will look after me. I am so sure of that.

I am to be Martin’s wife.

Hua goes with Mr. Cunningham on Monday night. She goes with another man whose name she does not tell me until later on Wednesday night and then with Mr. O’Mara again on Friday. By the time next Saturday comes and it is time for me to meet Martin again, Hua has slept with three different men and as I get ready to leave on Saturday morning, I know she will be going with a different man tonight. A new man. A fourth man. She has told me this.

“I am one of those girls now, Chuntao,” she says to me sadly as she lies in her bed watching me dress. “I have brought shame on my family. If my father is alive and he hears of this, he will disown me.”

“You must live, Hua,” I tell her fiercely, taking her hands in mine. “Your family will never know. Martin…” I hesitate, I don’t know. Maybe he would help Hua if I asked but I do not know and I am afraid. English people are so strange and I am afraid to risk losing him.

“He will help you, I know,” she says, sadly. “He loves you, Chuntao. Don’t lose him. I wish I had a Martin.”

“I will help you as soon as I can,” I say, squeezing her hands. “Be strong, Hua. This is not forever.” I kneel next to her bed and hug her. Hold her.

“Thank you, sister,” she says as we hold each other, drawing strength and courage from each other, for we are alone and all we have is each other.

“Always sisters,” I say. “Whatever happens, we are always sisters, Hua.”

“Always,” she says. “Go to him now, Chuntao. I will see you on Sunday morning.” Her hands squeeze mine.

I go to Martin. I go to his room, our room, with him. The door closes behind me. We embrace. We kiss. We remove each other’s clothes. We explore each other’s bodies and I bring him off with my hand again and again as we lie together and I do not dare to ask him if he has talked of us to his family. If he has begun to make arrangements for he and I.

* * *

November, 1937. The Japanese have defeated the National Revolutionary Army after three months of fighting. It has been terrifying. There have been deaths in the International Settlement, Japanese aircraft dropped bombs, hundreds of people in the streets died, many more were injured.

At least in the American School, Hua and I are relatively safe, for the Japanese are ruthless but they won’t risk an attack on a school full of American and English girls. That is what Mrs. Innes tells us all, but I am not sure whether to believe her and it was the Chinese aircraft that dropped the bombs on the International Settlement.

Hua is sick with fear. I’m terrified, but I’m as scared for Martin as I am for myself and I dare not ask Emily. There’s nothing I can do, and with our brave Chinese soldiers retreating from Shanghai, the city becomes peaceful again. Shanghai is peaceful, but the Japanese are now advancing towards Nanking. I am sick with fear for my family. Sick with fear for Martin.

* * *

A week passes, and another, and another and a month has passed. Every Saturday morning, Martin is waiting for me at the corner outside the school. I see him, I run to him, I throw myself into his arms and around us there is disapproval. Flat stares from Chinese. Hostile looks from westerners but neither of us care for we are together and his arms are around me and I’m smiling, he’s smiling, we can’t let go of each other and we’re holding hands as we climb into a rickshaw and I give the coolie directions.

Neither of us can wait. We almost run up the stairs to his room, the door opens, closes behind us and the radiators are working, the room is warn and we are frantic with our excitement, shedding our clothes until he is naked and I am in my black lace underwear and we move together onto the bed, to lie together on that red silk sheet and our bodies move together, close, so close. His hands on me, holding me tight.

“Chuntao,” he groans. “Chuntao. I can’t stop thinking about you. All week, I think of you.”

“I do too,” I moan, arms around his neck, revelling in his hard white body against my pale ivory. “I think about you all the time.” I move, one of his legs is between mine and I hook my ankle behind his leg and move myself against him, shuddering at the exquisite pleasure that friction brings me and his hand cups my butt and holds me, helps me, moves me and I moan again.

“Chuntao,” he groans again. “Chuntao, I love you. I love you.” His movements are urgent, almost frantic and I move onto my back, drawing him with me and his leg is between mine and it seems so natural as he moves over me to part my legs wide, to draw him over me, draw him between my legs and he’s rubbing himself against me.

“Ohhhhh,” I moan. “Ohhhhhh,” and he lifts himself, his hand slides between us and cups my sex through the loose leg of my black lace underwear and it is the first time his hand has touched me there and there’s a heart stopping second of surprise at his hand on me and I’m wet. So wet and hot and his finger seems to slip inside me and I’m slippery for him.

His fingertip finds my entrance as if he’s always known where it is, it pushes and I open for him, admit his fingertip and his finger slides up inside me easily, even though I’m so tight on him.

“Ohhhhh,” I moan, my legs spread wide and he is between then, naked, his cock jutting towards me and his finger presses against the walls of my channel, touching me, exploring me and my clitoris is so sensitive as his hand brushes me. His other fingers press against my sex and I am wet on his hand, wet and moaning helplessly and his finger moves in me. His face looks down at me, eager, excited, as excited as I am.

“Ohhhhhh… ohhhhhh.” My hips judder, my legs try to part themselves wider, my hand searches for his cock, finds him, clasps him and I stroke him hard as he fingers me.

“Chuntao… Chuntao.” He groans as I stroke him. I am not caressing him. He is caressing me, I am bringing him off and after a month of this, we are beginning to know each other so well and I have a firm grip on him. He is rigid with excitement, I can feel the throbbing pulse in my hand as I slide my hand up and down his shaft and his finger slides in me, in and out and I want to hold him close, I want him so much and my sex spasms on him, squeezing his finger tight as I arch my back and I climax suddenly, that wave of pleasure surging through me unexpectedly as my body reacts to his hand on me, his finger inside me.

“It’s good, it’s really good and I’m trying to moan, trying to say something but I can’t and his cock pulses in my hand and a jet of his creamy white semen erupts from the tip, spurting through the air to land on my neck. A moment later comes a second burst, onto my breasts, followed by a third and a fourth and each of them lands lower, the last spurting onto my stomach and then he is kneeling over me, gasping and me, I am whimpering softly with his finger still inside me.

We stay like that until he eases over and lies beside me on his back and he is holding my hand now, both of us just lying there and he has touched my sex. His finger has touched me inside and it was so good and I know I will never stop him doing that to me again and another barrier between us has fallen and I smile, knowing he loves me. Knowing I love him.

Every time before, he was waited while I use the bathroom and I have waited as he does. Today, this morning, his finger inside me, his hand on my sex, that has changed things and when I slide off the bed, I stand there, looking at him as he lies there, naked. There’s no conscious thought. I stand there looking down at him and he has touched me, he is to be my husband. I am to be his wife and my hands push my lace underwear down and I step out of them and I am naked before him. Naked, and he watches me and his eyes, his face, they tell me that he loves everything that he sees and I am not ashamed or embarrassed. I revel in his eyes on me. I welcome his eyes and I smile and reach for his hand.

“Come and wash me,” I say, as his hand finds mine and he smiles and stands, he follows me as I lead him by the hand into the bathroom and turn the taps on. We step into that bathtub together, he at the back and I sit between his legs, leaning back against him in the warm water and his hands run over me, they soap me, they wash my shoulders and my arms and my breasts and my stomach and I lie against him smiling and when I am clean, I turn and kneel between his legs and wash him from head to toe, smiling as he swells and stiffens and becomes rigid under my soapy caresses.

We climb out, we dry each other. I balance myself, my hands on his shoulders, as he kneels before me and dries my legs, my butt. His lips brush my stomach, he looks up at me and I’m not shy for him. I’m not embarrassed. I’m not ashamed. He loves me and I am his. I am Martin’s and there is joy and happiness in displaying my naked beauty to his eyes.

My hands run through that beautiful blonde hair, caress his head as he drops the towel, as his hands caress my hips and thighs, as his lips brush my stomach and then, hesitantly, they slide downwards over my skin to caress my sex and at the touch, that intimacy, I shiver and gasp, my hands clutch at his head. He smiles up at me, his lips wet with my excitement and he kisses me there again and again and how does he know to do that? To excite me like that.

One of his hands is behind me, cupping my butt, the other caresses my inner thighs, sliding up and down on me and with every movement my sex is hotter and wetter and his finger has been inside me, he has touched me there and I want him to touch me there again and again and his lips kiss me there, his tongue licks me, licks across my clitoris.

“Ohhhhhhhh.” I moan, loudly, a helpless reaction to that sudden rush of sensation, that surge of pleasure as his tongue slides wetly across that little cherry of enchantment and my hips jerk, pushing me against his mouth and my hands clutch at his head, holding him to me and I almost fall with that shockwave of excitement that jolts my body, turns my insides liquid, sets my skin on fire.

“Martin,” I moan, and there is no thought in my mind of stopping him. No thought in my mind that I should not do this.

He stands, he takes me hand, he leads me back to our bed and I follow the urging of his hands as he guides me onto our bed, onto my back and for the first time I am naked, completely naked before him and he kneels over me, the look on his face says he loves me. His hands spread my legs wide, push my knees apart and back, exposing my sex to him and my heart pounds. Is he going to take me? I will not refuse him if that is what he wants and he smiles.

His hands slide upwards from my knees, they slide up my inner thighs and he spreads me wide and his head lowers, he bends forward, his lips brush my sex, his tongue licks at me and I am wet on his tongue as he explores me there, his lips sealed hard to me, his tongue sliding and probing and my hands clutch at him, my hips buck wildly and I squeal and toss my head from side to side as he presses himself against me and I cannot believe he is doing this to me. I cannot believe that he is inflicting these exquisite sensations on me.

He is licking and sucking and kissing me there as if he cannot get enough and I am so wet. My hips lift, I push myself shamelessly at his face and I know I am close. My insides clench, tighten and I am hot. Hot and wet and he is licking me and his finger finds me and enters me, easing up inside me as his lips and tongue suck and lick at my clitoris and I have no idea how he knows too do that to me and I don’t care. I don’t care and I grind myself on his face, I move against him, I offer up my sex to his mouth, my sobs and moans and soft little cries filling the room.

“Ohhhhhh,” I sob. “Ohhhhhhh,” and I climax as he sucks and licks me, my sex spasming on his finger as he twists and touches inside me and I’m arching and bucking and squirming and I have no control over my body. None at all as that golden tide washes through me and I’m riding the crest of that wave, on and on and on and it’s so good. So good and I love him and even as my shuddering pleasure begins to fade he is moving up over me.
My arms encircle his neck as he kisses me and I taste myself on his lips, on his tongue and I suck his tongue into my mouth, eager to taste myself on him and his weight is on me. Hard, he’s so hard against my stomach, against my clitoris and my legs are spread wide. He is between my legs, his muscular thighs easily spreading mine wide and I shudder with fear and anticipation for I am open to him as a woman is open to a man and he is hard. Hard and eager and I am his if he wants me.

Friction. His cock moves against me, harsh pressure and friction against my clitoris as his rigid shaft rubs against me, rubs against my skin and I shudder with pleasure. I shudder with fear, for one movement and he will be able to take me. A movement, a thrust and he will be inside me and I will no longer be a virgin and I can’t breathe as he kisses me

He groans into my mouth, he humps himself hard against me and that friction sends me over the edge even as his cock throbs against my belly and he spurts between us, hot flooding semen on my skin and he’s sliding in that wetness between us, his cock spurting again and again and almost I am disappointed that he has not yet taken me but I welcome his culmination, I welcome those hot flooding spurts. I welcome his groans of pleasure as he finishes on me.

He lies on me, looking down into my eyes and he can’t stop kissing me and I cling to him, returning those kisses, feeling that liquid wetness on my stomach, between us.

“Have you talked to you parents yet?” I ask at last, sleepy and glowingly content in the aftermath of his culmination and my own and his head rests beside mine on the pillow, his weight still on me.

“No.” He hesitates. “I’m going to, Chuntao,” he says. “It’s just, my father. He’s really against anything like this. I think I need to find a job with another hong first. I need to be able to look after you.” He kisses me again, long and slow and gentle. “I love you, Chuntao. I really love you.”

“I love you, Martin,” I say. Then, “let’s have a bath together. Let me run it.”

“Alright.” He kisses me, rolls of me and there’s a pool of sticky white fluid on my stomach and it’s all over him as well, matted into his body hair. He watches as I run my fingers through that liquid on my skin. I giggle as his cock twitches and I watch his face as my fingers massage his semen across my skin.

“You like watching me do that, don’t you?” I ask him, smiling as I run my fingers backwards and forwards through that thick white fluid. “There’s so much of it.” I giggle. “It’s only eleven,” I add. “We have six more hours before we have to leave. How many times do you think you can finish like this?”

He grins. “Let’s find out.”

Five and a half hours later I lie there, smiling happily. “That’s six,” I say, rubbing his semen over my breasts. “Half an hour left. Do you want to try for seven?”

“Yes,” he breathes, and we do try and six becomes seven and as he climaxes on me one last time, that look in his eyes, on his face, it is love and I love him so much.

* * *

The Japanese Army is fighting on the outskirts of Nanking and they have the city surrounded. Are my family there? Have they escaped? I do not know and I am sick with fear. Terrified for them. The news is horrible, I do not want to read it and not it is me that Hua holds and comforts at night when she returns. I lose myself in those Saturday’s with Martin. He is my refuge, my escape, my security. I shelter in his love, secure in his arms.

* * *

That second month passes as quickly as the first. Every Saturday I spend with Martin in his room, on that bed together, naked and I am learning about his body. The paleness of his skin, the blonde hair and I am fascinated but it. His chest hair, the hair on his legs, that thick blonde thatch of pubic hair that I run my fingers through. His musculature, the male strength of him and my fingers constantly trace his muscles, explore his body.

I learn about his sex. His testicles, his balls; large and round in their sac of skin, so sensitive and so fascinating. I hold them in my hand, again and again, tracing the outline of those egg-shaped balls beneath that soft skin, smiling at him as he watches me. His cock, for I am learning the English words now, he is teaching me and his cock fascinates me. So small and soft when he is not aroused, lengthening and thickening until it is a rigid shaft in my hand.

I learn to caress his shaft with my hand, teasing him, stroking him, using oil for lubrication, changing pressure and speed, using different grips, delaying his culmination, speeding it up. Bringing him off. He teaches me a little but my books, Hua’s and my books, they teach me more and I bring one with me, I show Martin. He is shocked, then he laughs and when I read him the sections of using one’s hand on a man, he is enthusiastic.

“I never knew there were books to teach you this,” he says, one Saturday afternoon as he lies beside me while I experiment with my fingernails, lightly scratching from his scrotum to the base of his glans, watching his cock stiffen into steely rigidity, smiling as he roans with pleasure and I am pleased. “And for girls. By Jove, Chuntao, I love China.”

I smile. “You love this Chinese girl, Martin,” I breathe, my eyes sparkling as I take hold of his shaft and begin to slowly stroke him. “Tell me you love me, Martin. Tell me everything you want to do to me.”

“Oh lord, Chuntao,” he groans. “I love you so much. I can’t wait for you to be my wife.”

“And then….?” I smile, and my hand moves faster on him.

“Then we’ll be together every night,” he groans, and his hand is on my sex, his finger is inside me and I am so wet and hot and slippery and he knows how to bring me off now. He knows my clitoris and he has learnt what to do with me and his hand brings me pleasure unimaginable.

“I want my cock to be inside you where my finger is. I want you to be mine and we will make love every night.”

“Yes,” I moan. “Oh yes, I want that. I want you in me I want to be your wife Martin. I want to give you everything and feel you in me.” My sex clasps his finger, spasms on him and I’m so sensitive to his finger inside me, his hand on me and my clitoris is swollen, so sensitive, I’m close, I’m so close and when he groans and shudders I know he is too and I stroke him faster.

“I’m there,” I moan. “Martin… oh Martin,” and I moan ecstatically, arching my back, thrusting my hips at his hand and his finger is buried inside me and my entire body quivers and vibrates as that slow wave of pleasure washes through me and my hand still pumps him and now it is his turn.

“Chuntao,” he groans. “Chuntao,” and his cock thrusts at my hand and he ejaculates wildly, his semen spurting in a great arc of white to land on my breasts.

Another spurt as my hand continues to work him, another and then another, thick white ropes arcing through the air, coating my fingers, jetting out onto my stomach, again and again, his thick white semen pooling on my olive skin from just below my neck to the base of my belly and I sigh and then I smile as he sags down beside me on the bed and I run my fingers through that thick liquid, wishing that we were already married and that this was inside me.

I am learning about my own body. My own reactions to him. My own pleasure. His hands on me. I love his hands on me. I crave his touch. Anywhere on my body is magic. My back, my hips, my waist, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, my sex, even my face. The touch of his fingers on my cheeks, my jaw, the back of my neck; that is enough to generate that heat within me, to bring that hot flushing sensitivity to my body.

His lips. I crave his lips, his mouth, kissing me. Licking me. Sucking and kissing my nipples, brushing my skin, sealed to my mouth and I offer my mouth up to him for his possession again and again, eagerly, willingly and we kiss for hours, holding each other, our bodies pressed together as tightly as if we intended to meld to each other and those kisses, even when gentle, are so full of our love and our passionate desire for each other that sometimes I think I will burst with the joy of him.

I welcome his hands on my body, caressing, touching, exploring, and my books tell me what to ask him for and he listens as I translate, he examines the illustrations with interest, he experiments with me and together we learn. I learn. He learns, and everything new is a new pleasure, a new experience. His finger inside my sex, my heated slippery wetness, my own excitement as he explores inside me, my eagerness for his finger to penetrate me, to caress me inside. His mouth on me, everywhere.

My clitoris, so sensitive and now he knows how to caress me, lick me, kiss and suck on me there. How to arouse me and bring me to my own culmination with his touches and while I enjoy my own delicate caresses, I enjoy his almost harsh male assertiveness even more. His touch brings me such happiness, such joy, such excitement and there is nothing I like more than his hand on me, that smile on his face when I knows I am about to climax and the pleasure I see as he watches me reach my culmination at his hand.

If this is love, I could die of this and he is my world. He is my everything and I miss Martin so much during the week, I miss him badly and Hua is not there with me either. Almost every night she is out now. She goes with Mr. Cunningham every Monday, there is Mr. Silver on Tuesday’s, Mr. Kaiser on Wednesdays, Mr. Bradley on Thursday’s and Mr. O’Mara on Friday’s. Sometimes she stays all night with them and I know what she is doing and how I long to do that with Martin.

Hua is never in our room with me in the evenings and I am lonely. I miss her and she never comes out with me now on Saturday’s. She rests and then she goes in the evenings with the men Mrs. Innes arranges for her and I wonder about that but I do not ask and Hua says nothing. I always hug her and then I stand at the window when she leaves in the evenings, dressed as if she’s one of those girls. Not the ones on the street but the expensive ones, the ones in the nightclubs who sell themselves to men. It’s not often the same white man on Saturdays, but it’s always white men she leaves with. Older men. Men with cars and drivers.

Men with money.

Hua returns one morning with a diamond ring on her finger. I admire it. My father deals in gold and in jewels. I know diamonds. It’s good quality. Expensive, and I say so.

“It’s nothing,” she says. “He bought me long ago,” she adds, turning away, and I understand and I am sad for her.

I notice more now. Three or four of the other Chinese girls who are also boarders, they too leave with white men. Mrs. Innes says nothing. She must know. She does know. I’ve watched, I’ve seen her beckon or summon not just Hua but Ailing, Stella, Lan. All of them are beautiful. None of them have seen or heard from their families for a long time. It never matters what time they return, what classes they miss. Mrs. Innes gives them carte blanche and I know what they are doing.

All of them leave with foreign men.

Men with big cars and drivers.

Men with much money.

Men who use girls.

That is the way it was in Shanghai. I know why they do this. You do what you have to do to survive. I say nothing, for what can I say? What can I do? Nothing, and if it were not for Martin, this would be my fate too and still I am scared, for Martin has not yet talked to his parents and I am running out even of my spending money.

* * *

“You have an appointment tonight, Hua,” Mrs. Innes says after our last class on Friday. “It’s a new gentleman, not your regular. Could you come to my office at eight?”

“Yes, Mrs. Innes,” Hua says, and she’s not pale and frightened now when Mrs. Innes talks to her. She’s had many new gentlemen over the past three months and she no longer needs my hugs, she no longer needs me to hold her before she leaves with them.

“It is like anything else,” she tells me in our room, because while she does not now need my hugs, she does not need the reassurance of my arms, she still comes to my bed after she has returned, after she has bathed. She comes to my bed and she sleeps in my arms and sometimes she still cries. She shrugs. “They all want the same thing and they are willing to pay for it.”

I want to ask what it is like, to do this not with just one man but with many because she has her regular men from Monday to Friday but on Saturday’s it is different men and now, sometimes, Mrs Innes arranges two different men for her on Saturday, one during the day and one at night and it is hard for me to imagine this. I can imagine sex with Martin. I imagine that very easily and the temptation is enormous but I restrain myself. I cannot bring shame on my family by that.

We go back to our room and tonight we bathe together as we used to. I wash Hua’s hair, soap her back. I notice she has continued to shave the hair from her sex. She sees my gaze, shrugs. “You were right, Chuntao. Men like that,” she says, as if it’s nothing.

“They do?” I say. I know Martin does. He kisses me there, now. Kisses and licks and fingers me until I climax and I like that too.

“Yes,” she says. “They do like it. All of them.” She shrugs. “There are many things men like, Chuntao and I do them, and now I do not have to worry about the money for school.” She smiles now. “I am used to what they want to do and I enjoy it now.”

“You do?” I say, wondering how it is possible to enjoy it with so many different men.

Hua giggles. She actually giggles and my heart is relieved for this is the first genuine and spontaneous happiness that she has shown since that night with Mr. Cunningham.

“I do, Chuntao,” she says, taking my hand. “Now that I am used to what they want me to do, I like it. I even like it when they put their finger in my starfish. It feels very strange but it is exciting and the men enjoy that very much too.”

“It doesn’t hurt?” I ask, curious, wondering of Martin would like to do that to me. But we have not yet done the other thing, having sex, and I think perhaps that should come first.

“No, it felt strange the first time but when you get used to it, it’s exciting,” Hua says. “Many of them like me to use my mouth on them too.” She giggles. “Men are strange, Chuntao.”

I am not sure whether or not to tell her about Martin and what he does to me with his mouth and in the end, I do not mention it. It doesn’t matter, for tonight she is eager to talk and I encourage her. I learn much from her that night, and when we are in bed, I think of Martin and I think perhaps there is no need to wait until we are married. But we will need to marry soon, I know that for my school fees have not been paid and I am running out of money and I will need his help very soon.

* * *

I have found a part-time job in the evenings. Mrs. Innes gives me permission to leave the School to work as a salesgirl. I work there three evenings a week, selling clothes to European women. The shop manager likes me because my English is so good. I make the customers happy because it’s so easy for them to explain to me and I can easily help them. The other two evenings, Tuesdays and Thursdays, Mrs Innes thinks I’m working but instead I meet Martin. He gives me money for the taxi fare.

Today, Tuesday evening, as with every other day we meet, I’m eager, my heart pounding with excitement. I pay the driver, I almost run up the stairs to Martin’s room in that building in the French Concession and I know what this room is for now. It’s for me. To bring me too. He doesn’t live here. He doesn’t sleep here. This room is to bring me too, it is only for us and every time I walk through the door with him, I’m happy that we’re together and I’m sad that he hasn’t yet taken me to meet his family but I cannot continue to ask.

I’m afraid I will scare him away. He has said he loves me. He has asked me to marry him. He has told me of his parents’ views. I cannot ask for more. I cannot risk losing this love and so, I wait, anxiously, and with every week that passes my anxiety grows.

“Do you really love me?” I ask as soon as I’m through the door and he is lying on the bed, under the quilt, already naked and waiting for me and I peel my clothes off as he lies there watching me, smiling. All my clothes and naked I fling myself onto the bed, burrowing under the quilt, burying my head against his chest, holding him tight. “You’re not just saying it?” I need that reassurance. I need that so much. It’s been three months now and he hasn’t said anything more about his parents, his family. Us.

“I love you, Chuntao,” he says, holding me so close, showering kisses on my lips, my face, my neck. “I really love you… I love you so much.”

His hands roll me into my back next to him, his lips seal themselves to mine, my mouth opens wide to him and we’re kissing, his tongue sliding into my mouth as I suck on him and I know what the books mean by sharing saliva now. My tongue reciprocates, darting into his mouth, tasting, running over his tongue, exploring inside his mouth as his tongue explores inside mine and we take it in turns and I can’t get close enough to him.

The muscles of his shoulder and his arm, my hand explores those muscles, running over his body, my other hand running through his hair as his mouth trails kisses downwards, to my breasts and I turn, offering them to his mouth to kiss, to lick, to suck on my nipples and he does, first one, then the other and I moan softly as his lips daw on one nipple, tug. His hand finds my other nipple, brushes it and it’s so swollen and firm. Rubbery, aching and when he pulls lightly on it and twists it a little I shudder and moan and arch my back and his mouth moves, taking my entire breast and enclosing it, sucking on it as his tongue swirls.

He sucks at my breast and his hand slides downwards to where I part my legs for him and he is cupping me at the juncture of my thighs where I so want his touch. Where I need his touch. His strong fingers move, they spread my labia apart and I am wet, so wetr and slippery for him as one finger pushes inwards between them and he finds what he is searching for and his fingertip pauses, pressing gently and my hips judder upwards. I want what he intends to give me but I want it now.

“Ohhhhhh.” My knees fall apart. Wide apart and I know he can feel how wet I was. How slippery wet and hot I am and we have done this before, he has been touching me here, exploring me here for weeks now. I have been naked for him many times now. I have been displayed to his eyes, I have undressed myself as he watches and I have been there for his mouth and his hands to touch and caress and explore and still embarrassment and excitement war within me before they meld into one.

“Oooohhhhhhh.” His fingertip pushes, penetrates me where I am there to be penetrated by a man and that sliding possession brings an exquisite ripple of pleasure that turns me limp. I love that sensation as he touches me inside, as his finger slides through my entrance, as he caresses me within, as his finger slowly sinks fully inside me as his mouth returns to my other breast and my hands clutch at his head.

“Ohhhhhhh.” My voice cries out again, a wordless cry of unadulterated excitement in response to the sudden heart-stopping surge of pleasure as he somehow eases a second finger inside me to join the first and he has never done that before. He stretches me. Stretches my entrance around both fingers and the stretching and the friction is exquisite surrender. My head arches backwards, my back arches, somehow I try to spread my legs wider for his hand, I try to make myself more accessible to his touch, all without any conscious thought.

“Ohhhhh.” My body knows what to do. Before Martin, I had never imagined feeling like this, never imagined that it would feel so good to feel a man’s fingers on my sex, in my sex, pressing wetly up inside me. Now I desperately want more than his finger. I want him, all of him and I shudder beneath his hand, helpless in the face of his love.
His mouth lifts from my breasts, he looks down at me now, his eyes look down into mine, looking at my face, at the expression my face wears and me, I gaze up at him, open-mouth, flushed, hips twitching as his fingers move inside me and I moan softly.

“So beautiful,” he breathes. “You’re so beautiful, Chuntao,” and his thumb strums my clitoris as if I am a musical instrument to be played. I am not a musical instrument but it does not matter, he plays my body like a virtuoso and I respond as a musical instrument responds to a virtusos’s touch.

“Martin,” I gasp as his fingers twist inside me and they twist where he enters me and my body responds. “Ohhhhh Martin …. Ohhhh …… ohhh.”

He smiles, he kisses me, his fingers slide inside me, in and out and. My fingernails dig in to his skin, my back arches, I’m breathing hard, gasping, sobbing for breath, moaning softly, feeling his fingers inside me. Feeling his fingers working higher within me. Higher. Deeper. Stretching me inside. Feeling me inside. Oh god oh god oh god his fingers are so thick it feels so good I want it I want it I want it and I moan out loud the way he makes me feel.

“Aaaaahhhhhh.” A moan of exquisite surrender as his fingers slide inside me as high as they can and he is pressed up hard against me where his hands meets my sex, crushing against me and that crushing pressure is so good. So wet. I am so wet and his fingers, two fingers in me, they are so big. Exciting. Heart-stopping and I’m quivering. His finger explore me, move inside me, ease out a little, push inwards again. That sliding push into me is so exquisitely pleasurable, stretching me and penetrating me with such delicious friction.

“Ohhhh Martin…. Martin…” It is so good. So very good. I Wet and slippery. I can feel myself clasping his fingers inside me, feel his fingers penetrating me, sliding into me it’s wonderful and I want more, as I always do now with him and I will not be satisfied until he makes me his wife and takes me as a wife should be taken.

He’s kissing me now as his fingers work on me. Kissing me hard. Kissing me possessively. Kissing me as his fingers slide and twist and touch and his thumb brushes over his clitoris and I respond as if I am a violin, my moans and cries and sobs the music that fill’s this room with sweet sound and his heavy breathing is the underlying rhythm as my body quivers and trembles on the bed and I am desperate to bring this same pleasure to him and I am wet all over his hand.

I move, I twist with his fingers inside me, I turn and my hands push him back and his fingers leave me, leave me empty but his hands seize my hips, my thigh and he pulls me over him, my knees either side of his head and he growls with his desire, a low throaty sound and I shiver for my sex is over his face where can see me. His breath slides over my skin, wafts across my clitoris and I shiver.

“Ohhhhhhh.” I squeal now as his hands grip my butt and he pulls me down firmly onto his mouth and there is no evasion. This is what he wants from me and he takes it, his mouth sealed my sex and his lips kiss mine as he would kiss my mouth, his tongue probes inwards and it would between my lips if we were kissing. His tongue tip meets my flesh, runs over me, circles my entrance and he is drinking me, consuming me hungrily and I am melting on him, my sex so wet, my inner thighs wet with the wetness of my excitement and I am all over his face.

I buck on him, away from his face, down onto his mouth, it doesn’t matter, I need to move. I can’t stop myself from moving but his hands control me, pull me back down onto his mouth and his lips seize on my clitoris, suck, tongue and it’s beyond heaven. It’s everything, it’s paradise and I moan as I cup his testicles with one hand, his cock with my other hand and my mouth engulfs his cockhead as if it is not the first time I have ever done this but I want to and my lips are halfway down his cock, his cockhead is deep in my mouth before I stop.

I feel his groan as he licks me, as his lips caress my labia and then his finger plunges into me as he licks around his penetration and I’m bucking and squealing around his cock, my mouth moving on him, sliding up and down, my tongue licking at him and everytime I swallow I can taste him in my mouth and it is that acrod astringent taste of his semen and I cannot get enough of his cock. I slide my lips down as far as I can until his cock tip brushes the back of my throat and I slide up, sucking on him until my lips find his glans and I swallow and plunge my mouth down again.

And again and again and again and his lips suck at my clitoris, his finger eases in and out, in and out and I’m flooding his face with my wetness and my sex is clutching at his finger, squeezing, clasping and I am close so close and beneath my face is hips are moving, lifting, sinking, his cock moving in my mouth and I am stroking him with my hand and I’m moaning and squirming and riding his face and it doesn’t matter what I do because he is totally in control of me and it’s there, it hits me.

“Mmmmpphhhhhh.” I moan around his cock as he plunges that second finger into my sex and my body spasms, my insides clench and dance my sex convulses on, squeezes down on him and my climax breaks. This no slow golden wave, this climax. It crashes down on me, one moment a towering presence inside me and the next it is crashing down on me, tumbling senseless pleasure fills me, sweeps me up in its embrace and a kaleidoscope of sensations, of pleasure, rush through my body as I shudder on Martin’s face.

His cock thrusts into my mouth, pauses and my body is shaking uncontrollably as his cocktip spurts is semen deep inside my mouth. I know this will happen, I have stroke him until he has climaxed many times now. I have watched as his semen spurts from the tip of his cock in those thick white jets. He has spurted his semen onto my skin, over my body so many times now and I know what is happening/

Knowing, and having him finish in my mouth, those are two different things. Entirely different things and that first spurt fills my mouth and I swallow, instantly, gulping him down, hot and acrid. Spurt after spurt onto my tongue and I seal my lips around his shaft, swallowing as he floods across my tongue, coats the insides of my mouth, my gums, my cheeks, my teeth and I swallow everything, my hand holding him, sucking gently as those spurts die away, as my sex spasms against his mouth, as his fingers ease slowly from me and neither of us speak.

I lie on him, limp now, my sex on his face and his cock slips from my mouth. I rest my face on him, his cock softening and shrinking before my eyes and I’m glowing, content, happy. Happier still when his hands lift me, when he turns and holds me and we lie together.

“Have you talked to your parents,” I whisper, long afterwards, and my heart is beating so fast, my face buried into his shoulder and I’m glowing but I can’t look at him, I can’t.

“Yes,” he says, and his hand strokes my back. I cling to him, daring to hope and he moves, rolling me onto my back, looking down at me, one arm around my shoulders, his other on my stomach, unmoving and his face is so serious and my heart sinks. “Yes, my mother’s been trying to arrange for me to see an English girl and I told her I couldn’t. I told her there was another girl, a Chinese girl from a very respectable family whom I was seeing and…” He swallows and my heart does sink.

“Mother did not approve, she talked about my career being destroyed and Father’s effort getting me into Jardines being thrown away. We argued about it, Chuntao, but my mother is at least a little open-minded. She didn’t say no. She said she’d like to meet you before she talks to Father, and she wishes to talk to Father before I mention anything to him.”

His hand strokes my cheek, his fingers are trembling against my skin and he is nervous now. He swallows, his look so serious. “I’m asking around to see where I could work, Chuntao. I can’t stay at Jardines and marry you, they will send me away to prevent us being together.”

“Martin,” I say, and I turn and cling to him, bury my face in his shoulder, breathing in his scent and I know I have to say this, even though it might break my heart. “I love you so much but I do not want to destroy your career. I have heard what they do to Englishmen who marry Chinese girls.” There are tears in my eyes now, I must choke back the sobs but there is that sick terror inside me. That terror, that fear of losing him. Of losing my love.

“It will be very hard for you, Martin, if you marry me.” Now I do sob and my tears are wet on my face. On his chest. “You must not do this if it will be too hard for you Martin. It is not so hard for me. Girls are not important to our families but for you it will be so hard.” My tears choke me. “I am so sorry to do this to you, Martin. To make you face this choice. If it is too hard for you, leave me now.” My body shakes with my tears.

“Chuntao,” he breathes, and his kisses rain down on my head, my ears. His arms encloses me, he presses himself against me. His other hand holds my head, holds me close to him. “Chuntao, I love you, you silly girl. I love you so much and nothing, nothing will tear us apart. Please Chuntao, please don’t cry. I love you. I love you so much and we’re going to marry each other, Chuntao. We will.”

He takes a deep breath and he is almost crushing me and I welcome his crushing embrace. I cling to him so tightly and I never want to let him go.

“There are Chinese companies who employ Europeans,” he says. “I have asked, I can take a job with them.”

“It will not be the same as Jardines,” I say, but my heart is once more filled with hope.

“It won’t,” he says. “But to be with you, Chuntao, for us to be together, for you to be my wife, I’ll do what I have to do and I will never regret it. Never, Chuntao.”

“I don’t want you to regret it, Martin,” I say, but I’m smiling through those tears.

“Maybe we should go somewhere away from here,” he says. “Malaya or Borneo or Burma. We can’t go back to England or the Colonies. It has to be somewhere where there are Chinese, where they will accept us at least.”

“Can we not stay here?” I ask. Shanghai at least is familiar and Malaya or Borneo or Burma, they are far from my family. So far and if we went there together, I would have to give up all hope of seeing them again. They would never know what happened to me and how I hope they are safe. That they escaped from Nanking and the stories from there are awful. Sickening, and my heart sinks as it is filled with range and anger at the evil of the Japanese invaders.

“I love you so much,” he says, and his finger tilts my face up. His kisses dry my tears and I must look after myself, I know that. My family are gone, I have not heard from them in a year and a half now and I can do nothing for them. My life must now be with Martin.

“I will go with you anywhere,” I say and we lie in each other’s arms talking of our future until it is time for me to return to the school.

* * *

Hua leaves on Wednesday evening with Mr. Kaiser. It is his night, he is German and always laughing and Hua has told me about him. He is not demanding, he takes her to a club, they dance, he takes her to a hotel room and he makes love to her once and he brings her back to the school, not too late. On Thursday it is Mr. Bradley and we leave together. She with him and I in a rickshaw for Martin’s room and he arrives at the same time.

He sees me, he takes my hand in his, he is smiling and he cannot wait to tell me.

“My mother,” he says, smiling. “She will meet you and I for morning tea, at the Cathay.”

“She will?” I say, and I am abruptly terrified, for the Cathay is the best hotel in Shanghai. The most exclusive, and while Chinese are admitted, it is only the wealthy Chinese.

“My mother meets her friends there for morning tea weekly,” Martin says. “They know her and I have gone there often with mother. You will be coming with me, Chuntao.”

“Yes,” I say, and already I am wondering what I should wear. Should I dress in the western style or in a qipao? I have no idea but I can ask Mrs Innes. Or perhaps Mr. Maynard. He has been good to me. I must do everything correctly. I cannot embarrass Martin. His mother has agreed to meet me and I cannot let him down.

“It will be alright, Chuntao,” Martin says. “I’ll be there with you.”

I want to believe he’s right. I want to believe that so much but my heart palpitates, I feel faint for these are words I have hoped for so long to hear. Now that they have been spoken, now that I am to meet his mother, I am terrified. Terrified and elated, for this is the first step to his family accepting me and still I do not think that they will, for he is English and I am Chinese.

“Martin?” I stop on the first landing and I’ve been walking with him, into the building, up the stairs, all without noticing.

“Yes?” He takes both my hands in his.

“Will they? Do you think they will?”

He knows what I mean, I read his face and he’s not sure. “I hope so, Chuntao,” he says. “But it doesn’t matter if they don’t. I will marry you whatever they think. Whether they agree or not.” He hesitates. “But I would like to have their blessing for our marriage. For you as well as for me.”

My eyes water, I fling my arms around his neck, bury my face against his shoulder and it is always when we are standing that I realize how tall he is. The top of my head barely brushes his chin and I must tilt my face up to look at him. He means to go through with this, he really does and I love him.

“Come,” I say, taking his hand in mine and now it is me that leads him up the stairs. It is me that opens the door to our room and leads him inside and our bed is waiting. Our red silk sheet with the embroidered gold flowers is waiting and I slip my boots off, hang my coat and my hat beside his for it is winter outside. It is cold and there is snow in the air but our room is warm, the windows are shut, the curtains that Martin bought cover the windows, there are rugs on the floor now and our room is warm and cozy.

“Let me,” I say, and he does. I remove his jacket, his tie, hang them carefully, smiling at him, taking my time for his arousal is evident, a heart bulge confined within his trousers that brings a heated tingling to my body. I unbutton his shirt, slowly, button by button, trailing kisses across his biceps as I peel it down and off each arm. His undershirt comes next, discarded with more haste for I am eager to kneel before him now and I’m sinking to my knees on the rug before him.

My hands unfasten his belt, work his trousers down, his erection bulges from within the confines of his underpants and I cannot resist brushing my lips across that bulge as I work his trousers down, removing them as he steps out of them, removing his socks one by one and his cock is swelling inside it’s covering and my heart pounds. I love watching him engorge, hardening to a steel rigidity before my eyes and under my fingers and my hand slides down over his stomach to the elastic waist of us underpants.

I work them down, slowly, easing them outwards to reveal the swollen head of his cock, so hard that his foreskin is already drawn back, the head exposed and I kiss the tip, a quick brush of my lips. His hands brush through my hair, my silky black hair that I know he loves and I smile, drawing his underpants down his thighs to his knees and now he steps out of them. Now my hands are free and I cup his balls, I take his cock in a light clasp and I begin to stroke him with my fingers and he is, he’s a steel bar under my touch.

“I love you, Chuntao,” he says, and his voice is soft and gentle and we are meeting his mother in two weeks and I think I know how much I am costing him, how upsetting this must be for his mother but I love him enough that I will put him to the test, and his family as well and he must love me so much to do that. To risk everything, his career, his family, his friends, all of that he is risking for my love and my love alone and I love him all the more for that commitment.

How can I offer him any less and I smile and I kiss the tip of his cock. My tongue flickers out, I lick him, I lick across the bulging purple head and I continue to stroke him and he’s not just steel. He’s swelling under my fingers, harder still and I run my fingernails up and down his shaft, feeling the silk of his skin move on the hard underlying shaft and I’m not teasing him at all. Veins strain under his skin and I can’t wait to take him in my mouth again.

I’m going to suck on him until he finishes in my mouth like on Tuesday night and I intend to swallow everything when he finishes and I’m already so wet and slippery thinking about his mouth on me and I squeeze me knees together hard as I stroke him slowly and slide my tongue over him.

“You’re beautiful,” I say, my lips brushing his shaft. At least, I think he is. He’s thick and those blue veins stand out beneath the skin of his shaft. He must be seven or eight inches long and I almost giggle as I think about measuring him. It really is big and it’s supposed to go inside me? I’m so small. How could something that big possibly fit inside me? I’m tight for two of his fingers and this thing I’m stroking is waaaaay bigger than two of my fingers. My sex does a little dance at the though.

His smile warms me. “Do you like it?”

“Mmmmm, I do.” I kiss the tip, I lick it. I’m going to slide my mouth over him but his hands hold my head.

“I want to undress you now,” he says, and he takes my hands in his, half lifts me to my feet and I smile because he likes undressing me. He enjoys that and it is winter, there is much to remove. He unbuttons the light black woollen jacket I wore beneath my coat, hangs it up for me after I have shrugged it off and I smile, watching him move, the muscles flowing beneath his smooth pale skin.

His hands unbutton my cream blouse, for I work in a clothing shop selling clothes to western women and Modeng girls on Monday’s, Wednesday’s and Friday’s and the Manager has let me wear some of their clothes. She has told me I can have anything I like at cost.

“You’re an advertisement all by yourself, Chuntao,” she had said last week and I hope she doesn’t ask me to stand and model clothes in the shop window. This suit I am wearing is a Shanghai copy of Coco Chanel, impossible to tell from the original and this one I have bought. It has cost me two weeks of my pay and that is money I cannot afford but it is an investment in our future together and worth every dollar because I plan to wear it when we meet Martin’s mother in two weeks.

“Do you like it?” I ask Martin, twirling for him, basking in his admiration and desire.

“I do,” he says. “That’s perfect for meeting my mother in two weeks’ time.”

I smile, standing still for him to remove my blouse and I am wearing a bra like that one Hua bought. She told me where she bought it and she persuaded one of her men to buy some more lingerie for her, Denise Ferrero, and it’s beautiful. We went to that shop together and exchanged the bra’s bought for Hua for smaller ones that fit me.

“By Jove, Chuntao,” he breathes, and he’s standing there with my blouse in his hand, admiring my bra. Or is it perhaps my breasts in that transparent black Ferrero bra. “By Jove, that’s…”

He’s speechless and I smile. This bra has achieved its desired effect. “Would you like to take it off?” I ask him, turning my back to him and he takes me in his arms from behind, kissing the top of my head as his hands caress my breasts through that transparent lace.

“No,” he says fervently. “Leave it on.”

His hands unfasten by skirt, he kneels, eases it down off my hips, holds it as I step out of it, one hand on his shoulder and he places it carefully on the chair before he turns back to me and his hands caress my hips, my thighs as his eyes drink in my black silk and lace French knickers and his hands run up inside the loose legs.
“I’m going to take these off though,” he says, and he does, easing them down, exposing my sex and as always his eyes on me there bring a flood of excitement and I would moan out loud of I did not bite my bottom lip. Instead, I whine and shiver with repressed excitement, my insides tightening and I can’t wait but I have to. I have to wait and I stand there, trembling and saliva floods my mouth as I thing of his cock, of his semen flooding into my mouth.

His lips brush my sex, he looks up at me. “You’re beautiful,” he breathes and his lips brush me again and I want him to kiss me there again but he doesn’t. He stands and he walks me backwards towards the bed and he smiles and he lifts me easily, one hand under my butt, the other behind my back and my legs curl around his waist as he kneels on the edge of the bed.

He smiles and now he’s easing me over onto my back, he’s looking down at me and I like that and on my back, with him kneeling between my legs, I reach down between us and I clasp his cock. He’s looking down at my bra. Under his gaze my nipple swells and hardens but he’s supporting his weight on both arms. I cup one breast with my own hand, brush my own thumb gently backwards and forwards. His face lowers to mine, his lips find mine, he’s kissing me. Gentle, tender, loving kisses and my mouth opens to him, my lips are sealed to his as his tongue possesses me.

I want his hand on my sex. I want him to touch me there, finger me.

He’s steely hard in my hand and now one of his hands is on my knee, urging my legs a little apart before sliding to the inside of my thigh, caressing me gently so that my hips jerk, working upwards. I want to squeeze my thighs together where his hand is brushing my skin and at the same time I want to spread my legs wide for him and I’m shivering and breathing hard. His fingers stroking my inner thighs are so good and I’m so wet again and his mouth seals itself to mine.

His hand slides higher and I welcome is touch, he’s cupping my sex and I’m so easy for him this time. I know what to expect and I know what I want and his fingertip finds me, pushes, slips inside me so easily as I open for him and suddenly my hips are jerking eagerly against his hand as he fingers me wetly. I’m limp before him, I’ve let go of his cock, both my arms are above my head now and I don’t know how they got there. They’re resting on the red silk sheet and I’m there for him as his finger explores where I’m so wet and tight around him.

His finger eases from me. He’s moving down, he’s spreading my legs wide, both his hands on my inner thighs, spreading my legs wide apart and I love now that I’m so exposed to his eyes. I love that he can see everything and it’s so exciting to show myself to him like this. I know he can see me. He can see everything because he’s pushed my legs apart and back and his breath puffs across me there and I want to moan but instead I just stare at the ceiling and gasp. I reach down with both of my hands, I stroke the top of his head as I lie there.

His finger isn’t in me anymore but he’s kissing me there, licking me and my labia swell and part for his tongue and hips lips like the petals of a flower exposed to the morning sun and I love his mouth on me. I love his lips and his tongue exploring my sex, tasting me, his lips sealed to me there as they were sealed to my mouth and his hands push my legs so much wider apart and even further back and I’m so completely exposed to him, to his mouth, to his tongue.

He’s kissing and licking and lapping and his tongue pushes at me, the tip is pushing inside me and I’m gasping and I want to see what he’s doing to me but I can’t lift myself and I try and spread my legs wider for him but that’s hard because his hands have already spread me almost to the limits of my flexibility. His mouth lifts from me, he looks up, he smiles and his lips shine with my wetness. His hands press my legs back and apart and he looks down at me.

“Do you like looking at me?” I whisper, heart pounding.

He says nothing, his reply is a hot smile and his mouth lowering to me, his eyes rolling up to watch me as his lips brush me. I see his tongue slip out, he licks me. I feel his tongue on me, see and feel his lips, his mouth. He groans, a low sound that reverberates through me and I watch as his mouth works over me. I can see the little bud of my clitoris when his mouth isn’t there, and then his tongue slides over it and I’m shivering and his tongue lashes my clitoris and he knows exactly what he’s doing. His tongue is tracing circles around my clitoris, fast, ecstatic and I know what’s going to happen.

It’s happening. It’s uncontrollable and in an instant I’m climaxing wildly, my hand suddenly holding his head, holding him against me and watching him do this to me and I’m squealing and moaning and sobbing as that golden pleasure washes through me yet again and this time I’m stunned. So quickly. He’s brought me to another climax just like that and …. “Martin … Martin …,” I moan, still watching him. Watching myself and his mouth on me.

His tongue laps at me unceasingly. I shudder. My hands pull at his head as he sucks on my clitoris, as he strokes it with the tip of his tongue, as he sucks on it again and I’m shuddering with pleasure, falling from one peak only to begin to rise towards another without any pause. He moves up over me, he’s kissing me, my arms around his neck as his mouth possesses mine and I can taste myself on his lips, on his tongue.

He’s kissing me hard, his hand cups me, his fingers explore me again and now I’m liquid with excitement, my labia so swollen, open for him, my entrance accepting his finger easily, eagerly, as he pushes his fingertip through.

“Uhhhh.” I gasp. It’s so good to feel his finger there and with my legs drawn back, wide open to him, somehow it’s even better.

“Ohhhhhh.” My back arches, I look up at him wide-eyed as his finger eases back and he inserts two fingers into me. Two fingers that gently slide all the way up inside me until his hand is pressed firmly against me, his fingers moving inside me, caressing the inner walls of my channel. He eases his fingers outwards until only the tips remains inside me, pushes inwards again and lying beneath him, with him kneeling between his legs, my own legs spread so wide, his fingers sliding into me are so good that my back arches again and I sob my excitement.

“Chuntao,” he breathes and his eyes are look into mine and I know he loves me. He loves to bring me pleasure, he loves it when I am so excited by what he does to me.

“Yes,” I sob, “yes yes yes.” I like it. I don’t want him to stop. That exquisite friction as his fingers slide inwards where my entrance circles him, the slide of his fingers against the sensitive membranes of my labia, his fingers inside me, pressing against the inner walls of my channel where I clasp him, delicious sliding friction as he moves in me, in and out of me.

“Ohhhhh yes.” My back arches as his fingers embed themselves completely in me. “Oh yes, Martin… I love you… I love you, Martin.”

He smiles, his nose brushes mine, his lips brush mine, my lips part, my mouth anticipates his kiss, my lips eagerly seek his kiss. Our lips brush and brush and brush again, his tongue slips into my mouth. His mouth seals itself to mine, his tongue searches for mine, finds it, caresses and vines with mine. His fingers eases outwards and beneath him I shudder. He pauses, only his fingertips inside me and I want it, I want his fingers sliding back into me.

“Please,” I moan, “oh please.” I want his fingers so badly and it’s so good to surrender myself to him, to feel his fingers inside me, exploring, moving, and taking what he wants from me. In the silence of our room I can hear the wet noises my sex is making around his fingers.

“Uuuuuughhhhhh … nnnhhhhh …. oohhhh …. uughhhh.” They’re easing in and out and I can’t help the noises I make as somehow he brushes my clitoris at the same time and I want to tell him I love him but no words come from my mouth, only those small excited sounds.

“Chuntao…” he groans. “Oh, Chuntao, darling. I can’t wait for you to be my wife. I want you… I want you so much… I want you to be mine. Mine forever.”

“Yes,” I sob, “yes…. yes.” I’d like that too. I want to be his, I want to be his forever. I want to be his wife and I can’t wait and his fingers are so good in me. Another minute of this and I’ll be climaxing on his fingers and then I’ll give him that blowjob and suck on him until he cums in my mouth and I want to swallow it all. I want to swallow everything.

“I want…,” I gasp, between those kisses, between those sliding strokes of his fingers inside me, “I want…” He kisses me again and again and I’m so slippery on his fingers and he’s kissing me so hard again, his tongue plunging deep into my mouth and his fingers are plunging deep into my sex, sliding in, sliding out.

“Martin…” I gasp again as his fingers ease completely out of me just as my excitement begins to crest and I desperately want his fingers back, I’m so close and I want what he is bringing me too and I draw my knees back. “Martin … please … I want…”

“I want you, Chuntao,” he breathes, his lips across my face and he has one hand between his, and his legs move, they push my thighs back even further, wider apart, his hand is doing something between us and something big, much bigger than his fingertip, has slipped between my labia, it’s pushing at my entrance.

Pushing firmly. Pushing hard. I’m so wet, so excited, my heart almost stops as my entrance stretches and stretches and I’m opening for him and it’s not his fingers.

“I want you, Chuntao,” he breathes, looking down into my eyes. “I want you,” and his cockhead pushes against me, pressing against my entrance where I know he can slide inside me. There’s no time for thought, no time to react, no time to say even one word as his mouth seals itself mine.

“Uuuuhhhhhh,” I groans, back arching and he’s pushing hard and I know what he’s doing and I’m startled, shocked, surprised and there’s this black hole inside me as I realize what’s happening, what he’s doing and I shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, not until we’re married, not until….

“Nnnnnuuaaaaahhhhh.” I jerk beneath him as he pushes through my entrance. His cockhead is abruptly inside me. His hands have found mine and now he’s pinning them to the bed above my head and my heart goes wild as I experience him inside me, his cockhead stretching me around him, moving just a little, sliding inside me and its enormous and it’s so hard and my back is arching upwards and oh it’s so big it’s so big it’s so big and I’m so stretched around his thickness where he’s entered me.

“I love you, Chuntao,” he breathes, and he’s moving into me, pushing into me. I stretch inside for him, that huge plum-sized cock-head stretches the walls of my channel remorselessly as he pushes a little further up inside me.

“Martin,” I choke out, my knees clutching at his ribs, my hands clutching at his and he is taking me. He is taking me as a man takes his wife except I am not his wife and he’s inside me, he’s moving and it doesn’t hurt. It’s feels good, it feels so good and I look up at him, wide-eyed, my breath coming in gasps that are timed to his slight movements inside me.

“I love you, Martin,” I moan, my back arching a little, my feet resting on his butt as he lifts himself and I am open, open and exposed and vulnerable to him

“I want you, Chuntao,” he groans, easing back until only the head of his cock is inside me and he pauses, my entrance clamped around his girth and I am shuddering. Scared. Eager. Wanting. Not wanting. Uncertain.

“I love you, Martin,” I moan again. “I love you.” I can’t say no to him, not now.

I love him too much and this is so good. So much better than his fingers and I want to give myself to him completely. I want him to take me as a man takes his wife and I will be his wife. Soon we will be married and I remember what Hua said, that my first time should be with someone I loved and I love Martin, I do. I love him so much and I want to be his, I want to surrender myself to him, I want him to possess me and do with me as a husband does to his wife and we will be married soon.

I will be his wife soon.

“I want you, Chuntao,” he groans, not moving.

“Take me,” I moan. “I love you, Martin.”

“I love you, Chuntai,” he breathes again and he moves, he’s pushing inwards, his cockhead thrusting inwards against the resistance of my channel and I’m so wet and slippery on him as he pushes into me and I’m so stretched around him where his cockshaft is sliding through my entrance, my labia are stretched around him and it stretches and fills me inside and he’s big and hard and I didn’t expect it to feel like this at all.

“Hhhuuuunnnnhhhhhh.” My groan is long and low as I arch beneath him again, beads of sweat breaking out across my forehead. No, I didn’t expect this, I didn’t expect this at all and his cock, it’s inside me, he’s pushing into me and I like it. I like it so much and I want it all in me.

“Chuntao,” he breathes. “Chuntao,” and he’s kissing me, his cock is easing back and he’s pushing inwards again and my hands clutch at his where he pins them to the bed above my head and I look up at his face and I see his expression and his eyes looking into mine and he wants me.

I know he wants me so much and I can see the love and the desire for me there and how can I stop him? I don’t want to stop him, I want him to take me, to do this to me and I’ve wanted this for weeks and I’ve been scared and afraid but now it’s happening and I don’t care that we’re not yet married. We will be and he wants me and he’s doing this to me and he loves me and I love him.

He’s moving. He doesn’t stop moving. He’s thrusting, pushing inwards, easing himself back, pushing into me and inside, my channel is opening to him, stretching around him and I’m helpless beneath him. Helpless and his weight pins me, his legs spread me and hold me wide open for him to take. His cock thrusts in and out where we join, sliding in and out without surcease, working its way deeper and deeper into me and I feel his every movement.

He’s pressing into me, he’s stretching me and his cockhead is this enormous presence deeper and deeper inside me, shaping me inside to meet his need, he’s pressing inwards at the juncture of my thighs where I’m stretched like a rubber band around him and I want it. I want him. I want to be Martin’s.

“Chuntao …. Chuntao …,” he groans as his cock works its way up inside me, deeper and deeper, in and out and his hands keep a firm hold on mine and I arch and move beneath him now, knowing what is happening and he’s taking me, he’s intent on making love to me and now I don’t want him to stop either. I want him. I want him to take me completely and if I am not yet his wife, I will be a woman for him. His woman and he will make me his wife and I love him so.

“Aaaaahhhhh… ooohhhhhh….uuuuhhhhhh.” My moans and cries and groans are intermingled with his groans and of enjoyment and he doesn’t stop, there’s no surcease from his taking of me and now that it’s happening I don’t want him to stop. I want this. He’s taken my virginity and I want him to take me completely. I want to surrender myself to him. I want him to make me his completely. I want him to make love to me and now he is.

“Chuntao …. Chuntao,” he groans as he moves inside me.

“Ohhhhh,” I sob. “Ohhhhhh.” How much more of his cock is there? It’s enormous inside me but with every movement of his body, there’s still more of him easing up deeper inside me and I’m in a daze. Just how much more of him there is? How much more of him can I take and he thrusts into me again and again, sliding up inside me in long slow movements that fill me.

Again and again his cock slides up inside me. My entrance clasps him in a tight embrace as he penetrates me, my labia are stretched around him, the girth of his cock far exceeds those two fingers of his and I’m so stretched around him where he joins me at the juncture of my thighs. My knees clutch at his ribs, my heels continue to bounce against his hips with his every movement and I’m so aware of how my body is completely at his mercy. I’m positioned for him to take, his body on mine has me where he wants me and I’m helpless to do anything other than what I’m already doing and I know what I am doing.

I am giving up to Martin what a wife gives u[ to her husband. My love, my virginity and my body. He has them all. They are my offering to my love and he has accepted that offering, he has accepted all that I have to give and knowing that, I abandon myself to him without restraint. I am his. All his.

“Chuntao,” he groans, “Chuntao, I love you. I love you.” His cock slides up inside me once more, he’s almost all inside me and he knows it, I can see his expression, he wants all of me, he wants everything and he pushes against that residual resistance deep inside me and I feel him surge that last inch up inside me.

“Hhhuunnuhh.” I groan, quivering, surrendering myself completely to him and he is pressed up hard against me. His pelvic mound grinds against my exposed and vulnerable sex, an intimate contact that makes me so aware that all of his length is in me. He’s all the way inside me. I have all of his cock inside me and he reaches halfway to my heart. His balls brush my butt and even that light touch I feel and I’ve never felt so in love with him and now I know what love truly is

It is to be one, completely and with his love, with his body on mine, with his length inside me, I am one with him and his eyes share that knowledge. They share that love and that joy.

“Chuntao,” he breathes my name. “Chuntao.” He does not need to say anything further.

“Martin,” I moan. “Martin.”

Our lips brush, we kiss. He does not move, he holds himself still and my sex clasps him, his length is within me and I feel him everywhere and I am so aware that of his cock is fully sheathed within me. His body is on mine, he possesses me, he’s pressed up hard against me where we join and now, our bodies joined but still, his balls brush my butt as his cock fills me inside. Both of us are panting, I’m sweating, a sheen of sweat covers my body everywhere and the pressure inside me is so intense where he fills me.

“Ohhhhhhh.” My sex spasms around him, contracts on him, squeezes him as my body adapts to this invasion of my virgin body by his hard male flesh.

I look up at his face above mine, his weight is on me, his hands pin mine to the bed, his body pins mine beneath his. His thighs spread me wide for him to take, his weight holds me in place, his chest presses down against my breasts, his mouth possesses mine whenever he wants to kiss me. I’m his now, he’s made me his, he’s taken me, he’s taken my virginity and he will make love to me and now I so want him to complete this act. I so want him to make love to me.

“Ohhhhhh,” I moan again, my sex dancing on him, my body juddering beneath his and I am his. He has taken my virginity and we are not married. It doesn’t matter, we will marry. He has asked me to marry him and my knees clutch at his ribs and my thoughts are chaotic, my mind is focused on him, on his body over mine, in mine.

“Are you alright, Chuntao?” he whispers, kissing me so gently, so tenderly.

“Yes,” I moan. “Don’t stop.” And I’m kissing him back. Kissing is something I can do without thought and all my mind is focused on what he feels like inside me. I’ve never experienced anything like this feeling, this rigid length that fills me inside and I can feel him all the way up within my body. He’s rigid, he’s long, he’s thick and he’s inside my body. It’s like somebody has taken something large and hard and impaled me with it and there’s no escape from this and it’s so strange.
That’s not all that’s so strange and new. It’s his body on mine, his weight I’m naked and he’s naked and he’s on me and it’s the way he’s spread my legs so wide, so far back so that I’m wide open, so vulnerable, so helpless. I’ve never felt like this. It’s like I’m surrendering. I am, I have surrendered and the way he holds my hands accentuates that surrender. My legs are drawn so far back, I’m spread wide, the most intimate part of my body is exposed and vulnerable and positioned so that I’m vulnerable to him and his cock enters me at that most vulnerable part of my body.

Enters me and impales me.

We’re joined there, at the juncture of my thighs. The rigid length of his cock penetrates me, stretches me around him and he’s inside me, he’s pressed up against me. His face looks down into mine, the hard muscles of his body dominate my softness, his size overpowers me. I’m his. I’m Martin’s.

He’s making love to me and I love him.

“Martin,” I breathe. He kisses me, he continues to kiss me as I lie beneath him and there’s this exquisite fullness that’s on the verge of being uncomfortable but isn’t and I know he’s going to make love to me and now I love him and I can’t stop my smile as I look up into his eyes.

His hands release mine, one of his arms slides under my neck, his other hand brushes me hair back from my forehead as he looks down at me. “Chuntao,” he breathes, and his kisses are magic, “are you okay?”

“I can feel you all the way up inside me,” I gasp. My hands move, rest on his side. “It feels so strange, Martin.” I bite my bottom lip, gasp as my channel spasms on him. He’s so big in me. Are all men this big? It doesn’t matter. There is only Martin for me. There will only ever be Martin now.

He smiles. “Chuntao.” He kisses me. “You’re so beautiful and I love you so much.” His kisses go on and on and my mouth is wide open to him and my body is his and he’s inside me and he’s going to make love to me and I know I’m going to be so completely his and it’s wonderful and I’m glowing and his cock is so big and hard and it’s inside me. All of him is inside me and I am his.

At last he lifts his mouth from mine. “I want to move in you.”

“Slowly,” I gasp. “You’re so big.”

His nose brushes mine, his lips brush mine. His muscles tense, his body tenses against mine and he’s moving slowly, his cock moves inside me, sliding, gentle in and out movements that hold me enthralled now. It doesn’t hurt. It feels strange to have him moving like that within me but it’s good and I’m smiling and gasping with every sliding movement.

“It’s so big,” I groan as he moves in me. He’s easing back until half is cock is out of me before easing back in again and the friction when he slides himself in and out of me is exquisite, holding me spellbound.

“It’s so big,” I moan, again, as he pauses with all of him inside me. I can feel every inch of him, all the way from where he presses hard up against me to his swollen cockhead that feels so big where it’s holding still, stretching me around it, all the way up inside me and he feels impossibly far up in me. I’m taking all of him and it seems impossible but I am and how does all of him fit in me?

“Do you like it, Chuntao?” he smiles.

“Yes,” I moan as he eases outwards. “Oh yes … yes…” as he eases inwards. “I love you.”

“Uuuhhhhh,” as he fills me, pressing hard into me. He’s making love to me and it’s so good.

“Oh god, Chuntao, I love you. I love you,” he groans and he’s moving faster, easing out of me and I want him back in me. I want all of him in me.

“Ohhhhhhh.” He draws his length back until only the head of his cock remains inside me. My hands stroke his shoulders, his arms, my knees brush his ribs, my feet slides across his hips as he lifts.

“You’re mine,” he groans, holding himself still. “You’re all mine.” He kisses me and he moves in me, long slow thrust that doesn’t stop until all of him is inside me and my groan is long and slow and my feet lift into the air and I’m so open to him and I shudder with the pleasure of that thrust and now he’s moving steadily. Gently but steadily, not pausing, his cock moves in and out of me, slow thick surges up deep inside me again and again.

I’m not thinking. I’ve read all thise books and I have no idea what to do but it doesn’t matter at all because he’s doing it to me and there’s nothing I need to do except lie here and cling to him and I exalt in his love for me and in my love for him and we’re making love and my heart threatens to burst with joy and we have eyes only for each other and I could drown in those eyes as he takes me, as he makes me his, as he moves inside me, harder and harder and I know this excitement.

“Chuntao,” he groans, “Chuntao, Chuntao … my beautiful Chuntao, I love you, I love you, I love you….” He does and he’s making love to me and he’s tender and he’s gentle and this is love. He eases into me again and again, slowly sliding his cock up inside me and my excitement is growing with every movement and I’m moaning, I’m sobbing, I’m crying out with my excitement as he makes love to me

“Chuntao,” he groans. “I love you Chuntao.”

“Martin,” I moan. “I love you… I love you.”

I do and I’m clinging to him, my heels dance on the small of his back. I draw my knees back as far as I can, I open myself to him as completely as I can and I want to give him all of me, as much as he can take and when I do that his cock seems to somehow sink a little deeper inside me and he pushes up against something inside me. I’m so full. He’s so big, so hard and he’s swelling inside me, he’s moving a little harder and my own pleasure and excitement is rising, sweeping me up and carrying me.

“Yes,” he groans, “Oh yes, Chuntao …. Yes…” and I know he’s close and now every thrust of his cock into me reverberates through my body and this is harder, he’s losing his control and I welcome that loss, I want him to satisfy himself, I want him to reach his culmination.

“Martin,” I sob, clinging to him, quivering and juddering beneath him as he has me. “Martin …. Martin….” And I want to say more but I have no words. I have no mind. I am his and he is taking me and now he’s lost control. He’s holding me tight and his cock slams into me and I’m helpless, there’s nothing for me to do but take him and I’m there for him and I’m almost climaxing … almost .. almost ….

“Oh yes yes yes yes … I love you Chuntao … love you … love you … oh Chuntao …. Chuntao …”

It’s closer … it’s getting closer and I want it … I want it so much … and his cock thrusts so deep and so hard and I want to scream, I want to cry out, I want to tell him what I’m feeling and that I love him and I want him but I can’t. I can’t. All I can do is sob and gasp and moan and cling to him, be there for him, give myself to him and I do. I do. I’m his and I can’t do anything except give myseld to him and it’s so good, it’s everything and that tidal wave is building within me. Higher …. Higher … almost…. Almost.

“Aaahh …. aaahhh … ooohhh …uughhh… aaaahhh.” I groan now, I clutch at his shoulders, my feet are bouncing off the small of his back, his thrusts are hard and his cock pulses inside me, throbs against the clasping inner walls of my channel and those throbbing pulses find an echo in me, bringing that tidal wave inside me to a cresting break, sending me dropping over the edge.

“Ooohhhhhhhh.” I wail, my back arches, my legs are splayed wide, feet flat on the bed and I’m pushing up at him, my hips lift, my butt lifts, I’m lifting his body with mine as my climax sweeps me away and it’s a golden flood that fills me, surges through me, a sweeping flood of ecstasy that overwhelms everything and my sex convulses on his shaft as he fills me. I’m looking up at him and everything’s black, there’s colors, I can hear myself sobbing and it’s I’m immersed in my own pleasure, my own fulfilment and what he’s doing to me.

I’m in heaven and the ecstasy is unbearable.

His cock throbs within me. My sex clamps down on him and in the back of my mind, I know what I’m doing as I squeeze him inside me. His cock throbs hard, that first bursting explosion of his semen spurts out furiously inside me, a flooding burst of semen splattering hotly against my cervix and it’s inside me and his cock throbs and pulses and throbs as spurt after spurt of his cum jets hotly out deep inside my sex and my knees clasp his ribs, my feet kick helplessly and my sex fills to overflowing with his semen.

“Chuntao … Chuntao ….” His hands hold me tight, he crushes me, his body strains against mine, his face is a mask reflecting the pleasure of his culmination as he empties himself inside me.

Beneath him, I’m glowing molten gold, filled with a roiling sunburst of pleasure that goes on and on and on and I’m a willing receptacle for his love, my body is there to satisfy his love, his desire for me, his need. The joyous love of his culmination, of welcoming his spurting ejaculations deep within my sex fills me, overwhelms me with happiness and contentment.

“Ohhhhhhhhh.” I sigh as he shudders on me, as his tautness dissipates, as he relaxes on me. He’s no longer straining against me and I know he loves me as I love him. I’ve given him all of myself and I’m filled with the golden contentment of love fulfilled. I look up at his face. His weight rests on me, his body is cradled between my thighs. He’s still inside me, big and hard. He’s made love to me, he’s taken me. My virginity is gone. We’ve made love.

I’m ecstatic. I run my hands down his ribs, feeling his bones, his muscles, luxuriating in his body on mine. In mine and I’m so very happy. Happy? I’m glowing, radiating love and contentment. So that’s what it feels like. I want this again and again. My only regret is that I am not yet his wife and when I am, we will be together like this every night and I am filled with joy at that thought. I can’t keep him here to make love to me again right away. I’d like him too. He smiles down at me. He kisses me gently. I kiss him back, vining my arms around his neck, enjoying his weight crushing down on me.

“Don’t move,” I breathe. “Rest. Rest there.”

He sighs, he smiles, his weight rests on me, heavy, his breath is hot against the side of my face as I look up at the white plastered ceiling above me. His thighs continue to spread mine wide apart, he remains inside me, not hard, softer, but still large and I do not move. I cradle him, my feet resting lightly on the backs of his thighs, my body glowing, my mind awash with the enormity of this step we have taken together and I know I love him so much.

I know also that I am a woman now. I am Martin’s.

* * *

I work after school on Friday, at the clothing store and it is busy and I am tired and a little sore and my mind is a whirl of thoughts. Martin. Me. Making love and in two weeks I will meet his mother. I return to the school late in the evening, climbing down from the rickshaw, paying the coolie and I pay him more than he had asked for I know theirs is a hard life. Mrs Innes is seated beside the entrance, unmoving and I would never have noticed her but for the red flare from the cigarette she holds in one hand.

“Join me, Chuntao,” she says, patting the bench seat beside her.

Weary after that long afternoon and evening, I sink down on the seat.

“Is your Englishman going to ask you to marry him, Chuntao?” she says, out of nowhere.

I glance at her, startled. How? How does she know? We have been so careful.

“Not careful enough, Chuntao,” she says, a wry smile flickering across her face. “It doesn’t matter, my dear. I am more observant than people give me credit for and I excuse a little more in our Chinese girls, Chuntao, my dear. I know the problems all of you are having and I hope he loves you enough to marry you.”

She draws on her cigarette, blow smoke into the night. “Do you smoke?” She asks suddenly, producing a silver cigarette case from her jacket pocket, flicks it open, taps, and proffers me one.

I take it wordlessly, hold it to my lips, breathe in as she lights it for me and the smoke is soothing.

“I often sit out here at night,” she says, not looking at me, breathing smoke outwards into the warm humidity of the night. “These Shanghai Nights are so hot, sometimes and it’s quite surprising the things one sees.”

“Yes,” I murmur.

“I have seen your young man return you here on so many nights.”

I swallow, glancing at her, shocked, cheeks flaming, for girls have been expelled for far less than this and my hand shakes. If I am expelled, what then? There is Martin’s room, but it is one thing to go there with him. It is another to move in with him. If I should do that, his parents would forever forbid our marriage.

She smiles. Her hand reaches out, pats my knee. “As I said, Chuntao, we excuse a little more in our Chinese girls.” She draws on her cigarette. “Some of our Chinese girls in any case.”

“Like Hua,” I say, my voice flat and tired.

Mrs. Innes nods, without looking at me. “Like Hua,” she says, and she looks older as he glances at me. “You’re eighteen, Chuntao. You’re Chinese. You’ve lived in Shanghai for, what, four years now?”

“Four and a half,” I say. Four and a half years since I left my family to come to Shanghai. Four and a half years since I last saw my family. Over a year since that last letter.

“Four and a half years then, Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says. “This is a business, Chuntao. I care for all my girls, but I’m the Headmistress. I don’t own the school and I can’t waive the school fees. I can ask for extensions and I can get more time. The trustees understand the circumstances, particularly for our Chinese boarders from outside Shanghai.” She draws on her cigarette, a red flare in the darkness.

I draw on mine, inhaling, and the cigarette smoke is comforting as I breathe it out.

“Hua’s family have disappeared,” she says. “She hasn’t heard from them in over a year and the trustee’s told me I must ask her to leave, I couldn’t get another extension for her.”

“Oh,” I say, flatly, my heart sinking.

“I couldn’t ask her to leave,” she said, and her hand clutches at mine. “I couldn’t, Chuntao. You know what happens to pretty girls who’re alone in Shanghai.” Her voice shakes. “Any girl who’s alone in Shanghai.”

I know what she means.

Coming to Shanghai is taking a chance, even as a student. A single girl, on her own? Starvation, prostitution or returning home, and for Hua and I, far away from our families, cut off by the ongoing fighting with the Japanese, there is no return home. One cannot live on the wages of a salesgirl. I’m working as one part-time and I know that.

Working in a factory? That’s little better than slavery and a death sentence for a girl such as me. A peasant girl from the countryside, used to hard work, they could survive. A girl like me who has never know physical labour? I would die. Not that I would keep a job like that. My beauty would be seen. I would be taken whether I objected or not, sold into a brothel.

Working as a domestic? That is the other possibility. But no-one would take me. No European women, for they would fear for their husbands when they saw me. No Chinese family, because who needs a girl like me except as a concubine. That, and I have no idea what is expected. Perhaps I could, but I’m not sure and besides, how do I get such work?

Perhaps as a teacher I might survive, but first I would need to complete High School and then the teachers training and I have no money for that. The only money I have now is from my salesgirl job and that’s not much more than a pittance. It would pay for a few bowls of rice or noodles daily, nothing more.

Shanghai is the most cruel and mercenary of cities and for girls like Hua and I, penniless, there is only once choice. “Selling the skin and the smile” is the Shanghainese saying, and I that is what Hua has been reduced to. I fear that is what I may be reduced to, but I have Martin. He loves me. He will care for me. I hope he will care for me.

“I know,” I say, my voice small and I am afraid now, not just for Hua but for myself.

“I had to do something, Chuntao. Anything would be better than the clubs and brothels.”

“What did you do?” I whisper, sick at heart.

“May God forgive me,” she says, and her voice is shaking. “I made arrangements with gentlemen I know for Hua. She hasn’t heard from her family, she has no money to pay the fees and Mr. Cunningham by himself wasn’t enough. There are so many pretty girls available for men in Shanghai, Chuntao, and I have done the best I can for her. And for the others.” She glances at me. “I don’t know what else to do, Chuntao. It’s all I can do.” She’s crying silently now, the tears trickle down her cheeks and she looks so old, so helpless.

“White men,” I say. “Foreigners.”

“Yes,” she says. “Gentlemen I know. All discreet and I’ve explained to them. They’re generous. They pay Hua’s school fees, they pay her extra. They recommend other gentlemen to me.”

I wonder if they pay her but I don’t ask. What point is there in asking? I understand. I understand everything now. Hua’s returns late at night, her overnight absences, all ignored. Mrs. Innes is right. Far better than the alternatives. I’ve seen the girls on the streets. I know about the brothels and the clubs and the dancehalls. Taxi dancers, sing-song girls, flower girls. The girls on the streets. The triads control it all, and once the triads have their hooks in you, there’s no escape.

No-one speaks of it, but we Chinese girls, even those of us from families with enough money to send us here, even we know.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, not wanting to know.

“I saw you with your boyfriend, Chuntao,” she says. “I’ve known about you and he for weeks.” Her hand squeezes mine. “I permitted you some leeway, Chuntao, I’ve been hoping you could make your own arrangements.” She glances at me again. “It would be better if you could, Chuntao. Your father is a year behind with the school fees, I can’t delay this much longer, a few weeks, the end of next month at most.” Her hand almost clutches at mine.

“Please, Chuntao. You’re a very smart girl, you have a great future. You’re one of our best students. If you can make your own arrangements, please, I beg you. Make them. I’ll give you whatever leeway you need if that helps. As long as you’re discreet, you can ignore the rules about coming and going.”

“Alright,” I say, feeling a little ill.

Martin. I need to talk to Martin. Ask him for help. He’s the only person I know who could help me and surely if I tell him my situation, if I ask, he’ll help. He loves me. He pays for that room already.

“How much does my father owe the School?” I ask, after a long silence.

She tells me and I quail. How can I ask Martin for that much? I’m seeing him again tomorrow. I’ll talk to him. I’ll ask him for help then but it’s so much. It’s an enormous amount.

“Do your best, Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says. “Please.”

“Yes,” I say, not quite sure what I’m saying and we sit there silently, her hand squeezing mine, breathing in that cigarette smoke and every time I swallow, I taste Martin in my mouth.

I have no idea what I’m going to say to him but he loves me. He has asked me to be his wife. He has made love to me and I am sure he will help me somehow. Unlike Hua, I am not alone and I do not, at least, have to make the choice that she has had to make and for that I am thankful.

But still, I have no idea how to ask Martin for help.

* * *

“He wants to marry me. He has asked me to marry him, he loves me, Hua, and I love him.” I say dreamily, lying in my bed with Hua on Saturday morning and she was back early, we slept together half the night and there is comfort in her arms.
“Have you done it with him yet, Chuntao?” she asks, and she sounds so dispassionate. Have you decided, Chuntao. Have you had breakfast, Chuntao.

“Yes,” I say, and I smile as I turn towards her and I want to share my happiness, my joy. “Oh yes, and thank you, Hua.” The memory of surrendering myself to him, giving myself to him completely, as a woman gives herself to a man, that memory is so fresh and so sweet and I shiver with my love for him and my excitement and that slow-pulsing wet heat is there because I will be going to him on Tuesday night. Tomorrow night, and that love will be mine again.

“I am happy for you,” Hua says, and she holds me and her eyes sparkle in the moonlight. “I am so happy it is with someone you love. That is how it should be.”

She holds me, and I hold her and I am happy for myself, and sad for my friend, for that is how it should have been with her, also. With someone she loved and she may find someone, she may love someone and that someone may love her, but it will never be her first love, her first time with a man and I say nothing, for what is there to say.

She sleeps with men every night now, she has done so for weeks, months. So many different men and I have never asked about her experiences. Sometimes she will talk, but it is always light-hearted, something humorous that will make me laugh and I am sure she does that to reassure me and I do, I worry for her. I think of what she does to survive and my heart sinks within me and there is nothing I can do. Nothing.

I have to think of myself now. Of what I can do for myself and I will ask Martin tomorrow night.

* * *

I leave school on Tuesday, I don’t even change and I can’t wait. I run up the stairs to our room and I’m the first there. I’m not surprised, he does work and I’m smiling as I run a bath, undress, wash myself and I don’t bother dressing. I climb into bed, and there’s a large discoloured stain on the sheet from Tuesday and I know what it is. My virginity, and I smile. I don’t want to wash this sheet, I want to keep that discoloration for ever, to remind me of our first time, the first time he made love to me and I pull the quilt over myself and I smile as I think of him.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

My eyes open sleepily and I was, I was fast asleep and he’s here, in bed with me and he smells of soap and his hair is damp. He must have come in and bathed and I never heard him and now he’s in bed with me and my heart fills with joy as I smile back.

His arm slides under me, he slides closer. I’m in his arms and he’s as naked as I am. Naked and erect, his erection presses hard against my stomach but all he does is hold me, his nose brushing mine, his blue eyes looking into mine and we’re looking into each other’s eyes and we’re both smiling.

“I love you,” we say, simultaneously and then we both laugh and his lips brush mine. The laughter disappears as his mouth seals to mine and we’re kissing and I’m moaning softly into his mouth. Moaning with eagerness, moaning with that sudden rush of excitement that being in his arms naked for those first moments always brings to me and I lift my knee, lift my leg and rest it over his hip.

“I’m yours,” I breathe as his lips lift from mine. “I’m all yours, Martin.” I revel in that thought. I am his, body and soul. I love him so much and he loves me and then I ask him what’s at the forefront of my thoughts. “Did you enjoy making love to me?” I ask him, my lips brushing his.

“Oh by Jove, yes,” he says, and his hand brushes the hair away from my face. “I should have waited though, until we’re married but I love you so much, Chuntao, I let myself get carried away.”

“Mmmm.” I murmur, my hand searching for him and it’s easy to find. I clasp him in my fingers and he’s rigid and there’s that flooding slippery wetness and with my leg over his hip, I’m exposed, open, and I love that vulnerability to him and his hand slides down my side, my hips, cups my butt as I stroke him very slowly. “Would you like to get carried away again now?” My cheeks burn at my words.

“I love you, Chuntao,” he breathes, his eyes looking into mine. “I love you so much… I want you so much. Every time I see you, I want to take you in my arms and…”

I smile, silencing him with a kiss, a kiss that lengthens, gentle at first and then less gentle, more demanding and I suck his tongue into my mouth, meet it with mine, open my mouth wide to him and I can’t get close enough, I want more, I want him, I stroke him, tug at him as I ease onto my back and he moves with me. He moves over me and I spread my legs wide for him, draw me knees back as he eases between my legs and now it is his thighs that urge mine apart and I am open to him.

“Please,” I moan as his hand cups me, as his finger slips inside me and I’m wet and ready and I moan, my back arching, my breathe coming in ragged gasps as his finger slips up inside me. “Oh please, Martin.”

His tongue takes me, his lips on mine, his tongue pressing deep as his finger touches me and caresses me inside and I am ready for him. So ready and my hand strokes him as I drink in his love and he’s groaning as he kisses me.

“I want you, Chuntao,” he groans, and he’s shuddering with his need, his desire and I’m limp. Limp and willing and ready.

“Take me,” I moan. “I’m yours, Martin,” and my hand guides him to me and I know I am his. That look on his face as his finger eases from me, as my hand draws his cock towards my entrance, that look says he knows I am his to and is big blunt cockhead pushes against me where I’m so wet. I feel my labia part eagerly around his cockhead.

I gasp. Shivers of exquisite pleasure race through me. This is it. This is not his eagerness, this is my own willing surrender and I am offering myself up to his cock. My hand is guiding him to me and there is that mix of excitement and anticipation and a little fear? Fear. I’ve only ever done this once before, and what will it feel like inside me this time, tonight. He pushes against my hand, his cockhead finds my entrance.

It won’t be very long before I know.

“Oohh.” He pushes against me. Huge. Stretching me. My hand falls away from his cock, my back arches without thinking. I clutch at his back with both hands, my nails digging into his skin as his cockhead pushed against my entrance. I’m opening to him, slowly. He’s so big. He’s stretching me.

“Ahh.” I gasp. He pushes harder, forcing my entrance to open and I stretch for him. The head of him is suddenly inside me, stretching me inside, pausing. I look up at him, my eye wide, panting. Big, that’s my only thought as I lie beneath him, feeling him in me. He feels big in me. A lot bigger than my memory of Tuesday night. He’s stretching me around him. He isn’t moving now that part of him is in me, he holds himself still, looks down at me.

“Are you alright, Chuntao?” he asks.

“Big,” I gasp. “So big.” He is. Big that is, but it feels so good and I want him in me. I want him making love to me and I draw my knees further back, panting, whimpering, feeling myself stretched around him where he has begun to penetrate me.

“More,” I gasp, wanting to feel his cock inside me. “Don’t stop.”

He smiles down at me, my feet slide across the backs of his thighs as his hips move, he pushes.

“Ohhhh.” He’s stretching me inside and I see the pleased smile on his face as I buck beneath him, an involuntary reaction to that thickness thrusting up inside me. His cock stretches me, he forces himself further up inside my channel. My head jerks back, my back arches. His cock is thick but it doesn’t hurt at all. It’s just big and I stretch inside and it’s wonderful and already I can’t wait to feel all of him inside me. I want all of him inside me.

“Nnnnngghhhhh.” I moan as he draws back a little, only the swollen head of his cock inside me. His glans tugs at my inner lips where I am clamped around the thickness of his shaft.

“Oooaaahhhh.” He pushes back into me after an infinitesimal pause, his cock eases thickly into me, pushes against the tightness of my channel, stretches me around him. His eyes drill down into mine, his cock drills into me gently, backwards and forwards inside me. So hard. Wonderfully hard. My hands clutch at his back, my heels bounce against his hips as they lift and dive, lift and dive, every movement feeding me more of his cock and it’s wonderful, it’s exquisite; it’s love.

“Ooohhh …. Oohhh … oohhh…” I sob my excitement with every movement of his. I am helpless beneath him, pinned between his weight on me and the firm mattress beneath me. His mouth clamps down on mine, silencing me as his tongue slips deep inside, just as his cock is slipping into my sex. His body pins mine with his weight, his thighs push against mine, spread me wide for him to take. I’m wide open to him, my thighs cradle him as he moves on me. In me.

“Oohhh … aaahhh …ooohh … aaaahhh.” His cock works its way into me, every gentle movement edging him a little deeper inside me. I cling to him as more and more of his length eases gently into me. Again and again. It’s exquisite sensation, pure pleasure, pure excitement. I love what he is doing to me. Love his weight on me, love his cock sliding in and out of me, unbearable friction as his shaft stretches me around him, moves in me, moves through my entrance, in and out where I grip him so tightly. In and out inside me.

He thrusts into me. Withdraws so slowly, thrusts into me again. Again and again and I can’t wait to have all of his cock inside me. Martin’s cock. Martin, my love. He’s stretching me inside but it’s a welcome stretching, an exquisite pushing of my limits that heightens every sensation my body is experiencing and I hadn’t thought making love could ever be this good but it’s better. Feeling Martin’s cock half-way inside me as I cling to him, as I arch beneath him, his cock easing inwards where we are joined together so intimately, his body inside mine, I know I love him.

I’m enjoying Martin making love to me. I love it and on Tuesday it had happened, both of us overwhelmed by our love for each other and our desire. Tonight we are not overwhelmed. Tonight this act of love is by choice. It’s my choice, I know what I’m doing and I revel in what he was doing to me here and now and it feels so good. I want it. I want Martin making love to me.

“Ooooohhh,” I moan as his shaft moves, sliding in, withdrawing, sliding in again, pushing a little higher inside me. Stretching me. I can’t say how much I enjoy that sensation, it’s beyond mere words. I want to give myself, I wanted to surrender, I want to be take and possessed and filled by his cock and made love to and he’s doing all of that to me and I want to be as close to him as I can, my body melded to his and I cling to him with my hands and my knees and my feet and I arch my back to press myself up at him.

“Ohh …ohh ..ohhh.” I can hear myself, helpless little cries as he works his cock into me. So big, thick and hard and I want him buried in me, filling me, taking me, his weight on me, his cock impaling me, spearing up inside me, sheathing himself in me, using me until he achieves his satisfaction inside me, filling me with his semen.

“Chuntao …. Chuntao … Chuntao ….” Martin is groaning as he moves slowly. He’s taut, his muscles tense. I can feel his iron control, he’s holding himself back, restraining himself and I know he wants to let himself go.

“Slow,” I gasp, “Slow … so big … you’re so big in me.” I need him to take this slowly, gently, let myself adjust to him because he’s stretching me inside and I want all of him in me before he gets too carried away.

“Okay,” he grunts, almost vibrating with the willpower it seems to take to stop himself pounding his cock into me. He does push deeper in me though.

“Ohh.” I cry out, eyes wide, back arched, his cock sinking inwards where he is joined to me, piercing me at the juncture of my thighs where I am spread so wide, holding myself wide open to him. He’s enormous. I wonder how much of him is left to work up inside me. I can’t tell, all I know is that he feels huge and with every movement there is more of him inside me and I want it all. I want to feel all of him in me. I want to feel him pressed up hard against me, I want to know that his cock is buried inside me completely.

“Uhhh.” I gasp as he gives me more.

“Uhhh.” And more.

“Nnuughh.” How much more of him is there?

“Nnnnnghhhh.” I whine. There’s even more of him in me. So far up inside me. Can I take more of him?

“Ohhh.” He draws back, that slide inside me feels so good that all I can do is shiver and cling to him as he moves in me.

“Ohhhhh.” His cock eases back up inside me. He smiles down at me as I moan. Pauses. Pushes.

“Uhhhh.” My back arches as he forces me inside, stretches me. I can feel him, feel the head of his cock where I sheath him, feel his shaft filling me, feel him sliding into me.

“Nnnnnnnhhhh.” He’s not stopping, he’s pushing higher, pushing into me, forcing me, stretching me around him, taking me.

“Ohhh …ohhh …uuuuooohhh.” He pauses, unmoving in me. My channel spasms around him, clamping down in him, squeezing him as I lie there, shuddering, shivering, panting.

“Uuuhhhhh.” He pushes. Hard. I give. I have no choice. My body is there for him to take and I have no intention of stopping him. His cock pushes into me, all the way, pushes until he is pressed up hard against me. Our bodies pressed against each other so intimately. His cock is sheathed in me to the hilt.

“Uuggghhh.” I groan, my body adapting slowly to his full length inside me and he’s so big. So hard. A huge steely hard intrusion that fills me so completely inside, fills me as Martin never did. Stuffed full. I’m stuffed so full of Martin’s cock. My channel sheaths him so tightly, I feel as if I fit his cock perfectly, like a glove, and he’s pressed up against me, his body heavy on mine, crushing me, so big and heavy on me. My thighs cradle him. My hands cling to his back, my body pinned beneath him, impaled on his cock. I squirm a little beneath him, my body shaping itself to him where he’s inside me.

“Are you alright?” he breathes, looking down at me, not moving.

“Nnnghhh,” I gasp. “Don’t… don’t move… let me… slow… please, slow” It’s hard to talk. Hard to think. All I’m doing is lying beneath him focused on how his cock feels, buried inside me. Sheathed in me. Clasped inside me. Martin’s cock is my world in this moment. His body on me is heaven, but his cock inside me? That’s the key to paradise. And Martin is about to turn the key.

But first I need to get used to him in me.

Martin is slow, he eases himself outwards, very slowly, until only the head of his cock is inside me. Pauses. Eases himself inwards, on and on and on, an endless slide into me, higher, deeper, gently sheathing his full length within my shuddering body until he is once more pressed up hard against me.

“Ooooohhhhh.” I moan softly as he eases outwards.

“Nnnnnnuuuughhhhh.” I groan more loudly as he eases himself all the way back up inside me.

“Ohhhh … uuughhhh ….oooohhhh …..ugghhhh.” Again and again, a slow but steady rhythm, gentle slides that fill me, sheathing his cock inside me to the hilt with every long inward sliding penetration.

“Tight, Chuntao,” he groans, not stopping, “you’re so tight and wet.”

“Ohhhh … uuughhhh….” I groan.

His cock slides in and out, forcing my channel to accommodate him. Long exquisite slides into me, the delicious friction of his shaft sliding inwards where he enters me, my labia clamped around him, endless shivering pleasure as he sinks himself into me, as he withdraws. The exquisite friction of his cock inside me, against the slippery walls of my vaginal channel where I am forced to stretch around him, feeling every inch of his cock as he thrusts himself gently into me.

“Chuntao,” he groans, “I love you Chuntao… Chuntao….”

“Yes,” I gasp, “Yes.”

“I need to … I want to… harder….”

“Yes,” I gasp without thinking, “yes.” I have no idea what harder means to Martin.

He pauses inside me, kisses me gently, his eyes looking down into mine. His mouth lifts. “You’re so beautiful, Chuntao.” His nose brushes mine. He smiles, his hand brushing my hair back from my face. “I want you so much.”

“Yes,” I gasp, “Yes…” I have no other words for him, only yes. “Not too hard,” I whisper.

“Not too hard,” he smiles and I’m not scared anymore. I want it. He moves in me.

Gentle slides in and out, on and on until I’m moaning my enjoyment, my excitement and now it’s me that wants more. It’s me that wants him to move harder in me.

“Martin …. Martin,” I moan. “Harder… do it to me harder.”

“Oh Chuntao…. yes … yes.”

“Uuughhhhh….ughhhh ….nnnughhh….” He doesn’t wait. He does. He starts doing it to me harder. His cock slams into me, deep and hard, a piledriving thrust that hammers me down onto the bed. His weight drives the breath from my body, there’s a vigorous slap as his body meets mine.

“Hhhuunhhhh.” I grunt, a hot grunt driven from me by his movement, followed by another and another, accompanying every hot, hard plunging drive of this cock into me. Relentless. He is doing it to me relentlessly. All I can do is take it. Lie there as his cock fills me again and again.

One of his hands slips under me, lifts my butt, pulls me up against him as he takes me, as he thrusts himself hard to the hilt inside me, making sure I take every last bit of him inside me, grunting hotly as he takes his delight with me, as he uses me for his pleasure, as he loves me with his body.

His cock drives itself up inside me, sweet friction against the clasping walls of my channel and I lose myself, abandon myself to what he is doing to me. I revel in being taken, revel in his cock thrusting, taking, demanding. Revel in my surrender, in giving myself up to him for his pleasure, for his use, for his love. And oh god, is he loving me, making love to me as if I was his wife and I will be, I will be and I love him so much as he takes me, on and on and this is euphoria. Pure, raw, ecstatic pleasure as Martin makes love me.

“Oooohhh …. Oohhhh …uuhhhh ….nnnuughh …hhhnnnhhhh…” Moaning, sobbing, crying out. I have no control over the sounds I make as he pounds himself into me, they just emerge from my mouth as his cock strokes into me. So good. So wonderfully good.

“Harder,” I can hear myself sobbing, knowing this is what he wants, this is what he desires and I am giving him this, giving him my body, giving him my love. “Harder.”

He doesn’t stop. He keeps on and on and on, his body pummeling mine, driving into me with what I am sure is all his strength, without restraint, hard, harder than I’d ever believe possible but he is and I want it and my own excitement is rising and rising and rising and I know I am close, so close and my sex is fluttering around that impaling shaft, I’m almost there … almost … almost … almost…

“Aaaahhhhhhoooohhhhhhooohhhoohhhohhhhohhhh…” My orgasm breaks through me like a tidal wave, overwhelming everything, filling me in a rush of ecstasy that holds me helpless beneath Martin. My body bucks and shudders beneath him, my feet beat a wild tattoo on his butt as he lifts and plunges, my fingers claw at his back, my body arches, arches up against him, my eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling as those golden waves wash thickly through me and my sex spasms and dances on his deeply thrusting cock.

He doesn’t slow or stop, those thrusts continue, on and on as my orgasm washes through me, the waves slowly lessening, then receding and still he is fucking me. As I glow beneath him, I can sense his increasing excitement as he has me. I know what’s about to happen and it’s his turn now and I can’t wait. I remember this so well from Tuesday night. Remember Martin finishing inside me and how much I loved it as he came, as I felt his semen spurting out inside me, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside me. Remembering the enjoyment I’d received from Martin’s satisfaction.
Now, as Martin rides me hard, his cock pistoning into me, I watch his face, enjoying the excitement, the desire, the lust written across his features. He’s taking me hard now, his hips rising and falling like a jackhammer, pounding down on me, driving me down on the mattress with every inward stroke. Under my hands, his muscles tighten, flex and I’ve never been so excited in my life as I glow beneath him.

“Uhh,” he grunts as he has me, “uhhh … uhhh… I’ve never… Ohhh Chuntao… I’m so deep in you… so deep.”

He is, deep inside me and I make small helpless sounds as he strokes almost ferociously into me and I’m desperate for him to finish. I want his culmination now, I want to bring him the satisfaction and the pleasure that he’s already brought to me and I beg him now.

“Martin… Martin… finish in me… I want it… I want it.”

“Chuntap,” he grunts, his body demanding, taking, possessing me. His cock seeming to swell inside me, bigger, harder. He clasps me tighter, his hips pumping, he throws his head back, all his muscles straining, shuddering on me.

“Yes,” I cry, feeling him throb in me. “Yes ….yes.” That first jetting burst of his semen erupts hotly inside me. His cock pulses, there is that first long hot spurt, so powerful as his hips plunge, as he pumps his cock into me, ejaculating, spurt after spurt of his semen erupting within me as I lie beneath him, his cock so deep inside me. My entire body pulses and tingles as he empties himself deep inside me, uncontrollably.

So much, on and on. I can’t believe how long he lasts, his body shuddering as he is wracked with the pleasure of his culmination. I welcome his climax, wanting this so much as I lie beneath him, wide open to him, taken, possessed, receiving his semen as he floods me and I love him so much. I am his.

His weight is heavy on me as we lie together, both of us breathing hard, panting, soaked with sweat. I have no idea how long we lie together before he moves, gently lifting his weight from me and I moan and cling to him, wanting him to remain on me, inside me.

We bathe together, he washes me slowly, soaping me, rinsing me, drying me and then he leads me back to bed and we make love again, more slowly, less urgently and he brings to one climax and then another before he reaches his culmination inside me a second time and that look on his face as he empties himself into me, it is heaven and we hold each other afterwards, sated and sleepy in that glowing aftermath.

“We should go soon,” he says, later, after we have bathed again and he is dressing me, we are laughing as he attempts to fasten my bra.

“Like this,” I say, showing him and all too soon it is time to leave.

“I’d like to spend all night with you,” he says, taking me in his arms.

“When we are married,” I say, standing on my toes, kissing him.

“I want that,” he says.

“We have all day together on Saturday,” I say, smiling.

“I can’t, Chuntao,” he says, his face falling, holding me. “I meant to tell you earlier, I have to play polo for the Jardine’s team and there’s a dinner party at my manager’s afterwards. I’m invited and I can’t escape.” He kisses me, he brushes my hair back from my face. “I love you so much, Chuntao, we’ll see each other on Tuesday.” He kisses me again. “I can’t wait.”

“Martin?” I swallow, because I haven’t asked him for help and I was going to on Saturday and now? How? How to ask him for help? For money, and it is so much money. A year’s worth of school fees in arrears, the rest of this year’s to pay and then there is University next year and where do I live?

“Yes?” He kisses me again.

“I haven’t heard from my family for a year now, nothing and I’m so worried.”

“I know, I wish I could do something. They must have escaped from Nanking.”

“My father or my mother would’ve written to me. They should have.” I’m shivering now and he holds me tight. “I don’t have anyone else, Martin.”

“You have me, Chuntao. You’ll always have me. I hope your family’s alright but I’ll look after you, Chuntao. I’ll always look after you.” He kisses me again, so confident, so sure of himself, so English and I love that assuredness, that strength and I know he’ll look after me and I can talk to him next week and I walk downstairs with him, my hand in his and we catch a taxi.

“Next Tuesday, Chuntao.” He opens the taxi door, helps me out, walks with me to the school gate and I turn to him, open my mouth and what can I say? He’s said he’ll look after me and I will ask him on Tuesday.

“Next Tuesday,” I say, and he smiles, squeezes my hand and he is gone and it will be days until I see him again and already I miss him.

* * *

It is Sunday, Sunday afternoon, after lunch and now I meet Mr. Maynard in Mrs. Innes’ sitting room, the one beside her office and I play for him as I do every Sunday afternoon now. Mrs Innes has given me permission to meet him there, unchaperoned and he pays me for my time. He pays me to play the guqin for him, he pays me to play and explain and sit with him and talk and drink tea and I am happy to do that.

This afternoon I am early and I place my guqin on the coffee table, I go to the school kitchen where the cook prepares a tray with tea and biscuits, I carry it back to the sitting room and I am kneeling on the floor before my guqin when I hear voices. The door to Mrs. Innes’ office is ajar and the voices are clear.

A male voice. An English accent. A chuckle. “That will be satisfactory, Mrs. Innes,” it says, and it’s louder. “I’m certainly glad I came to talk to you.”

“I’m happy to be of assistance, Mr. Maynard,” Mrs. Innes’ voice says. “Some of our students do need assistance in these troubled times, and a little arrangement such as this is of benefit to everyone. The girls do appreciate the help. Now do remember, it’s a school day tomorrow so do please return Ailing before midnight, the guard on the gate will be waiting to admit her. And I do prefer that these outings be carried out discreetly.”

“I understand completely, Mrs. Innes,” the man’s voice said. “I shall be taking her to my apartment, nowhere else.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Innes’ voice says. “It wouldn’t do for there to be any gossip about the school and our pupils.”

“Quite,” the man’s voice says. “And now…”

“I shall have Ailing waiting for you when you’re ready,” Mrs. Innes says. “Do enjoy your afternoon.”

“I shall,” the voice says. “And my evening.” He chuckles, the door moves a little and m y heart jolts. I dart to my feet. He’s coming in here? I seize my guqin, heart pounding and I am so glad now I left the other door into the hallway open. “One thing, Mrs Innes,” the man’s voice continues and I hesitate, standing in the other doorway. “Do you think Chuntao may become available?”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Innes’ voice says. “She has not heard from her family for some time and there is a year’s arrears of school fees, as well as the remainder of this years and possible summer and University. Her family are from Nanking and I hesitate to say this, but I fear the worst.”

Now I feel a little sick. Whoever this is, he knows me. He is interested in me. He is interested in me as Mr. Cumberland and the others are interested in Hua and Ailing and the others and I am so thankful I have Martin. I cannot tear myself away though, I am curious. I must listen.

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to keep me in mind if Chuntao is in need of assistance,” the voice says. The man’s voice. “I would be more than happy to help her. She’s a charming young lady.”

“I will be sure to keep that in mind,” Mrs Innes’ says. “And now…”

I dart out the door, down the hallway and around the corner and turn. I am walking around the corner when Mrs. Innes steps out of her office.

“Hello, Chuntao. Just in time for Mr. Maynard. He’s waiting for you.”

I smile, my mind frozen as I pass her, as I walk into the sitting room and Mr. Maynard is sitting there. It must have been him talking to Mrs. Innes. It couldn’t have been anyone else. There was no time. Ailing? He is taking Ailing tonight. He is interested in me that way, and my hands are shaking as I place my guqin on the coffee table, take my place, smile at him,

“I have been practicing this one to play to you,” I say. “It’s called ‘Drunken Fishermen Singing at Sunset’ and it was composed by Lu Guimeng in the Tang Dynasty times. According to the text books, he and another poet were rowing a boat in Wujiang when they saw fishermen rejoicing over the day’s simple harvest, which inspired their composition. This song is supposed to epitomize Confucian and Taoist values of detaching one’s self from earthly concerns.”

I play for him, concentrating on the music but it is hard to forget his words. Hard to forget that he is willing to help me in the way men help Hua and Ailing and the other two girls who are unfortunate. If I did not have Martin, perhaps I would have to resort to such a shameful transaction but I have Martin. I play him that song, and then another and another.

“What’s the matter, Chuntao?” he asks, towards the end of our time. “Something is disturbing you isn’t it?”

Shall I tell him about the school fees? No, I cannot and so I smile and shake my head. “It is nothing,” I say, and I continue to play for him but his enjoyment of this music does not seem as pure anymore and I can no longer put my heart and soul into my playing for him.

* * *

On Tuesday I see Martin again. We meet in our room and we make love all evening and I cannot bring myself to mention the school fees and to ask him for his help. We make love twice and I forget myself, I forget my worries, I forget everything in his arms and it is heaven and he holds me close as we ride in a taxi back towards the school and he kisses me and holds me so tight and I shiver in his arms.

I must ask him for help. Next time we meet I will ask him.

* * *

Nanking has fallen to the Japanese. It is in the newspapers and I am sitting in our room crying when Martin arrives. I am sick with fear, for the Japanese are slaughtering everyone. The newspapers, the magazines, they are reporting awful things. Horrible things and I have not heard a word. There has been nothing. Martin holds me, he tries to reassure me, to comfort me but words alone are nothing without news. We do not make love that evening. He holds me, he talks with me, he does his best to reassure me.

“My family is there, Martin,” I sob. “There has been no news, there has been nothing. Nothing for months now. I am on my own.”

“I’ll look after you, Chuntao,” he says. “You have me.” He holds me close. “We are having morning tea with my mother this weekend. On Saturday morning. Do you think you’ll be alright?”

“Yes,” I say, panicking. I cannot delay this. His mother would be insulted. “We must do this, Martin. I must face your mother.”

“I’ll pick you up from School,” he says. “At ten thirty. In the morning.”

“Alright,” I say, smiling weakly through my tears. “Will you really look after me?”

“Yes,” he says. “Of course I will. Do you need some help?”

“For my school fees,” I tell him, my face pale. “I have not had any money from my father for a year.”

“How much?” he asks, and now it is his face that pales when I tell him the amount.

“I… I…” He swallows and my heart sinks, the tears flood down my cheeks.

He takes me in his arms. “I will find a way, Chuntao. I will come with you and talk to Mrs. Innes. She knows my mother. I’ll tell her I guarantee your fees will be paid.” He strokes my hair, holds my head to his shoulder; kisses the top of my head. “I’ll look after you, Chuntao. I will.”

“Don’t talk to Mrs. Innes,” I say, panicking. “If she knows your mother, they’ll talk.”

“Oh,” he says. Then, “I’ll work out something,” he says.

“I don’t have much time,” I say. “I have to have the money for the end of this month.”

* * *

“Hua?” It is Saturday morning and I know she’s awake now. With the fighting over, her evening excursions with those older white men have resumed. She was out last night, out late and she came back with that now familiar scent of cigarettes, alcohol, sweat and sex. I know that scent now. The scent of sex. I have smelt it on myself after my trysts with Martin. I will smell like that this evening, in his room, before I bathe and return here.

China is in chaos with the Japanese invasion. Fighting is everywhere. There is no news from her family. No money from her family. Nothing. She is on her own. She must pay the school fees or by cast out into the streets of Shanghai, and for a girl like Hua, for a girl like myself, that is a death sentence. We wouldn’t last a day out there. I’d help her if I could.

All she has is her body and like me, she is beautiful. Mrs. Innes has helped her, arranged gentlemen for her, explained what the gentlemen will want to her. Hua can smile about that now. She and I, we know far more than Mrs. Innes does about the act of love. She’s never married, she’s single and elderly and Hua or I could tell her more about the act of love in ten minutes than she knows but we don’t.

Hua listens to her with respect. We both know she cares for her Chinese girls. She is doing her best to help us in a world gone insane and like us, she is out of her depth. She knows the choices that face a penniless Chinese girl in Shanghai. She understands and she does her best, and her best is to arrange gentlemen for her girls, for Hua is not the only one from whom she makes arrangements, I know that.

“Hua?” I say again.

“Yes?” she says, rolling over, and she’s not sad. She’s almost smiling. Almost her old self from before. Before she began selling herself to men.

“I’m meeting Martin this morning for morning tea at the Cathay with his mother,” I say. “I want to look pretty but conservative. I need to make a good impression. Do you think I should wear a qipao or my Coco Chanel.”

“Coco Chanel,” she says, yawning. She smiles. “His mother? You should look western. Modern. A New Woman, but deferential and polite.”

I giggle. “Of course,” I say. “This morning is for his Mother, not him.”

She helps me dress.

* * *

“Mother, this is Chuntao,” Martin says, and I am so nervous my hand is shaking. It hasn’t helped that the only other Chinese women here are middle-aged Tai-Tai’s in elegant qipao’s and that the men are all glancing at me as I walk past their tables on Martin’s arm. “Chuntao Wang,” he adds as a waiter holds a chair for me.

I sit, carefully, and she has a newspaper beside her.

“So pleased to meet you, Chuntao,” Martin’s mother says, smiling and my heart quails. She does not have the appearance of an Englishwomen who will tolerate a Chinese daughter-in-law. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordered morning tea for us all. Martin’s told me a lot about you, my dear, and I’d love to hear a little more.”

I see the headline on the paper beside her. “Invaders Despoil Cringing Nanking. Looting and Rapine General in City, Uncensored Reports Say.”

“Do tell me about your family,” she says. “Do you have brothers and sisters?” Then, “are you alright, my dear?”

I look at her and I burst into tears, sobbing as if my heart is broken and it is and everyone is looking at me as I stand, the chair falling backwards behind me and I stumble from the café and Martin is with me and I have to get out, I have to and he’s beside me and his Mother is there on my other side and she and Martin are talking across my head and it’s his mother’s hands that guide me to a chair in an alcove in the foyer.

“I’m so sorry, Chuntao,” she says. “I had no idea, my dear.”

I cling to Martin and I can’t stop crying.

“Perhaps you should take Chuntao back to her School we can arrange to meet another morning,” his mother says, and she leaves me with Martin and I can’t wait to get into a taxi, to get out of this place where everyone is looking at me and I cry all the way to our room. I’m still crying as he holds me on his lap, doing his best to comfort me.

He kisses away my tears, holding me in his arms and I abandon myself to his kisses as his hand unbuttons my Coco Chanel blouse, unfastens my bra.

“You’ll look after me?” I ask, cradled by his arm as I sit on his lap, both my breasts exposed to his eyes, to his hand and he’s teasing my nipples. One of them anyhow and we’re both watching as my nipple engorges, hardens to a rubbery firmness and his touch has me breathing hard and I turn to him, allowing his caresses to ease my fears away momentarily and now I turn, I straddle him, my knees on either side as I unbutton his trousers, unfasten his belt, draw him out and he is hard.

“Chuntao,” he groans, looking up at me as draw my skirt up, as I draw the loose leg of my French short underwear aside, exposing my sex. I hold him in one hand, I hold my panties in the other and I ease myself down onto him, shuddering, biting my bottom lips as I take all of him inside me and I am seated on him. We have never made love like this before but it is something I have read, I have seen the illustrations and seated on him, I clutch at his shoulders with one hand and balance myself as his hands grip my hips and he begins moving.

I press myself down on him, all of him inside me.

“Oh my god, Chuntao. Oh my god”. He groans as I raise and lower myself on him, riding him and he’s thrusting up at me from below and I want to ride him, I want to move myself on him and this is far etter than any book and I’m moaning as I arise myself, moaning as I loser myself, looking down to see his cock sliding into me, sliding out of me and it’s wet, it glistens with my wetness and my sex spasms on him.

“Chuntao,” he groans. “I love you … I love you…” and he pushes up against me. His hands grasp my hips, he pulls me down onto him, his cock thrust impossibly deep inside me and I’m making those wet wet sounds as he pulls me down lifts me and lowers me to the floor and rolls me onto my back beneath him without leaving me.

He’s taking me now. His hands take mine, pin them above my head, his cock slams and pounds and jackhammers into me and there’s those wet wet sounds from my sex, that steady slap slap slap as his body meets mine, on and on and on.

“Martin,” I wail, my back arching, wide open for him, his cock driving into me. “Harder, Martin … harder.”

He is already, but he takes me harder still and I don’t care because I’m not thinking. I forget my family, I forget my fears and worries, I rofget his mother, I forget everything except Martin taking me and he is taking me as as if there’s no tomorrow. So hard now that every thrust drives the air from my lungs and I’m gasping and moaning and my pleasure is building and building and he is grunting and smiling because he knows now exactly what he is doing to me and does it to me, on and on and on.

He knows what’s happening to me so well after doing this to me so many times and he kisses me, he moves one hand between us and he squeezes my nipple hard as he pounds his cock into me and it’s enough to send me over the edge, crying out as my sex pulses around his cock. I’m sobbing as those wild pulses build and wash through me to a crescendo and he chooses that moment to lose his own control.

“Chuntao,” he groans, “Chuntao…” He judders against me, suddenly holding himself deep inside me and I buck beneath him as his cock throbs, spurts, ejaculating his semen into me in a great pulsing flood that fills me inside and how I long for his babies. How I wish I could lie here with him night after night he does his best to make me a mother and the sudden thought has me climaxing again beneath him as he slowly subsides.

I hold him in my arms, cradle him with my body, his weight heavy on me as my hands rest on his back and with Martin’s weight still on me, still inside me, my eyes begin to close. I’m tired now, tired and exhausted and when at last he eases out of me, I don’t move. His arms hold me, he kisses me.
“I love you so much,” he breathes and I take comfort in his arms.

* * *

“Did you meet his mother? How was it?” Hua asks, when I arrive back very late that afternoon, and my scent is of sex and sweat and his wetness is on my inner thighs because we made love again and there was no time to bathe.

“We are going to meet again,” I say. I’m not going to tell her it was a disaster.

“Come,” she says, taking my hand. “I need to bathe before I go out tonight. Will you wash my back for me? I’ll do yours.”

“Yes,” I say, still heated from our love-making. Radiant with love and he told me he loved me so many times today in our room, just as I moaned my love for him into his ears again and again in those long bouts of frenzied passion and desire. The joy of our love-making permeates me, fills me to overflowing and I dream of being with him and he has promised me to help with the school fees and I am safe. I know he will help me. He promised.

“He loves me,” I say dreamily as Hua sits behind me in the bathtub, washing my hair, her fingers massaging my scalp as she works the shampoo through my hair. “He really loves me and he said he wants to marry me.”

“Is he being honest with you, Chuntao?” Hua asks. “Many foreigners have chinese girls, very few marry them.”

“Yes,” I say. “I met his mother. We will meet again,”

“Good,” she says.

* * *

Nanking. The papers talk of nothing else and I am afraid. So afraid. The Japanese, the hated invaders, they have defeated the Chinese Army, seized Nanking, the Chinese newspapers report on the defeat, on the horrors visited on Nanking and I am terrified for my family. My mother and father, my younger brothers and sisters, my grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins. All are in Nanking and I am sick with fear. The Japanese are animals, hated, despised. Savages who have invaded our country and I pray that the Chinese Army will defeat them but I know that this is asking for a miracle.

“Your family will be alright,” Hua comforts me as I read the latest news, sick with the horror of it all.

That next Saturday, early January 1938, I shiver in Martin’s arms as he repeats the same words Hua has said to me. “”I’m sure your family will be alright Chuntao,” he says.

He’s holding me in his arms within the safety and security of his room. He’s there before me, even though I’ve hurried to this assignation. He’s waiting for me when I arrive and outside its freezing. Inside, the room is warm and while I’m wearing a thick winter coat, I’m still shivering, but not with the cold and I want to believe him.

“I’m scared for them, Martin,” I say. “Really scared.”

He holds me, one arm around me, the other cupping the back of my head, stroking my head, his lips brushing my hair and I find security and comfort in his arms. In his words. “I’m sure they’ve escaped,” he says and how I want to believe him. “I’ll take care of you, Chuntao, I’ve got some money for you for your school fees/”

His lips brush my head, his arms release me, his fingers unfasten my coat, he takes it as I shrug it off, hangs it for me, turns back to me and takes my hands. “I love you, Chuntao,” he says and his hands lead me towards the bed and we undress each other and we make love again and again, slowly and I take solace in his love.

Lying together under the padded winter quilts, glowing in the aftermath of my climax, lying beneath him, his weight so comforting, cradling him between my thighs, I revel in his emissions within me, I revel in his swollen cock clasped within my sex, softening now but still within me, a symbol of his possession of me, and I know I am his. I am Martin’s, and I rest one hand on his head, holding him to me as his breathing slows, as he sighs with contentment and I smile at the ceiling.

“I love you, Chuntao,” he breathes. “I love you.”

“Martin,” I whisper. “Oh, Martin. I love you. I’ll always love you,” and in his arms I am secure. Content. Loved. He has money for me to pay my school fees and this day is coming to an end. I dread this parting. Knowing it will be Tuesday before I see him again and I want him to love me one last time before we leave. Before we close the door behind us.

“I wish we could be together always,” I say, softly, my hand delicately teasing him.

The room is heated, we have thrown the quilt off. He lies naked before me, lying on his back and I am propped on one elbow, lying on my side, looking down at him. His face, so handsome. His tousled blonde hair, his eyes of blue. That skin of alabaster white, such a contrast to my own olive-ivory complexion.

“Me too,” he says, his cock stirring under my fingertips. “Oh god, Chuntao.” He loves it when I run my nails down the underside of his cockshaft, all the way to his balls and I smile as his cock swells. Hardens. Soon. Soon, but not too soon.

“Have you talked to your Mother again?” I ask. “About morning tea?” I’m scared.

So many English people disapprove of a love like ours. An Englishman and a Chinese girl. They look down on us. Despise us as we despise them and how I hope Martin’s parents are different. How I hope they will accept me as their daughter-in-law. Martin hasn’t said anything, but I know he loves me so much. I know I shouldn’t have slept with him, I shouldn’t have given myself to him before marriage but I love him so much. I can’t not have him. There is no resistance to him in me, not anymore.

I have his love and I have my trust in him and my hope for our future together. That is enough.

Outside the School, he embraces me.

“I almost forget,” he said. “Here.” He smiles sheepishly. “I’ll have more for you next weekend, I’m going to borrow some from a couple of friends.”

“I love you,” I say, standing on my tiptoes, elated, kissing him, and then I smile and dart inside.

In the bedroom, I open the envelope and yes, there is money. Not nearly enough money and my heart sinks. There is enough here to pay off two months of arrears and it is not enough.

It is not nearly enough and I hope, how I hope that he can borrow enough from his friends.

* * *

“On Saturday,” he says on Tuesday night as we lie together in our room, in our bed, on that red sheet embroidered with the gold flowers. “On Saturday we will have afternoon tea with my mother. Not at the Cathay. At the Ascott.

I bury my face in his shoulder, shivering. When he takes me back to the school, he gives me another envelope. Enough for another two months of arrears but it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough and he knows that and I know that and the end of the month is soon. Very soon.

“I will have more for you at the start of next month,” he says, and I smile and hold him and kiss him and I worry. I cannot sleep. I will ask him if I can move into this room on Saturday. I will forget my studies. I can work in the clothing shop, and if I can live here, in this room, there will be enough money to live on. Perhaps Hua can join me here and she will not have to do what she does.

* * *

On Saturday afternoon, Martin takes me to afternoon tea. I have a new dress. Elsa Schiaparelli. Or, at least, an identical copy that cost me a fraction of what a real one would cost and it looks stunning. When I walk into the Ascott on Martin’s arms, I see the looks. Even Martin’s mother is impressed and this time there are no newspapers. She is friendly, chatty even in a condescending way.

She does not ask about my family but I am prepared. I tell her my backgrand. My grandfathers, high officials in the old government. My father a wealthy businessmen, not a comprador but he deals with the compradors of the large hongs. My mother a New Woman, modern in her outlook. Her family had sent her to Paris to attend University and Martin’s mother likes that.

When she asks me to dinner at the family home, to meet the family in two month’s time, when Martin’s father returns from Hong Kong, I know there is a chance. If she did not approve of me, she would not invite me but I do not show my happiness. I smile, I express my thanks. When Martin is absent for some minutes, she speaks to me as his mother.

“I was rather concerned when Martin spoke to me about you,” she says. “It’s not at all the done thing for someone like Martin to become involved with a Chinese girl, not one like you at any rate.” I can see she is thinking. “I know what he thinks of you, Chuntao. I know how much he feels for you.” Her hand places itself on mine. “I can see at a glance that it is reciprocal my dear. You two wear your emotions and feelings on your sleeves and you’re a delightful young girl.”

She pats my hand. “I do not approve of Ango-Chinese marriages my dear…”

My heart sinks like a stone.

“…but in your case, I think we can say you are the one girl in a million one would approve of.” She releases my hand, takes a silver cigarette case from her handbag, offers me one which I take. A waiter is there instantly, lighting them for us. We both inhale, she thinking, I using the cigarette to calm myself.

“His Hong will not approve of course. Jardines is notorious on matters such as this.” She breathes cigarette smoke in, blows out and Martin is returning, smiling at me. He produces his own cigarettes, joins us.

“Have you finished interrogating Chuntao, Mother?” he asks, smiling at me, taking my hand in his and almost I swell with happiness, for he is acknowledging our relationship so publicly, with his people, where anyone he knows might see him.

“Hush, Martin,” his mother says. “I’m thinking what favors I can call in to find you a new position where dear Chuntao will be acceptable. I think your Uncle Cecil will do. He works for that Hong, what’s their name…”

“Despardines?” Martin says.

“Yes, the Frogs. They’re rather more accepting on these matters and you won’t have to leave Shanghai. You’ll be dropped from the Shanghai Club of course, and there’s a few more you won’t be admitted to but you’ve already thought of that.”

“Of course I have, Mother,” Martin says, and I return his smile. “There’s no choice.”

“I can see that,” his mother says, rather drily. “Now, where’s that boy. After all this talk-talk I need something stronger than tea and I see Mrs Carruthers over there. Why don’t you take Chuntao home and come back to join me here.”

I’ve been expecting this. Martin warned me and I know we will not have this evening together but it has been worth it. Victory is in sight. The only obstacle now is his father and Martin’s opinion is that if his mother is won over, “father will come to heel fast enough.”

We make our farewells, Martin’s mother walks with us and on the way out she introduces me to one or two ladies of her own age as “Martin’s charming young friend, Miss Chuntao Wang, down from Nanking to study.” I smile shyly, I say the correct words and I am in ecstasy, for this is what I have hoped for.

“Tuesday,” Martin says as he escorts me to the School gate.

“Tuesday,” I say, standing on my toes, kissing him quickly.

* * *

“Chuntao, get dressed. Wear something nice, really nice” Hua says on Saturday evening, and she had left our room but now she has returned. “Quick. Mr. Maynard is waiting. He is taking us to hear Zhou Xuan singing. He has already asked Mrs. Innes if you can come with us.”

“Zhou Xuan?” I say, blankly. “The movie actress? That Zhou Xuan? The one who was in Street Angel?”

“Yes, yes, that Zhou Xuan. Hurry,” Hua says. “She is singing at the Paramount and Mr. Maynard is taking us there. Wear this.” She hands me a qipao she has bought me as a gift for with her men, she has enough money now. It is silk, figure hugging, slit half way up the thighs. I slip into it, fasten it, slip my high heeled shoes on. A coat, a hat, and I am following her down the hallway, our heels clicking and I am nervous for I have never been to the Paramount.

The Paramount at the corner of Yuyuan Road and Jessfield Road and, across the road, the brand new Ciro’s, they are Shanghai’s two most famous nightclubs and I would not think of going to either with Martin, for they are well-known. The Paramount’s Chinese name is “Gate of a Hundred Pleasures” (in Shanghainese that is said “pah-loh-men” and it is a play on the English name) and it is a shimmering monument to glitzy, glamorous debauchery.

With Hua and with Mr. Maynard to protect us, to see and to listen to Zhou Xuan sing, I will go and Mr. Maynard is waiting, a taxi outside the school and he smiles as he sees me.

“Chuntao, it is my turn to entertain you with music now,” he says as he hands us both into the taxi but he sits beside Hua, and it is Hua whose hand is on my arm as we are ushered inside, through the entrance on the corner and I know the building. It is a lovely art deco design, built in 1933 and across the road, Ciro is even more modern, built and opened in 1936 and I remember reading about it when I was in my second year.

Hua and I are elated. Mr. Maynard has a table near the stage and as we take our seats, I’m awestruck. It’s her. Zhou Xuan. She’s here, before our eyes, close enough to touch and she begins to sing. It is her great hit song, “One’s Young Life Like a Flower” and we listen, entranced, as her golden voice flows outwards, charming us, filling the club with the beauty of her voice.

花样的年华 / Huāyàng de niánhuá (One’s Young Life is like a flower)

月样的精神 / yuè yàng de jīngshén (The age of bloom, the enchanting years

冰雪样的聪明 / bīngxuě yàng de cōngmíng (The spirit of the moon)

美丽的生活 / Měilì de shēnghuó (The cleverness of the ice and snow)

多情的眷属 / duōqíng de juànshǔ (A beautiful life, passionate children, a successful family)

圆满的家庭 / yuánmǎn de jiātíng (Suddenly this land is a solitary island)

蓦地里这孤岛笼罩着惨雾愁云 / Mòdì lǐ zhè gūdǎo lóngzhàozhe cǎn wù chóuyún ((shrouded in a miserable foggy gloom, miserable foggy gloom)

惨雾愁云 / cǎn wù chóuyún (Ah! My lovely motherland)

啊！可爱的祖国几时我能够投进你的怀抱 / A! Kě’ài de zǔguó jǐshí wǒ nénggòu tóu jìn nǐ de huáibào (when will I be able to fall into your embrace)

能见那雾消云散 / Néng jiàn nà wù xiāo yúnsàn (I see through the fog as the clouds scatter)

重见你放出光明 / chóng jiàn nǐ fàngchū guāngmíng (Seeing again the shining bright light that you emit)

花样的年华 / Huāyàng de niánhuá (One’s Young Life like a Flower)

月样的精神 / yuè yàng de jīngshén (The age of bloom, the enchanting years)

冰雪样的聪明 / bīngxuě yàng de cōngmíng (The spirit of the moon)

Her voice fades away, another song starts, I sip on the iced drink Mr. Maynard has ordered, men are dancing with the taxi dancers.

“To my beautiful flowers, Hua and Chuntao,” Mr. Maynard says, and our glasses chime as we drink together and she is about to sing again and if I could reach out with my hand, I could touch her and she’s singing. Her eyes meet mine, hold mine and there is a strange look on her face, a look of sadness and melancholy and she’s singing for me.

Only for me…

夜上海　夜上海(Shanghai Nights, Shanghai Nights)

你是個不夜城 (You’re a city that never sleeps)

華燈起　樂聲響 (Dazzling lights, hustling cars)

歌舞昇平 (Peaceful and prosperous, song and dance)

只見她笑臉迎 (Seeing her smiling face)

誰知她內心苦悶 (Who knows her inner anguish)

夜生活　都為了 (Shanghai Nights, it’s all about)

衣食住行 (Clothing, food and shelter)

酒不醉人人自醉 (Wine doesn’t intoxicate, people intoxicate themselves)

胡天胡帝蹉跎了青春 (Recklessly squandering their youth)

曉色朦朧醉眼惺忪 (The haze of dawn blurs drunken eyes(

大家歸去心靈兒隨著轉動的車輪 (Waking up to the turning wheels)

換一換　新天地 (Everything changes, it’s a new world)

別有一個新環境 (Waking up from the aftertaste of the night)

回味著　夜生活 (Remembering the Nightlife)

如夢初醒 (Waking up from the dream)

The night passes as a dream passes. Zhou Xuan sings, the band plays on, couples dance, cigarette smoke fills the air, Mr. Maynard dances with Hua, he dances with me and I am happy that we have had dancing lessons at school.

“One last dance, Chuntao,” Mr. Maynard says and of course I dance with him and he is smiling down at me, one hand on my waist as we sway and circled to the music and the White Russian band plays on.

“Chuntao,” he says at last, and his face is serious.

“Yes?” I smile.

“If ever…” He hesitates. “There is no need for you to say anything, but if ever you need help, Chuntao, you have only to come to me. That is all.” He smiles and I do not reply, but remember his words with Mrs. Innes. I remember he left with Ailing and tonight Hua will be going with him after I am returned to the School and I know what me means.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Chuntao,” the Headmistress says as I sit before her desk the following Friday, nervous and afraid because I know what she is about to say.

“Your father hasn’t paid for this coming term. Or for the last three terms. Have you heard from your family at all? Do you know if everything is alright?” She does look concerned.

“No, Mrs. Innes,” I say, almost a whisper. “I haven’t heard from them for a year now.”

There was that last letter from my Mother, urging me to study hard and telling me not to worry, the Kuomintang forces fighting the Japanese would protect Nanking and if it became too dangerous, they would leave. How I hope they left, for everyone knows now what has happened in Nanking and I have not had any word since that last letter.

“Oh, Chuntao,” she says. “I don’t know what to do. The Board of Trustees has told me I must talk to you. We can’t keep you without payment, or at least some hope of payment as well as the arrears.” She hesitates, she knows where my family live. She too knows what has happened in Nanking. It’s no secret. “Have you heard anything from your family, Chuntao?” Mrs. Innes asks again. “Anything at all?”

There’s been nothing, and I shake my head mutely.

“It’s three terms now,” she says. “A year. I can’t keep you here without any payment, Chuntao. Is there anywhere you can go? Anyone you know in Shanghai?”

I shake my head mutely, scared sick. What can I do? I really don’t know anyone here in Shanghai. We have family in Hong Kong, cousins, but I don’t have an address. Only a name and how can I get to Hong Kong with no money of my own. I have a very small allowance, cash my father gave me when I came here four years ago and it’s almost all gone. It’s not enough for anything. There is Martin though, and I have his money.

I have it with me.

“Can I pay you for four months now,” I whisper. “I will be able to get more.” I hope. How I hope. I offer her the envelope. She takes it, counts the money inside; writes me a receipt.

“I will need the rest soon, Chuntao,” she says.

I nod, swallowing. “I will have more for you soon, Mrs Innes,” I say, hoping that I will. I am seeing Martin tomorrow. I will ask

“Don’t worry, Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says, placing her hand on mine. “I’m sure we’ll hear something from your family.”

I nod. What else can I do? But I do worry. Of course I do.

* * *

It is Saturday again and Martin has made love to me. We made love twice in the morning, once on the bed, on the red silk sheer, the second time in the armchair, he seated, I seated on him, riding him. We bathed, we dressed, we walked down the lane to the little café that serves coffee and croissants and we ate, we returned to our room and now we are making love again.

One of his arms is under my shoulders, his other hand strokes my arm, his lips are sealed to mine, crushing mine, his tongue deep in my mouth and he’s hard inside me, moving slowly and I am moaning, sobbing, crying out as he takes me and afterwards we lie together.

“I talked to Mrs. Innes,” I say. “I gave her the money but the Board wants me to pay off more of the amount owing.” I kiss him. “If I cannot pay it, can I come and live here, Martin?”
“My parents…” He hesitates. “They know you are at the School, Chuntao. If you move here… Mrs Innes and my Mother, they know each other.”

“I need to pay them if I am to stay there,” I say. “Perhaps your parents can help?” I am desperate.

He shakes his head. “I will borrow some more money from somewhere, Chuntao,” he says.

But there is no money from Martin the next weekend, or the next and I cannot bare to ask. I have not even paid of half of what is owing and with every passing day, I dread Mrs. Innes asking me. That next weekend comes and he has money for me. It is another two months and even with that, I will have only paid off half of what Father owes the school

“Thank you, Martin,” I say, taking it anyway. Surely half is better than nothing.

“That’s everything I have been able to borrow,” he says. “I can’t exactly ask Pater for that much money. I can have some more next month, from my salary.”

My heart sinks. I know he can’t and I know he won’t be able to raise enough money.

“I will ask Hua if her family can help,” I say, knowing I am being untruthful and the moment I have been dreading is coming closer.

“Dinner with Father and the family in three weeks,” he says, smiling. “And then we can make our engagement official.” He takes me in his arms. “Lets make love again and I’ll take you back to school.”

It’s night when he takes me back.

It’s another Shanghai night in the City that Never Sleeps and I’m tired now. Seated in the rickhaw, the boy pulling us down the road, slowly, because I told him there was no hurry, I rest my head on Martin’s shoulder, his arm around me and I treasure this moment of time, him and me, together. Only us.

* * *

Tuesday, Thursday, nights of love. Saturday and there is a surprise for me. Martin is there before me, smiling as I throw myself into his arms. A knock on the door interrupts us.

“What?” I say, eyes wide, eyeing the old Chinese man standing in the hallway, carrying and easel and a satchel with paints and brushes.

“I want him to paint us together, Chuntao. You and me,” Martin says.

“What?” I say, after Martin has explain. “No. No. I won’t.”

“Chuntao,” he pleads. “He is an artist, his paintings are… words don’t do them justice… he will capture us together, you and me. He’ll capture us forever…” He smiles. He holds me. He kisses me. He coaxes and he cajoles and in the end I agree.

I lie naked on my side on the bed, on that red silk sheet which is embroidered with flowers of gold. Martin lies behind me, naked, and he is erect within seconds, his erection pressed against my butt and the old Chinese man begins to paint, on and on. He allows us to take a break every hour, to stretch and then we return to that same pose.

“No,” I say, when the old man wants me to lift my knee. To expose my sex, but in the end, I do and Martin’s hand rests on my knee.

“It is done,” the old man says at last, and I hope he is right for it has been all day. “You may look.”

I slide forward, sit on the edge of the bed and Martin stands, he takes my hand. He doesn’t care that the old man is taking the painting, laying it on the small wooden table in the corner and that I’m naked.

Martin walks over to the painting, looks, whistles softly and he’s smiling. He beckons to me and I stand, naked, walk to the table and I’m conscious that I’m naked but the old man’s been looking at me all day. I look at that painting and my eyes widen.

“It’s beautiful,” I gasp, my eyes watering. “It’s so beautiful.”

I’ve never realized I look like this. Sensual, beautiful, the old man’s made me far more beautiful than I am. He’s captured Martin as well. Everything that I find attractive in Martin is there.

“Leave it here to dry,” the old man says.

Martin pays him without question, without any discussion and the old man nods once and he’s gone, the door closing behind him.

“What are you going to do with it?” I ask, a little embarrassed that someone else might see it.

Martin smiles. “It’s a surprise,” he says, taking me in his arms.

His cock swells against me as he holds me in his arms and I smile, knowing what comes next and it does, on and on, bliss as we are together, as we move together and I forget everything for a time as our bodies dance on the red silk sheet.

“Chuntao, I love you… I love you.” His voice is a groan as he climaxes, as he brings me to my own culmination and I love him so much and afterwards, as we lie together, I know that I can’t ask him. Not again. I can’t and I want to and I’m feeling sick inside. I need the money for Mrs Innes and I can’t ask. I can’t. Not Martin, not again. I have asked him too many times and I cannot let anything prevent me from this marriage and gaining his family’s approval. I cannot move in her and I know what I must do and I dread it. I dress slowly, my hands shaking, clumsy. What am I going to do? I know and I do not want to and I cling to him as we ride back the school in a rickhaw. I cling to him as he kisses me goodnight and I walk into the school and my heart sinks.

* * *

It’s Sunday and on Sunday, I’m playing the guqin for Mr. Maynard and he is looking at me.

“Mr. Maynard?” I say, and I feel faint. Dizzy. As if the room’s far too hot and it isn’t.

“Yes, Chuntao?” he says, and I stop playing. I cannot look at him.

“Can I ask you to help me?” I say, my voice a whisper, almost inaudible.

“How much do you need?” he asks, as if he is asking me to walk to the park with him.

I tell him and he nods. He opens his wallet, peels out banknotes. Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation notes. Large denominations. He counts them out, onto the little coffee table between us. One note after another and I am counting in my head, blinking a little for it seems a lot.

“That is for every Sunday afternoon and evening until the end of this year,” he says. “You know what Hua does. You know what I desire from you. If you would like more, I will pay you for…” He hesitates.

“Wednesday evenings,” I say, for Tuesdays and Thursdays are with Martin.

“Wednesdays then,” he says. “I will pay you every month, in advance.” His wallet reappears, he adds to the notes on the coffee table.

“I’ve never done this before,” I say, feeling ill now. Ill, but also relieved. He’s not shocked. He’s not upset or offended

Mr. Maynard looks at me. Studies me until my cheeks burn. “Are you untouched?” he says.

For a moment I don’t know what he means and then I do, and my cheeks are in fire. Ashamed, humiliated, I look down and shake my head.

“Good,” he says, and he’s smiling now. “I like my girls with a little experience.”

I look at the money, swallow, and my heart thumps. There’s enough there that I can pau off the arrears to Mrs. Innes and w weight lifts from my shoulders.

“You won’t tell anyone,” I whisper.

“No,” he says. “I won’t tell a soul. This is between you and me, Chuntao.” He smiles, peels some more notes from his wallet, holds them out to me. “This is for you, Chuntao, buy yourself some pretty lingerie, a nice qipao or two.” He smiles. “Something you think I might like to see you in.”

I look at him for a moment, and then I reach out and I take the money from his hands.

I know what I’m doing as I take those banknotes. I’m selling myself to him.

I need money and this is Shanghai. There is no pity, there is no mercy.

Not for the penniless and my heart sinks, for I see no other path.

Nobody will miraculously appear to save me from this.

My body and my smile. That is all I have to sell.

Mr. Maynard is a more than willing buyer.

“I’ll meet you outside the School.”

I smile that artificial smile.

I watch him walk out.

Only then do I cry.

Fifteen minutes later I meet him outside. Thirty minutes later we are in his apartment. Ten minutes after that I am naked and in his bed, he has undressed me. He has undressed himself and I cannot help looking. He is aroused, erect, he desires me and at the sight of him, I shudder but there is that wetness, that excitement.

“God, I want you, Chuntao,” he says, moving to the bed, lying beside me looking down at me and his hand parts my legs gently. He’s looking at me. At my sex and he moves over me, his knees between my legs and I know what to do as his finger touches me, explores me and I’m wet for him. I find his rigid hardness with my hand, guide him to me as I draw my knees back, as I expose and surrender myself to him. He touches me gently, readying me.

I shudder again, moaning as he lets my hand guide him, as he mounts me, as he possesses me, as he gently makes me his as only Martin has ever made me his. His weight is on me, I draw my knees further back, I’m open to his thrusting possession, he’s inside me, cradled by my thighs as pins my hands to the bed above my head and fills me again and again and again while I moan my surrender.

His movements are slow and steady, he’s taking his time with me, his cock eases in and out of me, he is sheathing himself in me slowly, easing out, sliding back in again. My channel clasps him, he fills me, holds himself still high inside me and my entire body ripples with the reluctant pleasure I feel.

I look up into his face. Mr Maynard’s face. He is making love to me except this is not love. He as bought me. He has paid to use my body and his naked body moves on mine. I’m beneath him, I’ve surrendered myself to him, opened myself wide to him and his cock eases into me at the juncture of my thighs where I offer myself to him for his taking, for his pleasure. He eases outwards, only the head of his cock is inside me. He pauses there. His lips brush mine, a fleeting kiss.

“Chuntao,” he groans. His cock slides up inside me, pushing inwards, sliding into me, the walls of my channel surrender to him, clasp his thickness as he fills me inside.

“Ohhhhh.” Now I groan as he presses himself to the hilt inside me. All of him is within me, he presses up against me and I’m shuddering as I feel him there, as clasp all of him within me. He’s so far up inside me and I every inch of him is big and hard. I’m stretched around him where he enters me and I’m clasping him there where he joins my body, where I’m forced open for him to enter me, to penetrate inside me, to sheathe himself in me.

It’s strange to experience myself being taken like this. He’s not a stranger but I never expected he would have me, not like this, his weight on me like this, to lie beneath him with my legs so widely parted, drawn back to give him access to that most intimate part of me, it’s so strange. I’ve surrendered myself to him, sold myself, I’m giving myself to him, opening myself to him and he’s taking me and I had thought it would be worse but it’s not.

“Uuuhhhhh.” His cock is all the way inside me again, he’s moving steadily, and I can’t help making those little noises. The same noises I make for Martin. Moans. Gasps. Cries. Sobs. My hands clutch at his where he pins them to the bed and I surrender. I’m his to use, on my back, my legs spread wide, drawn back, so open to him. So helpless. His. Completely his.

“Chuntao,” he groans at last, “I can’t wait…. I have to … I have to…” His thrusts are more urgent, harder, he’s demanding, he’s taking from me now. Taking his pleasure. I don’t care. He has paid to use me and he does. He thrusts hard, his cock pounds into me, his shoulder and back muscles tense and strain under my hands where I’m clutching at him. My eyes stare blindly up at his face as my back arches, my feet kick helplessly towards the ceiling as his cock rams into me and rams into me and rams into me. His pelvis slaps noisily up against me, the head of his cock pushes up against my cervix, hurting me.

“Uuhhh … uuhhh … uhhhh …” I hear myself groan with each of this thrusting drives, helpless groans, forced from me by the power of his movements. All I can do is utter those wordless groans of surrender as he uses my body for his pleasure.

His cock seems to swell inside me, he’s so hard. Rigid. A solid bar of steel that pierces me, impales me, drives into me deeply again and again and again, faster, harder. He has one hand under my shoulders, holding me in place, his other hand works its way down under me, his fingers splay wide under my butt, lifting me a little. Impossibly, his cock seems to drive deeper within me.

“Ooaagghhh … uuughhhh …. uughhhh…” My choked out groans become more intense, if that’s possible. His cock sheathes itself within me again and again, his hips move, he drives himself up inside me, his cockhead frictioning against the clasping walls of my channel with every slide. He’s close. I know he’s close and my own pleasure is growing now, closer and closer with every pounding thrust. My hands clutch at him, my fingers dig into his skin, my feet bounce against his hips as he has me.

His weight, his strength, he’s so big on me, above me, his thrusts sink his cock to the hilt inside me, drive me down into my mattress. My bed squeaks and somewhere in the back of my mind I’m relieved that it hasn’t collapsed because he’s not being gentle with me. He’s taking me. We’re not making love. He’s fucking me. Using me. He has paid to use me.

“Yes,” I hear myself sob, “yes … yes … fuck me … fuck me …”

He does.

It’s so good.

“Uughhh.” I’m beyond words, I groan as he thrusts into me, hard. His body slaps up against mine, my hands clutch at his back, my head arches back, my feet kick upwards towards the ceiling of my bedroom. There’s no thought, no words, there’s nothing in my mind beyond sensation and emotion and the reluctant pleasure of being taken.

“Uugghhh …. Uggghhh … huuuuhhhh….” He drives the breath from me with every movement. I’m sheened with sweat, his body slides wetly on mine, my breasts are crushed beneath his chest, harsh friction as he strains against me.

He’s holding me tight, one arm under my shoulders, half supporting his weight, his other hand roams over my hip, my thigh, touching me everywhere and he’s fucking me the way he wants to fuck me. He’s enjoying me, enjoying fucking me, I look into his eyes, I see his face and there’s nothing there but his desire for me, his need, his want and I know that for him, right now, it’s all about me.

My body under his, taut and hot against him, my thighs cradling him, my sex slickly clasping his cock as he slides himself in and out of me and he’s using me, fucking me, reveling in what his cock is experiencing as he has me and I cross my ankles behind his back and i squeeze him tight, I clasp him in me as he moves.

“Fuck me,” I wail, arching my back beneath him, tightening myself on him, “do me do me do me do it to me do it in me …” and he does.

His cock throbs, pulses, pumps. He groans, throwing his head back, body arching, driving into me as his semen spurts out once more, deep inside me, my sex accepting his fluid eruption, milking him as he fills me with his semen and it’s like a volcano is erupting inside me, flooding me, filling me and he gives it to me. He gives me all of it until he’s done.

I lie beneath him, cradling his weight on me, our bodies slippery with our intermingled sweat, my hands continue stroking his back and his shoulders. His head lowers, it rests on my pillow beside me, his breath hot against my ear. His cock is still inside me I’ve been used. He’s used my body, he’s paid me and I lie there with tears trickling from the corners of my eyes. This is not Martin. This is a man who’s using me, I’m something to amuse himself with and to enjoy. I know that now and I drink the bitter tears of despair as I understand what I am.

I can hide this from Martin, but never from myself.

“A bath together,” Mr. Maynard smiles as he relieves me of his wight, “and then I’m going to fuck you again before I take you out for dinner.” He grins. “And then I’ll fuck you again before I return you to Mrs. Innes.

* * *

I can think of nothing else all Monday but what we did. My mind is a blank one minute, in turmoil the next. I’m going to meet him again and again and again. All year, and he will do to me what he did yesterday. He’s given me money. I’ve taken it. I know what Martin and I do together, but that seems so natural. Martin and I belong together, and when I think of Martin, I want to cry. I don’t want to do this, not with this man. If Martin had only listened to me, only been able to help me, I wouldn’t have to do this.

Hua must have been through this and now I wish I had been more observant. I don’t know how I could have helped her but there must have been something I could have done. Now it’s my turn and I wish I could talk to her about this but what can I possibly say. She knows about Martin. She knows I love Martin. She’s been so happy for me and now can I talk to her about this.

School ends for the day and I go back to our room. I change into the clothes I usually wear to go to my salesgirl job in, except I won’t be working their tonight. I stay in our room, scared. Nervous. Frightened, but I have taken his money. I need that money. My Dad owed so much and I have paid the arrears but unless I continue to pay, I will have to leave, my education will end, there will be no university.

How I hope my parents and family have survived. Nanking has fallen, the Japanese are triumphant, terrible things are happening there and surely my father would have led my mother and my brothers and sisters to safety. Worry about them does nothing for me, here. Now, without my father to support me, I must worry about myself and there is one small blessing.

I was not a virgin for Mr. Maynard. Martin at least had that from me and I cry.

* * *

On Tuesday, Martin and I make love in our room as we do and I am afraid. Afraid he will notice that something is different but he doesn’t and I am relieved.

* * *

“Next Wednesday,” Mr. Maynard says. “Come here after school and wait for me. Here’s your key, and here’s extra money to take a taxi here, there will always be money there for you to take a taxi home afterwards.” He stands beside the bed, fastening the buttons of his shirt, looking down at me as I lie on the bed on which he has taken me. He hasn’t made love to me. Martin makes love to me. Mr. Maynard has fucked me.

I am not a virgin, but now I have been fucked for the first time in my life. It not be the last time, it will be the first of many and I am ashamed to find that I enjoy what Mr. Maynard does to me. I enjoy it enough that I climax as he takes me and he smiles and gives me some extra money to go shopping with.

Shanghai is continuing to teach me and I have learnt another lesson. The same lesson that Hua has learnt before me. If you are a girl like me, with no skills to earn your keep, there is one thing you can sell that any man will pay for if they have the money and if you do it well, they will pay you well. I have been paid. I have been fucked. My body has been used to earn money.

I don’t know whether I should be happy or saddened.

At least I am alive and there is a future for me.

That was the way it was in Old Shanghai.

You did what you had to do.

If you didn’t, you died.

I have chosen to live.

“Next Wednesday,” he says, leaning down, and to my surprise he kisses my lips, a quick affectionate brush. “You’re exquisite, Chuntao,” he says. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Ce n’est rien,” I say, and I have no idea why it comes out in French.

Perhaps I am in a state of shock. Perhaps my mind is dazed and confused. I know I’m not thinking at all. I’m puzzled. Why did I climax like that for him? How was it that I love Martin so much but I enjoyed this with Mr. Maynard? How is that I am ashamed of myself. Ashamed at what I have done here in this room with this man for whom I feel nothing, but I still feel that pleasure? Why do I tingle with excitement as I lie before him, naked, his eyes admiring me?
I am ashamed of myself but already I am becoming used to this

* * *

“Chuntao,” Mrs Innes says, two weeks later.

“Yes Mrs Innes?” I say.

“There’s a gentleman who would like to meet you. May I introduce you to him on Friday evening?”

I have been with Mr. Maynard twice a week for two weeks now and it is no longer strange and I will need the money for University. I hesitate. But what difference between one and two?

“Yes,” I say.

* * *

“You look very pretty, Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says, and she’s smiling as she stands behind me, brushing my hair. “That qipao looks quite delightful on you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Innes,” I whisper, and I’m embarrassed and ashamed. Embarrassed that I’m dressed like this, in this shamefully revealing qipao. Under the sunlight shining in through her office window, I can see my underwear through the translucent sheer silk. The transparent Ferrero bra, fitting my small breasts perfectly. The sheer back lace panties, transparent, concealing nothing and knowing how I will look to his eyes, I shiver.

There’s a knock on the door and at Mrs. Innes’ nod, I stand as the boy opens the door.

“Mr Bradley, ma’am. Miss Wang.”

“Edward, how delightful,” Mrs. Innes says. “Chuntao, this is Edward Barkley. Edward, this is Wang Chuntao.” She introduces me in the Chinese manner, surname first. “Please, take a seat, Edward. Some tea, Fung.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Fung bows, leaves, closing the door behind him, his eyes glancing at me, his expression unchanging. I know Fung, his father was once a Mandarin, one of the Emperor’s bureaucrats, wealthy and respected. Now he is destitute and Fung is a houseboy for a white woman.

He is a houseboy and I, I am about to become the toy of another white man and I am ashamed. Ashamed and humiliated and desperate and I meet Fung’s eyes, my own face as expressionless as his, for we both know. This is survival, and one does what one must to survive. I at least have only myself to care for. Fung has his parents, his grandparents and his wife and children and in Shanghai, slavery and death come easily.

Edward seats himself in one of the four chairs grouped in the corner of the office. Mrs. Innes takes another. I stand before the window, where Mrs. Innes placed me, the sunlight turning my silk qipao almost transparent and Mr. Barkley is looking at me, his expression rapt.

“She’s very beautiful,” he says, appreciatively, and I can almost taste the desire in his voice.

Mrs. Innes nods. “Chuntao is in her last year at our School and as you know, she’s had some financial difficulties, Edward.”

“It is a difficult situation for Chuntao, Edward,” Mrs. Innes says, and I wonder if she sat here saying the same thing to other men when she made arrangements for Hua and then Ailing, for now I know Hua is not alone in having arrangements made for her. Arrangements like this, except I think perhaps I am lucky. Hua was a virgin when Mrs. Innes made arrangements for her. I am not. There’s still that sickness inside at the thought of what is being arranged here.

“I do understand, Mrs. Innes,” he says, his eyes on me.

“Chuntao is… amenable to making an arrangement, Edward,” Mrs. Innes says. “Perhaps you’d like to chat with Chuntao while I see where Fung’s got to with the morning tea.”

She stands, Mr. Barkley stands with her and we both watch her as she leaves the room, closing the door behind her. He looks at me as I stand there in the sunlight and I know he’s nervous. So am I. He’s fot looking, tall, slim and elegantly dressed. A suit, white shirt, tie, his hair neatly cut and he flicks a cigarette from a silver cigarette case.

“Do you mind if I smoke, Chuntao?” he asks, pausing suddenly.

“No, not at all,” I smile, and there’s a box of matches on the desk. I do what I’ve seen other girls do and pick the matches up, cup my hands, light one for him. He holds the cigarette to his lips, holds the tip to the flame, inhales as the tip glows red, breathes out smoke and his hand is trembling a little. I wonder why.

“Do you smoke?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” I say. “We’re not permitted to smoke at school, but I like the scent of your cigarette.” I do, and I breathe it in. English cigarettes. “What make are they?”

“Chesterfield,” he says. He’s smiling and I smile back.

“Mrs. Innes says you’re in your last year,” he says. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” I say. A little before I met Martin for the first time and it seems both so recent and so far in the past. So much has changed in my life in this two months.

“Mrs. Innes said you’re amenable to an arrangement, Chuntao,” he says, drawing on his cigarette.

“Yes,” I say, blushing pink. “My family, I haven’t heard from them for so long, there’s no money…” I swallow, holding back the tears but my eyes sparkle.

“I understand,” he says, and he reaches for one of my hands. His hand is warm, firm, strong and his grip when he takes mine in his is decisive. “Having met you, yes, I’d like to come to an arrangement with you, Chuntao.” He pauses. “I’ve never done this before, Sing-song girls, yes of course, what man in Shanghai doesn’t. But an arrangement with a girl like you….” He shakes his head, but his hand does not relinquish mine.

“You’re beautiful, Chuntao,” he says. “I want you if you agree. Only if you agree, my dear.”

I don’t smile, I’m too sad too smile but I nod my head. “I agree, Mr. Barkley.”

“Edward,” he says. “You may call me Edward, Chuntao.”

“Yes, Edward,” I say, and I know I have agreed to sell my body to him. Only my body.

The door opens. “Edward.” Mrs. Innes is back, smiling at him, glancing at me, smiling when I smile back. She takes her seat, smiles as I pour her a cup of tea made in the English manner.

“Thank you, Chuntao,” she says.

“Well, what do you think, Edward?” she asks.

“She’s perfect,” he says. “Perfect.”

“Chuntao?”

“Yes,” I say.

“You’re free on Monday nights aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I say.

“One evening per week,” Mrs. Innes says, rather primly.

“Very well.” Mr Bradley looks at me and nods, slowly, as if to himself. “And for…”

There are spots of pink on her cheeks when she glances at me. “You should add an allowance for Chuntao as well. She’ll need some spending money…”

Mr. Bradley nods. “I understand. I’d prefer to pay cash if you don’t object, Mrs. Innes. I’ll drop by the School on Monday evening. Perhaps we can schedule my appointments with Chuntao now.”

Mrs Innes glances at me. My trysts with Martin are Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Mr. Maynard is Wednesday’s. I’ll have to give up my salesgirl job completely but that was a pittance compared to this. Of course, I’ll be selling my skin and my smile, selling my body to a second middle-aged white man, making a whore of myself but I know this is the only choice I have. There’s no chance of returning home.

My only other alternative, it would be far worse than this and I’m not a virgin. Not now. I know what he wants to do with me and I swallow. I nod my agreement jerkily

“I have a room nearby,” Mrs. Innes says. “If you would care to use that, we can arrange for the cost to be shared with the other gentlemen and we can add it to the bill.”

“You think of everything,” Mr. Bradley smiles. One of his large white hands rests on mine. He smiles at me. ”

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he says, leaning forward, brushing her cheek. “You were right, she’s perfect. Exactly what I was looking for.” He stands, nods to me. “Monday evening, Chuntao.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says after he has gone, her hand resting on mine and her eyes are sad. “There are worse things in life than men like Edward.” She pats my hand.

* * *

Mr. Bradley has paid for my company, and I understand Hua’s sadness as she leaves now. Standing in the darkness of this hotel room, my hand trembling in his, I gaze at the vase of peach blossoms on the dresser and I understand how I am to pay for my education. My final year at the Shanghai English Girls School. My first year University and perhaps subsequent years. Boarding with Mrs. Innes. My allowance. I know how I will pay for all of that.

I understand all too well as he turns towards me and begins to unfasten my qipao. .

Lying naked on the bed after he has finished using me, I know one chapter in my story has ended and a new one is to begin. Like the delicate peach blossoms on the dresser, I’ve been admired, desired and taken. Like those peach blossoms, I’ve budded and now I’ve blossomed under the sunlight of men’s desire. Blossomed and been plucked. My spring is ended, my summer is here and when Mr. Bradley smiles, I force a smile in return.

The peach blossom I hold falls from my hand, discarded as he moves to take me again, his urgency, his desire, his need overwhelming me and I give him what he desires so much, knowing as he moves to possess me again that he’s a foreigner and I’m Chinese. He desires me now, but it is a temporary desire. It is lust and in the end, I know what will happen. I know my fate for now at least and how I hope for marriage with Martin.

* * *

“Chuntao,” Martin says, the following Saturday, and I’m smiling even though I’m sad inside. “It’s Valentine’s Day today.” He has had that painting framed. He gives me money still. I smile and thank him and I cannot tell him I do not need it. Not now and with Martin, I forget the other men and soon I will meet his father. He has been delayed, he will not return for weeks and I have met again with Martin’s mother. It has been a success.

* * *

Three months have passed. It is another Friday night and I am on my hands and knees before another foreigner in his hotel bedroom. He is not the first such. Mrs Innes makes the arrangements for Hua and I and the other girls. She brought us both to the hotel tonight, through the staff entrance; she has made all the arrangements. There have been half a dozen such men now over the last two months. This one is an American, a Mr. Bickham, and he is enjoying me.

He is certainly eager and I am used to that eagerness now, I am used to the enthusiasm with which they fuck me and I do my best to give them what they have paid for. Hua and I have studied our books, we have practiced diligently and we are good. The men tell us we are good.

Mr. Bickham tonight tells me that I am good.

“Thank you,” I say, not looking at the money on the dresser as I take it and slip it into my handbag. It is months now since I first did this with Mr. Maynard. I go with him on Sundays and Wednesdays, Mr. Barkley on Mondays, and there are different men on Fridays. Martin has Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays as he has always had and those are my nights of love. These other nights, they are business and I forget them as I walk out the door.

I smile as this Mr. Bickham watches me, for I am naked, and I watched him as he counted out the banknotes and he has been very generous. For that, he will get my smiles. More than my smiles, my gratitude, for the additional money he has paid me will pay for another week of my school fees, and over the last three months I have saved money for university.

Mrs Innes has said Hua and I can continue to board at the School, and now we can both pay for our board as well. These men, the men to whom I sell my body, I do what I do with these men to survive, to continue my studies. I separate them in my mind from Martin.

With no contact with my family, no money from my father, I do what I have to do and afterwards, after they have finished with me, I wash them from my mind as I wash them from my body. It is Martin whom I love. It is Martin with whom I make love. Tuesdays, Thursdays and all day Saturday, that is my time with Martin. That is my time for love.

This time in this room tonight, all the other times like this that I spend with other men, that is the price I pay to live, for this is Shanghai and in Shanghai, death comes easily and it is cheap. Life? Life is something you pay for and this is how I pay.

And so, I smile at Mr. Bickham, for it is this money from Mr. Bickham and all the other men like him, the men who desire to use my body, it is this money that pays for my life. I walk towards him as he lies on the bed, breathing heavily, the scent of his sweat heavy in the air of this hotel room even with the whirring fan overhead stirring the thick humid air.

“Come,” I say, taking his hand. “Let me wash you.” I smile as if washing him clean is that thing I desire most in my life, and he smiles back.

He smiles and he follows me into the bathroom where I have already filled the bathtub with water. Cool water, not cold, but cool and refreshing and he climbs in heavily, gracelessly and he’s watching me as I slide in after him,

“I have to go soon,” I breathe, as he leans back against the curved rear of the bathtub, breathing stentoriously, his chest pumping like bellows and I’m gasping myself, little moans of pleasure escaping my mouth every now and then and his cock inside me gives me such pleasure. I don’t want him to ease from me, I want him to stay inside me and tonight I am working but I enjoy my work.

This isn’t love. This is work. This is survival. This is something I have to do to live but all the same, I enjoy this sex with this Mr. Bickham. This fucking. After three months of this, I am no longer reluctant. I can divorce this from my love of Martin. I regret that I must do this, I am shamed by this but it is something I must do and I accept this, reluctantly.

To love Martin, I must live.

To live, I must sell my body. The important thing is not that I sell my body. The important thing is that Martin will never know of this and thus, I prefer men like Mr. Bickham. Men that are transient, visitors to Shanghai and preferably not English. Men whom Martin will never meet. Men who will fuck me and leave, never to be seen again.

“Would you like to go back to bed and do it again?” I breathe, squeezing him with my sex and even limp, his cock throbs inside me.

“Oh sweet Jesus, I’ve died and I’m in heaven,” he groans. “I don’t think I can get it up again.”

I squeeze him, milk him inside me and I brush his nose with mine. I brush his lips with mine.

“Are you really at School?” he groans, his hands caressing my butt.

“Boarding School,” I say, lifting myself, gasping as he slides from me to flop limply into the water. “I do this to pay my school fees.”

“No bull?” he says as I begin to wash him again.

“No bull,” I say, lowering myself into the water, smiling as I soap his chest. “My family was in Nanking when it fell to the Japanese. I have to look after myself, there’s no-one else, not anymore.”

“You poor kid,” he says, watching my hands as I soap his cock and from his face, I know he’s going to give me more after this. I’ll smile and I’ll take it, because it’s no bull. “There’s nobody to look after you?”

“This is Shanghai,” I say, and now he’s watching me wash myself. Sorry for me or not, his cock stirs as I soap myself down. “No-one cares if a girl like me lives or dies.”

No-one except Hua and I.

“Jesus, that’s terrible,” he says, and sure enough, his cock is swelling slowly.

I shrug. I’m beyond crying for my family now. I’m beyond crying for me. I’m alive. I’m as safe as a girl in my position in Shanghai could be. Safer really, because Mrs Innes looks after us and she’s better than any pimp would be. She really does care for us and she does the best she can. Me? I have something to hope for.

I have Martin and he loves me and I love him and one day, somehow, he’s going to marry me and all this will vanish. It will be as if it has never happened and I can’t wait for that day. I’m going to hint to Martin again, maybe this week if I can summon up the courage.

“Let’s go back to bed soon,” I say, easing forward, sliding myself soapily against Mr. Bickham. “Wash my back for me?”

I kiss him lightly. Teasingly. He spends a lot of time soaping my butt and by the time he’s done, he’s hard again and I dry him and we go back to bed. He’s rock hard and he wants me badly. He’s gentle to start with but my being a boarding school girl, my sweetness, my innocence, they inflame him and he can’t help himself.

When I leave. he tips me as much again as he’s already paid me. “Jesus, kid. I’m sorry,” he says. “I got real carried away there. I wish I could give you more.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bickham,” I say, my lips brushing his as I say goodbye and its nearly midnight and I’ll never see him again and he’s been nice to me so I kiss him. I don’t do that often, not for these Saturday evening men. I’ll take a taxi back to Boarding School and I’m yawning as I take the service elevator down.

I’ve been here often enough now the staff know me. They know Hua and I. Mrs Innes made all the arrangements, the Hotel Manager calls her now and then and she’ll send one of us to his office where he will take his payment and that is the price Hua and I pay to survive. It could be worse and unlike Hua, I have Martin, and at the thought of Martin, I smile.

Martin loves me and I love him. I must live, I must survive, and then we will marry and we will be happy together for the rest of our lives. He will know nothing of this, and I will forget. I will forget everything about this except Hua, and when Martin and I marry, I will take her from this life. I will take her with me and we will be happy.

I take a deep breath and then sigh as the hotel room door shuts behind me. I wish I didn’t have to do this, but at least he was nice and that’s three times what I usually get. Tomorrow is Sunday, I’ve got permission to sleep in and Mr. Standiford won’t be there until after Church, when he will fuck me. We will then have lunch with Mrs Innes and I will play the gulin for them, as I do now every Sunday, after which Mr. Standiford will fuck me again.

Sometimes I wonder why she permits him to fuck me in her private sitting room, the one next to her office, but I prefer not to think about that so I don’t. I think of the money in my handbag instead. I am earning enough now in one week to pay a month of boarding school arrears. Another month of this and I will have paid of my debt and I can think of next year, of University.

* * *

“Chuntao? Do you have a moment?” Mrs. Innes beckons me in to her office as I walk in.

“Yes, of course.” It’s early evening, I have been with Martin all day. It’s three hours before Mr. Carmichael is picking me up as he does once a month and I know it will be a long night. He’s married but I think Mr. Carmichael saves everything for me and he’s addicted to those old Chinese classics. He wants to try everything.

In her office, I sip the tea she pours for me, waiting.

“I have a special request, Chuntao,” she says, her own tea poured. “One of our other gentlemen, not one of yours, he’s willing to pay, and pay well, but it’s not what you’re used to. If you don’t want to, I’ll understand. He wants a special girl, not just any sing-song girl and he’ll pay…” She names an amount that makes me blink.

“What is it for?” I ask.

“It’s for a birthday party,” she says. “Him and a few friends. It’s his friend’s birthday and he wants a special birthday present for his friend.”

“Oh,” I say.

“This gentleman wants to have a little party with his friend and a few other friends, half a dozen friends was what he said, but with a nice girl, a sort of birthday present party.” Mrs. Innes’ cheeks turn pink. “It’s a little shocking, Chuntao, but men are men and it would mean…” She’s flustered.

I almost giggle. I can giggle about this now without feeling too embarrassed. I’ve been having sexual relations with Martin as well as with four or five men old enough to be my father for the last two months. Not to mention my Saturday evenings, and almost always that is with a different man. I know what I am now. I don’t lie to myself, not anymore. I’m a whore through necessity, and I’m still embarrassed sometimes by what they ask me to do, but still, I’m a whore and I’m not without some experience in what men desire from a woman.
“It would mean with all of them, that’s what he wants isn’t it?” I says.

“Yes, I think so, yes,” Mrs. Innes says.

“Six?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m so sorry to ask this, Chuntao.” She’s flushing.

“When does he plan to have his birthday party?” I ask.

“Saturday evening,” she says. “You have a booking next Saturday but the weekend after….”

I’m meeting Martin on Saturday, that’s our day together, mostly all day in bed. I can do Saturday evening. I will make an excuse.

“Alright,” I say. “Just as long as it’s nothing too strange.”

* * *

“Mother talked to Father,” Martin says, taking my hands in his and he’s smiling and my heart beats faster as I gaze up into his eyes.

“Yes?” I say, unwilling to hope. Not daring to hope, bt hoping so much.

“Mother told him I’d met this Chinese girl. That she was beautiful, from a good family, that we were in love and I wanted to bring her home to meet them,” he says.

“And?” Oh god, I’m going to faint. The suspense. The unbearable suspense.

“They agreed. I’m to bring you to a small party and then to dinner this Sunday.” He’s grinning now, radiant, and my I’m sure my face is as radiant as his. “Chuntao, I have something for you. Will you wear it for me?”

It’s a ring. A diamond engagement ring and I’m ecstatic but I still have to leave early for the birthday party.

He walks me from the taxi to the school gate, waits while the doorman opens the small door to one side. He takes me in his arms and kisses me, holding me so tight and what can I say? What can I do? I love him and he’s proposed. I’m wearing his ring. He’s going to marry me and I’m so full of joy. Ecstatic. My arms go around his neck and I kiss him back as he wants to be kissed and I’m embarrassed because the doorman is waiting. Watching.

He doesn’t say a word. What Chinaman would dare? I’m just a Chinese girl that an Englishman is kissing. The guard on the gate, he’s used to that, He knows me.

“Tomorrow, Chuntao,” Martin says. “Be ready for midday, I’ll come and pick you up.”

“Yes, Martin,” I say, dancing on air.

“I love you, Chuntao,” he says and his finger traces down my cheek, along my jaw, tilts my face up and he kisses me again.

* * *

They are older man, they do not tell me their names. They have a suite at the Cathay, one of the expensive ones and I am there to entertain the birthday guest and then the rest of them, half a dozen of them. I do, I undress myself before their eyes, I lead the birthday guess into the bedroom. I undress him and I encourage him to make love to me and I moan and writhe and beg him to do what men do not need to be begged to do and he enjoys himself.

I take them one by one, they fuck me on the bed and I shower, I wash each of them and then I encourage the birthday guest to take me on the couch before his friends and he does. I kneel for him and he takes me from behind, eagerly, until he climaxes and falls away from me and now his friends enjoy me and the debauchery goes on until they are sated and exhausted.

* * *

Martin picks me up, the driver takes us through the streets and I have never been to his house before and I’m so excited as he leads me inside. His mother greets me, Martin leads me to his father who turns, smiling and then his face pales. My face pales and I am about to collapse.

“I believe Miss Wang and I have met,” he says. “Is that not correct, Miss Wang?”

I reach blindly for Martin as his mother looks on, uncomprehending.

“Please,” I say, to Martin’s father, my eyes flooding with tears. “Please.” For I know what he sees. He is seeing the whore who serviced him and all his friends last night in the Cathay and I stare blankly at nothing as Martin’s father talks quietly to Martin.

“Is it true?” he says, his face white and strained. “Is it true, Chuntao, what he says?”

“I needed the money, Martin,” I whisper.

“I gave you money,” he says. “I gave you everything I had.”

“It wasn’t enough,” I whisper, and I’m going to faint. I know I am. Thirty minutes ago, this was a dream. Now? No I am living a nightmare and it’s as if I’m in someone else’s body. It’s not me here. It’s not me talking. It’s someone else. ”

“Please, Martin,” I whisper, blindly reaching for him. “Please, take me back, Get me out of here.” My hand clutches at his arm as he looks at me, and his face, he’s horrified. Disgusted.

The driver takes me back to the School, alone and I know now what I am. Everyone will know and the tears trickle silently down my cheeks, streaking my makeup as I pad silently down the corridor towards our room in my new European-style dress, my new shoes carried in one hand. My first high-heeled shoes.

Whore’s shoes.

* * *

“Are you alright, Chuntao?” Hua’s in our room, sleeping on her bed. She was out with one of her men last night too, but she wakes up when I slip through the door. She takes one look at me face and she’s off her bed and holding me in her arms as I weep.

“What is it? What’s wrong Chuntao? What happened?”

“His father,” I sob, and I can barely speak. I want to wail and scream and beat my head against the wall. I want to throw myself out the window. I want to die. “He took me home and his father, he was that man they bought me to for his birthday and his friends, the ones at that party last night, they were all there too. His father knew me, he remembered me. His father’s friends knew me.” I’m wailing now, the tears pouring from my eyes.

“He called me a whore, Hua. His father took me inside the house, me and Martin, and he told Martin I was a whore. He said no son of his was marrying a cheap Chinese whore and he threw me out, onto the street.”

“What about Martin?” Hua whispers, holding me. “Didn’t he say something?”

“Martin?” I sob. “He didn’t say a thing, he just looked at me. He didn’t even come out of the house. They sent one of the boys to drive me here. They told him to drive the whore back to her whorehouse.”

“Chuntao,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry for you, Chuntao.” She’s crying too and we hold each other and lying in her arms on my bed, holding her as she holds me, our faces wet with our shared tears for she shares my pain. She shares my loss.

I still love him and I’ve lost him. Almost, almost I had him but he’s gone and I know he’ll never come back to me. He’s English. He’s lost face. Even if he loves me still, he won’t return to me. Not after I’ve embarrassed and humiliated and made a fool of him in front of his family and friends

* * *

The painting, that painting of Martin and I, it is delivered to my room two days later along with that red sheet I bought. It is delivered to the bedroom that Hua and I share. Mrs. Innes stores them for me. I don’t ask where, but she keeps them safe for me. I want the painting and the sheet, but I don’t want to see them. Seeing myself and Martin, seeing that sheet on which we lay together, that would be too painful. Far too painful.

I go to that room, the room that Martin and I shared, hoping against hope that he will be there, that he still has that room, but he’s not there. Someone else lives there now. They look at me blankly, tell me to leave. Shut the door in my face. I go to Martin’s parents’ house, I wait in the street outside but I don’t see him. One of the servants sees me, recognizes me, takes pity on me; tells me he has been sent to Hong Kong.

* * *

“Please come to my office tomorrow evening, Chuntao,” Mrs Innes says, her hand on my shoulder. “Be there for eight, please. The gentleman has requested that you wear your school uniform but no bra or panties.”

“Yes, Mrs. Innes,” I whisper, but all I can think of is Martin.

Mrs. Innes eyes me for a moment and then she leaves. I lie on my bed, curled in a ball, hugging my pillow, the tears continuing, silently, listening to her shoes click down the hallway, fading from hearing

* * *

That next evening, I’m dressed in my school uniform. White short sleeved top. Knee length pleated school uniform skirt. White socks and my black school shoes. No underwear. No bra or panties and even saddened and heartbroken as I am, I depilate myself so carefully. Everywhere. I have no hope for Martin now, not now that he knows. I have no hope for my family.

All I have to survive is myself. My body. This is all I have and I must do what I have to do to survive. It is that or to be cast out, and if I am cast out, I will die in the streets or worse. I have no illusions about my ability to survive on the streets. This is all I have and I will do what I need to do.

Mrs. Innes comes to our room early, beckons to me. When I follow her, she takes me downstairs, to the special room reserved for students who are ill. It’s next to her office.

“The gentleman wants you here, Chuntao,” she says. “He doesn’t need to meet you. He’s paid extra for this. Wait here.” Her hand rests on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry about what happened, Chuntao.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mrs. Innes,” I say, telling myself that it doesn’t matter, but it does. “It is my fate.”

It matters so much. Martin’s father, he was one of those men and he took me. He enjoyed me and I encouraged him. I smiled at him. I teased him. I tempted him and I encouraged him. I used those things on him that other men had taught me, just as I had used them on Martin. I’m honest with myself. I enjoyed what they did with me. I enjoyed Martin’s father. I enjoyed his friends and I did my best to give them all pleasure.

“Wait here, Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says, and her hand squeezes my shoulder lightly before she leaves.

I sit on the bed, waiting and I’m not scared; I’m not frightened. Men have possessed my body many times over the last two months and I know what will happen and despite myself, my sex pulses with anticipation. Waiting for an unknown man to enter this room and possess me, I’m slippery and wet and I’m ashamed of myself now and my head sinks, I cover my face with my hands and I sob as I wait.

It is Martin’s father.

He tells me I’m his whore.

I’m his tight little Chinese whore.

I’m his Spring Peach blossom. His Chuntao.

His, not Martin’s, and he enjoys telling me I’m his.

He enjoys telling me a Chinese whore won’t marry his son.

He tells me that a pretty little whore can get all the cock she needs.

“You’re my whore now, Chuntao,” Martin’s father groans as he fills me.

He has taken me twice on my bed and this is the third. I silently hope it’s the last. Each time he has taken me, he has told me what I am. He has told me I’m his whore. He has told me he enjoys fucking me. He has told me his son was a lucky dog to find a hot little piece of tail like me and take my virginity. He has told me I’m a good little fuck. A hot little fuck. A hot little piece of Chinese tail. I’m a good whore. A hot whore.

“You’re a whore, my pretty little Chuntao,” he says, smiling. “You’re a whore and you do what you’re told. Wipe my cock clean on your face.” His smile broadens as he watches me obey, as he watches me wipe his now swollen cock across my cheeks, my nose, my lips, smearing his semen and my wetness onto my skin.

I kneel over him as he lies back on the bed and I take his cock in my hand, I lick him clean. I lick my wetness and his semen from his cock, taking it into my mouth, tasting the emissions of my taking, swallowing, again and again until he is clean, his cock glistening wetly now with my saliva and my face is wet. Wet with his semen and my wetness where he’s told my to wipe his cock on his face and I have obeyed.

Now he’s enjoying me one last time. “Tell me what you are,” he grunts as his cock thrust deeply into me. Slow and deep, he’s in no hurry.

“I’m a whore,” I sob, as he luxuriates in his taking of me, and my hair, my long silky black hair is wrapped around his fist so I am forced to look up at his face, forced to see his enjoyment, forced to see his pleasure, as he takes me. As he takes the whore his son wanted to marry. “I’m a whore… I’m your whore, tonight.”

Again and again I tell him I am a whore as he uses me. As he enjoys me, and he has told me many times over this evening how much he enjoys fucking me. He’s enjoyed me. He’s told me he’s talked to Mrs. Innes, he’s going to be one of my regular clients from now on. He’s told me his friends are going to be my clients to. They’re all going to fuck me. He’s told me I don’t need to be shy, I’ve met them all before. I’m going to meet them many times again and he smiles down at me as he tells me that while he fucks me and the tears flowing down my cheeks amuse him.

The door closes behind him. His footsteps fade away down the corridor. I lie face down on the sick room bed just as he has left me, the whirring fan blowing humid air over my back and my burning bottom. The pillow beneath my hips, raising my bottom, accentuates my humiliation as the breeze from the fan wafts over me. His semen trickles from me, from my back passage and from my sex. My mouth is full of his taste and my shame and humiliation are complete.

Those other men, those men who have used my body in the past, they’ve been kind to me. They’ve been gentle. They’ve taken enjoyment in my excitement and my pleasure and they’ve made me climax now and then, reluctantly. I know I shouldn’t have enjoyed them, I know I shouldn’t have taken pleasure in what they did with me, but I have. I loved Martin, but after that initial shame and sadness of giving myself to those other men, I enjoyed them. Not only did I enjoy them, I did my best to please them, to give them what they paid for.

Martin’s father enjoyed me, but what he enjoyed was my shame, my humiliation, my pain and my suffering. He enjoyed rubbing my face in being a whore and I gave him what he wanted. I was a whore for him, because now, with no Martin to live for, not Martin to return my love, no Martin to hope for a future with, there is nothing else for me but to continue down this path.

I gave Martin’s father everything he wanted from me. He wanted a whore and that’s what he got and through my tears, I smile because for him, I was a good little whore. I hot little whore. I have him everything he wanted from me and more, and I know he’s going to want a next time now. I know he doesn’t to wait and I smile through my tears because I know something he doesn’t know.

If he wants a next time he’s going to pay more. A lot more.

Only then do I weep tears for my lost love.

* * *

Other men visit me, every night now, for I no longer need to reserve Tuesday’s and Thursday’s and Saturday’s for Martin. I am popular. Martin’s father comes to visit me again the following week. Mrs. Innes asks me and I say yes, I’ll take his money. I take him. I take his money because I am doing this for the money, I am doing this because I must survive somehow and nothing in this life is free. This is Shanghai. Everything has its price, and I have mine.

I take his money and I give him the whore he wants. I take his father’s friends, one by one. I’m a whore, I take their money. I intoxicate them with my body. I offer my sex to their mouths to delight in. I worship their priapic hardness with my mouth. I coax them to renewed vigour with my hand. I part my long slender legs and draw them to me. I moan and sob and beg and arch my back for them as they possess my body with their male hardness. I writhe and cry out for them, giving them the excitement and the pleasure that they crave. I milk their cocks eagerly, as eagerly as I milk their wallets.

And every night, alone in my bed, I weep silent tears for my lost love. Perhaps one day he can forgive me. Perhaps one day he will find me and he will forgive me doing what I must do to live and we will be together. I cling to that one faint hope. Cling desperately, for without that hope I will drown in an ocean of misery.

* * *

“There’s a gentleman for you, Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says, tapping on my door.

She brings him into my room as I close my textbooks. I have a room to myself now. The entire floor of this wing of the Boarding School is now Chinese boarders only. Girls like me. Pretty girls. Pretty girls with no family, no money and no other means than their bodies to survive. We attend classes by day, gaining an education.

We gain an education in the evenings and weekends too.

A different education, an education in the stark realities of life.

The gentlemen Mrs. Innes brings to our rooms, they are our teachers.

Our teachers teach us late into the night, the corridor echoes with our cries.

I have accepted my fate now, I know myself for what I am. I know I am a whore.

Mrs Innes too has accepted her fate. There is a new headmistress for the academic side of the school and for the boarders whose parents pay school fees. Mrs. Innes, she manages our part of the school now. That is all she does. She manages the pretty Chinese girls. The ones she pimps out to the foreign men who are referred to her, the girls like Hua and I, who must do this for the money; who must do this to live. This wing of the school is now off limits to the other girls. Our customers might mistake one of them for one of us and that would not do.

I look up and smile as he enters the room. Mrs. Innes discretely closes the door behind him.

“Good evening, Mr. Sinclair.” He’s one of my regulars, he has an appointment every two weeks and I like him. He’s gentle, he likes to talk; he’s even helped me with him homework.

“Hello, Chuntao.” He likes it that I hug him, that I vine my arms around his neck and stand on my tiptoes to kiss him. “How’s your homework? What are you working on?” He sits in my chair at my desk. “Come, show me.”

“It’s an essay on the Rise and Fall of Rome as a parallel to the Rise and Fall of Imperial China,” I say, placing my textbooks back on my desk together with the draft of my essay.

“Interesting,” Mr. Sinclair says, and he really is reading my draft. He takes his fountain pen from his jacket pocket. “Would you mind hanging my jacket up, Chuntao,” he says, shrugging it off. I take it from him and he’s already making notes and annotations on my work. He’s engrossed.

I stand beside him, at his left shoulder, watching, one hand resting on his shoulder and he’s making a new note. “You should quote Livy here,” he says. “His work on the Rise of Rome, that’s an excellent reference. Now, young lady, you need to work on your grammar a little, here and here and here… and I think this point here, you need to expand on this, it needs more than one paragraph to cover the economic impact of the barbarian invasions and the devaluation of Roman currency to the opium wars and the flow of silver out of China.”

He’s still working, making notes as his left hand moves to rest on the inside of my leg, above my knee, raising my skirt a little and I edge closer to him for I know what he enjoys.

“I’ll see you in two weeks, Chuntao,” Mr. Sinclair says as he dresses. He’s smiling, sated; content, as men are when they leave me. “You’re such a lovely girl, my dear. I wish I could do more for you.”

I button his shirt for him, smiling up at him, naked for his eyes to enjoy. ‘Come and see me more than once every two weeks, Mr. Sinclair,” I say. “I should pay you for tutoring me with my homework.”

He laughs, tilts my face up, and kisses my lips, a quick brush. “I might at that, my dear,” he says, “but, alas, you have so many admirers. I’m lucky that Mrs. Innes gives me one night with you every two weeks.”

He is lucky, and only because I like him. Mrs. Innes likes us each to have a number of regular clients, not to be too reliant on one or two. I had to insist that Mr. Sinclair gets more than his share.

“Goodbye, my dear,” he says, smiling as I see him out.
My smile dissipates as the door closes behind him. I don’t cry. I’m beyond crying after every man now, but there’s an empty hole in my heart where Martin’s love should be and he’s gone. Gone and I know he’ll never be back. Who’d come back for a Chinese whore? Only someone who wants to use a Chinese whore and the men like Mr. Sinclair like me, they come back for me, but the girl they like, the girl they come back to is the Chuntao who is a whore.

The Chuntao who sells them the use of her body, the pleasure she brings them as they take me, as they enjoy me and they prefer to think I enjoy them, that I like what they do with me, that I like them. There are some I do like, some I can laugh and smile with, some I can forget Martin with for a few minutes, sometimes even for an hour. There are some I really enjoy the act of love with, some who bring me to my own climax, for I do enjoy sex.

I can enjoy sex, I can give them the pleasure they desire from my body, I can writhe and moan and cry out in my passion and desire and my own pleasure, I can even climax and I can do that without Martin. I can do that without love. But I don’t want to, all I want is Martin, for it is Martin I love and I know I will never have him again for he knows me for what I am. A whore.

To Martin, I am nothing but a Chinese whore and I sit naked on my bed, the bed that Mr. Sinclair has used me on and my heart sinks into that black well of despair and sadness that takes me and drags me down.

A tap on the door.

“Wait,” I call, finding my wrap, putting on the smiling mask that hides the despair and sadness and pain within. It is the maid, bringing fresh sheets, clean sheets for me to sleep in and I have survived another day and I must survive. I owe that at least to my family. To survive… I must survive and one day I may escape. Finish university, work? Something. Anything.

* * *

“There’s a gentleman for you, Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says, tapping on my door.

It is the same every evening. Always there is a gentleman for me. Always there are gentlemen for the other girls too. The night is young and so are we. The gentlemen are eager and very soon now the rhythmic squeaking of our school beds will begin, the perhaps not so rhythmic squeaking of the girls will also begin, accompanying that music of the beds, the voices of the gentlemen in their throes of passion will echo in the bedrooms as we entertain our clients of the evening with our bodies.

She brings him into my room as I close my textbooks, I place them in my bookcase and lookup, smiling, as Mrs. Innes closes the bedroom door behind me. Always I smile, always I do my best to please them.

Tonight is no exception.

* * *

“There’s a gentleman for you, Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says, tapping on my door.

It is the same every evening.

* * *

“There’s a gentleman for you, Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says, tapping on my door. “He says you were recommended to him, by a friend.” She smiles. “He seems a nice young man.”

She glances over her shoulder. “You stay as long as you like, my dear. Our girls only take one customer per evening and if you decide to stay overnight, all we ask is that you leave before six thirty.” She smiles. “Do enjoy your evening with Chuntao, she’s one of our most popular girls.

I close my textbooks, stand, brushing my school uniform skirt down, straightening it. Straightening my white gauze blouse, the ones we change into in the evenings. They’re thinner than the ones we wear for school, semi-transparent and we do not wear bras beneath these ones. We do not wear underwear beneath our skirts, not in the evenings. The men enjoy that. Mrs. Innes has decided this is part of our appeal.

The schoolgirl look, and that we actually are schoolgirls, that’s something that entices and excites the foreign men who are our clients. It’s not that we are young and attractive whores. Shanghai has any number of whores younger than us. Thousands of them. Many of them are more attractive than us.

No, it’s that we are well-brought up Chinese girls from educated families who attend this school that so many American and English girls attend and we are here, in this school, in our school uniforms. We are genuine schoolgirls and they all enjoy that. Members of the School’s Board of Governors included, and Mr. Sawyer, who had me last night, he is the head of the Board and he enjoyed me in my school uniform.

I look up, smiling and my heart jolts, my breathing stops. Martin. It is Martin and he closes my door behind him and stands there, looking at me and his face is pale. Has he forgiven me? Has he come for me? Has he come to rescue me? To take me away from this and I am filled with sudden hope. I move one foot, then another, slowly, forcing myself towards him and a tremulous smile lights up my face.

“Martin?” I whisper. “Martin? You’ve come for me… Martin?” My eyes sparkle with tears, my heart fills with love once more and all I can think of is that I want to be in his arms. I want his arms around me, holding me. I want his voice in my ear.

“What’s it like to be popular, Chuntao?” he says, and there are tears in his eyes. “What’s it like to be one of the most popular girls?” His voice is bitter, filled with pain. “How many men is it now, Chuntao? How many men since me?”

“Martin,” I sob, and I stumble blindly across my bedroom towards him. My whore’s bedroom. “Please… please… I love you, Martin, I love you…”

“Love me? You little bitch, you don’t know how hard I had to fight to get my parents to even let me invite you home to meet them, and then you turned out to be a whore. A whore who my father’d fucked the night before. Jesus, Chuntao, all my father’s friends fucked you and they were all there, they all knew you were a whore, they all knew you were the Chinese girl I planned to marry and you were a fucking whore.”

He walks past me, jerks my drawers open.

“Do you wear this for your customers,” he says, his voice one long cry of pain and anguish as he pulls out handfuls of silk lingerie, holds transparent lace bras and flimsy little items of underwear up. “Do you like to wear these for other men.”

He takes a lacy little piece of black underwear, flimsy and revealing and rubs it across his face. “It smells of whore’s cunt,” he says, brutally, batting my hands away as I try to cling to him, to stop him and I’m crying in helpless pain and I can see the pain on his face. I can hear the pain and the anguish in his voice.

“How could you?” he says. “How could you betray me like that?”

“My parents,” I sob. “My family, there wasn’t anything else…,” but he’s not listening. He won’t listen.

“Jesus, Chuntao,” he sobs, and now he sits on my bed, his head in his hands and I sit beside him, one arm around him, my head on his shoulder and I too am weeping. I’m weeping for his pain and the shame and the humiliation I inflicted on him. I’m weeping for his lost innocence, his shattered heart. I’m weeping for myself now too. “How could you? How could you?”

“I had to live,” I sob. “I had to live. My family are gone, I had to take care of myself.”

“You could have asked. You could have told me,” he sobs.

“I did,” I sob. Has he forgotten? “I told you… I asked you for help… I tried to tell you but you didn’t understand and I had to do something… I had to. I would have died on the streets, Martin.”

“You didn’t tell me,” he says, and he’s angry now.

“I did,” I wail. “I did tell you and you didn’t do anything. You didn’t listen.” I’m sick inside. I told him. I did. I begged for his help and he ignored me.

“You little whore,” he says.

“I did what I had to do, Martin,” I sob. “There’s only one thing girls like me can do in Shanghai.”

“You’re right,” he says, and he stands up, abruptly and I’m looking him at him, hope filling me. He understands? After all this he understands and my smile is weak, my cheeks tear-stained as he looks down at me and I’m watching as he throws his jacket on the chair, unbuttons his shirt, peels it off and I’m unfastening his belt the way I used to do.

“I love you, Martin,” I sob, tugging at his trousers, undressing him. “I love you.”

He’s naked and his hands take mine, he lifts me to my feet. His fingers unfasten my skirt, it drops to the floor and he walks me backwards onto my bed, moves over me and I part my legs eagerly for him. My hand finds him, clasps his cock, strokes him as I draw my knees back, opening myself to him, guiding his cockhead to me and he thrust through my hand, his cockhead enters me easily for I am wet and ready.

“Ohhhh,” he grunts as he thrusts himself fully into me in one single hard thrust that ends as his body slaps against my tender flesh and my feet kick at the ceiling.

“Martin,” I moan, and he is inside me, his weight is on me, his face is above mine, his eyes drill into mine as his cock drills into my sex and I am one with him and joy fills me to the brim.

“Ugghhh,” he grunts. “Uhhhh… ugghhh… uhhh,” and he is plunging his cock into me again and again and I welcome his possession of my body. I welcome his taking and he is back. Martin. He is with me and he’s making love to me and he’s listened to me, he understands and perhaps he will not marry me but he will make me his. He will take me with him and I will be his and his alone once more.

His cock moves inside me, sliding thrusts, the exquisite ecstasy of his possession of my body, his body riding mine, his hands pinning mine to the bed above my head and this is so familiar, so welcome and my excitement rises, my back arches, I tighten myself on him, I cross my ankles behind his back and I writhe on his cock and he groans with his pleasure.

He climaxes and I bring him to renewed hardness and he takes me again and then he does what other men have done to me. He takes my ass and he enjoys me that way and he tells me someone told him about me. That there was this girl, Chuntao, whose ass was the hottest little whore’s ass in Shanghai and he should try her.

“Here’s your tip for a good ass-fuck, whore,” he says, peeling banknotes from his wallet as I lie on my bed and he throws the money on the floor.

“Martin,” I sob, struggling to sit up, and I ache, I’m sore, I burn where he took me for he was rough and he used no lubricant there and the tears trickle down my cheeks. “Martin, don’t… don’t… please don’t… please Martin, let me explain…”

“There’s nothing to explain, Chuntao,” he says, and his voice is so cold and unforgiving as her fastens his belt, retrieves his jacket from where he flung it only half an hour ago. “You’re a whore.”

“Martin, no, stop,” I sob. “Please… please listen to me…”

“I’ll come back next week,” he says, and his face is frozen, pale, his emotions shut away. “You’re a good whore, Chuntao. I want to fuck you again,” and he’s gone.

The door closes behind him and I sob, resting my head against my closed door. He said he’s coming back. He’s going to come and see me next week. I’ll tell Mrs Innes to put him in my schedule whenever he wants and through my tears my heart is filled with hope because I’m going to see him again and if I see him again, perhaps next time he will listen. Next time I can explain and he will understand.

There is hope now.

* * *

“He’s been here to see you, hasn’t he?” Martin’s father grunts in my ear as he fucks me, and he’s fucking my ass. Enjoying my ass. “Well, he knows you’re a whore now, anyhow. He can fuck a chink whore anytime he wants.”

* * *

“Chuntao,” Mrs Innes says. “The gentleman who has reserved your company for this evening is waiting in the downstairs sitting room.”

“Yes, Mrs. Innes.” I close my books, I stand, I follow her through the hallways, down the service stairs, for we Chinese girls on these evening and weekend excursions, we do not use the stairs and hallways in which we would meet the other students, the ones who do not service men as we do. We use the servants hallways and stairs and the servants, they know what we do. Some are sympathetic, some not, but it does not matter for regardless of their opinion we must do what we must do.

“He, um, he paid to use you as he wishes.” Mrs Innes does not look at me and a single sideways glance tells me her cheeks are burning. She pimps us out to men, but at heart she is a teacher, not a pimp and she only does this because the alternative for us girls is so much worse. She is embarrassed and ashamed of what she does. She does it because she must and she uses euphemisms for what the men wish for. “As he wishes” is her euphemism for a man who desires anal sex.

“Yes, Mrs. Innes,” I say, and they must pay more for that service. I do not find that shameful or humiliating now. I did at first, and a little painful too, but Martin’s father made sure I gained much experience in that manner of being taken and now it is just one more use to which men put my body and I accept that, as I accept their money.

Men ask this of Hua and the other girls too, and all of us comply. Hua and I were the first, those men who took us trained us, taught is and we in turn passed that experience and knowledge on to the other girls. It was easier for them, for they had Hua and I to teach them. Hua and I, we had no-one but the men and it was harder for us, for the men were eager, impatient, they desired to use us, not teach us and we suffered.

“I’m sorry, Chuntao.” Now Mrs Innes glances at me, her hand reaches for mine, takes mine in hers and perhaps she is offering me comfort. Perhaps I am comforting her. It is hard to tell as she walks with me. She swallows. “There is more than one of them.”

I shrug. I have done this with more than one man now, a number of times and I try not to think of Martin’s father and his friends. The money is good, they pay by the man, not the evening and the more men, the more money.

“I am used to it, Mrs Innes,” I say at last, and it is the truth. I am, and I do not object. I do not even bother to ask how many. Mrs Innes will have collected my price, that is what she does. My price, for I am a whore. I survive, Hua and I, we survive by offering up our bodies to the men who desire us. It is how we survive and there is no shame in survival. There is no shame in death, either, but Hua and I, we have chosen to do what we must in order to live and if a man wants to use me there, I will take his money and I will give myself over to him to be used and after he is done, I will wash him from my body and from my mind.

We turn towards the sitting room. There are men who prefer to take us in the downstairs sitting room. It is a special room, isolated, quiet, with its own furniture, suitable to the uses to which the room is now put. A room from which our moans and sobs and cries do not escape to fill the night air, to distract the other students from their studies. This is the room to which I follow Mrs. Innes. This is the room into which she ushers me, closing the door behind me.

“Come here, girl.” There is a man sitting in the armchair facing the door. He is naked. Naked and erect and he beckons to me. I do as he bids. I walk across the room. I go to him and stand before him, waiting. Men who talk like this, they desire obedience and I am obedient for that is what this man has paid for and to my surprise he is younger than most of the men who pay for my company.

“Unfasten your blouse, take it off for me,” he says.

I obey, unfastening the buttons, one by one, shrugging my blouse off and I am naked from the waist up, my breasts exposed and he likes what he sees.

“Now your skirt,” he says, and I obey, unhooking my skirt, unfastening it, letting it drop to the floor and I am naked, exposed to his eyes and I am not embarrassed. I do not blush. I have been naked for many men now, I cannot remember how many and it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to remember. After this evening is done, I will not remember this man either. I remember my regular clients, that is all, the ones who pay more, much more, to reserve me on a regular basis.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“Chuntao,” I say, smiling.

“I paid Mrs Innes to fuck you however I want to,” he says. “Do you have any objection to me fucking that pretty little ass of yours, Chuntao?”

“No, Sir,” I say. “I’m here for you, tonight. You can do as you like with me.”

“Good,” he says, and he pats the armchair. “Come here, Chuntao, bend over this. We’re going to get started.”

He has a jar of lubricant. I bend over the padded arm of the armchair. He scoops the lubricant up, he fingers my sphincter, works the lubricant into me, more and more of it and it melts inside me as he lubricates his cock and this too I have had done and his finger in my ass is familiar.

“Uhhhh,” I groan and I jerk a little as a second finger inserts itself together with the first, opening me and I know what he is doing. He is stretching my sphincter muscle to admit his cock and when his hands guide me around and over him, I am as ready as I will be.

“Uggghhhh,” I grunt, and this has been done to me many times but still I jerk and grunt and shudder as his cockhead pushes against my sphincter muscle before he enters me there. He is not large, his cock is a familiar size and he is slow, he is gentle, I stretch slowly for him and his cockhead slides easily through my well-lubricated anal entrance. His cockhead is in me and there is no pause, his hands urge me to continue down on him, his hips are rocking, his cock thrusting inwards through my sphincter and I clutch at the arms of that armchair and groan, leaning forwards but all that does is work me further down on his cock.

“Good girl, Chuntao…” he purrs, “Open that ass for me, you hot little whore… Open that tight little ass for my cock…”

What choice do I have? His cock works deeper and deeper into my ass, stretching me around him and I lean back against him, my head against his shoulder, gasping and moaning and his hands work me down, more and more of his cock inside me until I am seated on him. His cock, all of it, it is inside me. Impaled. His cock has impaled my ass and I sit there, my eyes closed, shuddering and moaning wordlessly on him.

“Do you like that, Chuntao?” he breathes.

“Yes,” I choke out that reply, my butt moving on him, squeezing on his cock with my ass muscles. “Yes… yes.” I do like it, and I am almost ashamed of that. Almost, but I have accepted what I am. I have accepted that I am a whore and why should I not enjoy this? If I am to do this, I may as well. It is not as if Martin is returning for me.

“Fuck me,” he groans. “Fuck me with that hot little ass, whore.”

“Ohhh… ohhhh.” I do. I don’t care that he has called me a whore. I am a whore. He’s paid for me and I’m here, his cock buried in my ass and what if he does call me a whore? That is what I am. I move on him, I squirm, I squeeze, I shudder. His cock impales my ass and I move on him and he groans his pleasure in my ear as his hands explore my body, run over my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, tease my sex and I am wet with excitement and I wonder how many of them there will be tonight.

More than just this man, Mrs. Innes said, and now I do wonder how many of them there will be.

“Uhhhh,” I groan as he moves in me. In my ass. He’s fucking my ass as I move on him now.

“Uhhhh… uhhhh,” I’m breathing hard, gasping for air as he fucks me, as his cock moves in and out through the clasping tightness of my sphincter, his hands moving me on him and I can’t move, I lie back against him and let him move me on him, let his cock use me.

“You’re right, chaps,” he groans in my ear. “This whore’s got a hot little ass. Who’s going to fuck her first?”

“Me,” a voice says and I buck and gasp in sudden shock as another naked man steps from the shadows, erect and ready and he moves towards his, he kneels before me, his hands spread my knees and he moves forwards, guiding his cock to my glistening sex, for I am excited and aroused.
His cockhead nudges my sex and I open to him. Part around his swollen head as he pushes inwards and I am watching, he’s watching, his hands on my thighs and this is something I have never done before. Two me inside me at the same time, in my sex and in my ass. I have had men in my mouth and in my sex, yes, but not like this.

“Uhhhh.” He eases into me, working his cock into my sex slowly and I am tight on him, tight and slippery and he is moving slowly, taking his time, his cockhead and half his cock inside me now, easing in and out.

“Ohhh… ohhhh.” I shudder, I sob, I lie there, with that cock in my ass and this second cock working its way up inside me and I am impossibly stretched and even in those books Hua and I read, I am sure I have not read about something like this and I am so full inside and it is so strange. Strange and shameful and exciting and I reach down with my fingers to caress his cock where he enters me, where I am stretched pinkly around his girth and I can see my clitoris.

Swollen, protruding and I brush myself with my thumb, shivering now with the pleasure and his cock is inside me all the way. He is pressed up against me where we join and I cannot even groan. I am limp, limp and helplessly impaled on two rigid cockshafts and the one whose cock is in my sex, he smiles down at me.

“She’s taking both of us at once,” he says. “The little whore’s taking two cocks at once.” He chuckles throatily. “And she likes it, don’t you, you pretty little thing?”

“Yes,” I moan, my thumb brushing my clitoris and he’s watching my movements. “Yes, I like it.”

I do. I have never imagined something like this, two of them inside me at once and it is excitement and shame and knowing that I am a whore that lets me admit to myself that I find this exciting. I am a whore, and there is no shame now. I do what I must do and if I must, why should I not enjoy this?

The man I am seated on, whose cock impales me ass, his hands cup my breasts, he toys with my nipples and he’s groaning as I tighten myself on him, clamping down on his cock inside me, squeezing him, relaxing, squeezing and this tightens me on both cocks and that sensation, both of them inside me, separated only by those thin internal membranes, that double penetration sends pleasure rippling through me.

“Ohhhhhh,” I moan, resting my head against the shoulder behind me. “Ohhhhhh.”

“Oh yeah, you like that don’t you,” his voice breathes in my ear. “Tell me you like that.”

“I do,” I moan. “I do.”

They use me, one after the other, taking turns with me and when one is done, I wait for the next. I lie on the couch, naked, one leg hanging off the edge, my foot on the floor and I wait, staring blankly at the ceiling. There will be another soon.

“Martin,” someone says. “Why don’t you fuck the whore, old chap. It’s your turn.”

I turn my head and Martin is standing there, looking at me, his face pale, his eyes wild. But his cock is hard, just like everyone else’s. He takes a step towards me and like the others, he’s naked. His eyes look at my naked body and he desires me, as they all do. He is going to take me, I know. Take me as his friends have all taken me and he moves to the couch, down onto the couch and he is between my legs, over me and he lies on me as they have all lain on me.

All but Martin.

“You’re a whore, Chuntao,” he breathes in my ear. “A whore, and I’m going too fuck you like a whore should be fucked.”

“Fuck me however you want, Martin,” I whisper back, my hands clutching at his back, my body arching beneath him, desperate to have him inside me once more. “Fuck me, Martin. Fuck me like you’d fuck a whore if that’s what you want.”

His beautiful blue eyes look down into mine as they have looked down into mine so many times, my legs are parted for him, as I have parted them so many times for him.

“I love you, Martin,” I whisper, feeling him position himself to enter me and that is easy for half a dozen cocks have been there before him this evening, I am distended, open, easy and there are tears inmy eyes as I wait for him. “I love you,” my lips say, my voice a faint whisper and he smiles.

He smiles down at me. “Whore,” he whispers back and he thrusts himself into me hard. Hard and fast, ramming his cock into me and my head jerks back, my back arches, my feet bounce against his hips.

“Aahhhh.” I cry out at his taking, at that sudden brutal penetration and his smile grows and he doesn’t stop. He fucks me hard. Hard and fast and he’s using me as many men have used me, but never Martin.

“I love you… I love you,” I moan as he hammers his cock into me and I welcome him because it is Martin, because I love him and he is with me and I am willing to be a whore for him if that brings him back to me, even for a fleeting moment such as this.

“Whore,” he grunts. “I bet you say that to every man who has you.”

I sob, clinging to him and my heart breaks all over again, the tears flood down my cheeks, my lips part and I am about to plead with him, I am about to beg when another hand grips my hair, turns my head sideways. A cock fills my mouth as Martin takes me. That cock in my mouth thrusts once, twice, a third time and then it floods my mouth with semen.

Semen that I swallow as Martin looks down at me, watching. Watching as I gulp and swallow as that cock fills my mouth, as semen trickles out to coat my lips, to run down my chin and I swallow again, my tongue licking that cock clean automatically, without thought and Martin’s eyes sparkle as he continues to use me, his cock plunging deep and hard and then he lifts me to me feet, walks me half across the room and there there are five of them watching me as I am bent forwards across the polished wood of the desk.

Five of them, and Martin and it is Martin who bends me forward, his hand on the back of my neck, pushing me down onto that hard desk top. It is Martin who’s hands grip my hips, positioning me, plunging his cock into me sex. It is Martin who’s cock fucks me and I close my eyes, my face wet with tears, remembering the love with which he first took me like this so many month ago, bent forward over the small table in his room in the French Concession.

Almost, almost I take myself back to that time and place where we loved each other so well, where there was only he and I, where he was mine and I was his. Only his. I remember, I sob, my sex dances wetly on his cock as he thrusts himself into me, I push myself back onto him as he takes me and I am moaning now, moaning with excitement, with longing, everything else but Martin forgotten.

Martin. My Martin, he is here, his cock is inside me, he is taking me and for a brief moment in time I am his again and after he is done he watches me as I do what a whore does.

“That’s how you fuck a Chinese whore, Martin,” one of his friends says, blowing cigarette smoke towards the ceiling as he watches the last of them taking me over the desk and I am bruised now, bruised and sore. “You don’t tell her you love her. You don’t ask her to marry you. You don’t fall head over heels in love with her. You bend her face down over a desk and you fuck the ever-loving bejesus out of her any way you want too.”

“Uhhh… uhhh… uhhhhhh,” I groan, clutching at the task as that cock uses my sex, and even taken like this, humiliated and shamed, I gaze at Martin, my face straining as this friend of his plunges his cock into me and I love Martin. I love him and I reach towards him with one hand, the tears trickling down my cheeks, my eyes pleading with him as his friend reaches his culmination within me, his cock throbs, he groans, he holds himself high inside me and his cock pumps his semen into me.

I clutch at the desk. I groan as his cock throbs and pulses and spurts inside me, I push myself back on him, my sex milks him, squeezes him and I am well-trained now. I do all of this without conscious thought and his last groan is one of pleasure as my sex draws those last drops of semen from him and then his hands release me. His cock is withdrawn from me, there is that wet sound as he eases from me, for my sex is reluctant to release him. There is that wet flood down my inner thighs and I close my eyes, limp across that desk, willing them to leave. Just leave, and a sob escapes me.

A single sob.

“Chuntao?” Martin’s voice whispers to me, he breathes my name and I hear his desolation and his pain. My eyes open and he’s beside me, looking down at me. He’s beside the desk on which I lie, naked and used. Naked and abused. His hand brushes my hair from my face as he used to do when we were together, a gentle caress. My heart breaks all over again at his touch, a sob escapes me, my eyes sparkle with tears and I had thought I was beyond this, but I am not.

“Martin,” I whisper, and I look up, our eyes meet and if I had the strength I would stand. I would fall into his arms and cling to him but I have not that strength, not after this long evening.

“I love you,” I breathe, and my lips move, I whisper those words again. “I love you, Martin.”

“Chuntao,” his lips say, and the pain and hurt on his face break my heart anew.

“Chuntao,” he says again and his whisper is one long whisper of agony and I would rather die than hear that pain, that agony; that despair in his voice.

“I should have died,” I whisper. “I should have died,” but my words are whispered to Martin’s back, he has turned away from me and I hear a single sob.

“Leave the little whore there and come along, Martin,” one of his friends says. “Let’s go the Jockey Club and have a few drinks.” He chuckles. “Ridden our little filly for the evening, gentlemen. Not a bad little filly either.”

His hand slaps my butt, squeezes. “Until next time, Chuntao,” he says. And then, leaning over me, his lips brush my ear. “And stay away from Martin, you little whore, or I’ll make sure you’re sold to the cheapest whorehouse in Hongkew where you’ll be fucked to death by syphilitic coolies for ten cents a time.”

“She is pretty,” one of them grunts, adjusting his clothes and they’re all looking at me. All except Martin who has his back to me now. “I think I’ll talk to Mrs. Innes about fucking this one again.”

“Might come with you, old chap,” another says. “Little whore seems to like taking two cocks at once. Maybe we could try for three.”

They laugh, and there laughter fills my ears as they leave the room. Martin leaves with them. He doesn’t look back. My tears flow silently, the door closes behind them and all I can see is the vase on the window sill. The vase that holds that single branch cut from a peach tree. A branch cut from its tree as I have been cut from my family, as I have been cut from Martin. The peach blossoms are so beautiful but left alone they will wither and die and be discarded after their beauty has wilted.

Chuntao. Spring Peach.

The spring peach, the peach blossom in spring, it is a beautiful flower, to be desired for its perfect beauty, as men have desired me. A beautiful flower to be bought, as men have bought me. A beautiful flower to be enjoyed, as men have enjoyed me. As Martin has enjoyed me. As Martin’s father has enjoyed me and as he and his friends will enjoy me again. As Martin’s friends have now enjoyed me.

Again and again.

As I know I will be enjoyed by other men now, for I saw Martin’s face and there is no hope of succour for me there, not now, not after this. None, and lying face down over that desk, I know now he will never return for me, he will never take me away from here and there is no safety for me anywhere. There is no escape. Nowhere to flee. No choice.

No hope.

Martin was my only hope and that hope has been destroyed.

After my bloom has faded, after I cease to desired, after my usefulness is at an end, I know that I too will be cast aside, as one casts aside a delicate peach blossom that has wilted and faded. I will be replaced, forgotten, a new flower will bloom and take my place and I will no longer be of any value or use.

Of what value or use to anyone is a fallen leaf?

Of what use to anyone is a wilting flower?

Such is the fate of a Spring Peach

Consumed and discarded.

Such is my fate now.

I lie over that desk and I weep bitter tears until Mrs. Innes comes for me, leading me to my room and her face is anguished. She shares my pain, thinking that my tears are cause by the men’s use of my body but it is not that. It is not how they used me. It is that rape of my soul. That attack on my love for Martin and his love for me. They have done their best to kill that love. That look on Martin’s face, the agony there, I know that they have not killed that love for me. Instead they have inflicted pain and anguish beyond words on him and I weep for the agony I have caused him.

Mrs Innes does her best to comfort me and I know that while she does her best to protect us, to look after us, she is, after all, a servant of the rich and powerful and she too must do as she is bid. I know that some of Martin’s friends, they will come back to use me again and Mrs Innes will take their money, for their fathers have influence and power and they cannot be gainsaid. Should I protest, should I refuse, my days here would be numbered and I would out on the Shanghai streets, easy prey for the Triads, the pimps, for anyone who wanted me. We both know that.

I am a commodity, a beautiful girl in a city where beautiful girls with no protector, no guardian, those girls are there for the taking and there is nothing to do but acquiesce to my life here, for while what has just happened to me is bad, what would happen to me if I was cast out from under Mrs. Innes’ protection would be far far worse. Here at least, there is a chance of escape. Out there on the streets of Shanghai, there would be no escape for me. None whatsoever. My fate would be sealed.

Perhaps I could survive as a taxi dancer but without a protector, that would be unlikely. I am not a girl from the farms or from a peasant family. I would not survive a day against those girls from that background, I would be forced into a life of prostitution harsher by far than I have experienced here with Mrs. Innes. Martin’s friend’s threat to have me sent to a Hongkew whorehouse is one he would have no trouble implementing, I know.

We girls, we know of those places, we whisper fearfully of them, for left to survive on our own as we have been, it would be all too easy to end up there. That is truly a fate worse than death, a girl whom coolies pay ten cents to use, taken endlessly and there is no respite for one condemned to such a life. The only end to such a life is death.

Weeping on my bed in my room as Mrs Innes runs my bath, I know that Martin’s friends must have planned this. They planned to do this to me before his eyes, they knew he loved me and perhaps they knew that I loved him. Perhaps they feared that our love was strong enough to survive what had happened. They feared our love enough to plan this, to do this to me and to Martin and my heart is shattered, broken, hammered into splinters and what hurts most is not that they used me.

What hurts most is that look on Martin’s face; that look of pain and betrayal for he knows I am a whore. He knows I take any man who pays my price, his own eyes have witnessed this now. He has seen me taken by others before his eyes, he has seen me as the whore than I now am and he has abandoned me to my fate.

This is what his friends intended and I know, I know they have achieved their goal. Never again will Martin come for me, not even as a whore to be used in her room. They have won, I have lost, and in losing, I have inflicted such pain on Martin that I want to die and I know he can never forgive me.

I cannot forgive myself.

Better if I had died. Better by far, for then at least our love would have remained pure and unsullied, a many-splendored thing; tragic, yet beautiful and cherished to the end and when he remembered me, it would as his beautiful lost love, not as a whore taken by man after man and my tears are bitter, for it is my own actions that have condemned me to this sad fate.

* * *

“How could they all be such assholes,” Tien-Chien hisses, drawing me away from the past, into the present. “That’s…. that’s just horrible. So horrible.” Her hand clutches at mine and she weeps for me as I once wept for myself. “How could they do that to you? How could they?”

I shrug, feeling that loss of my beloved one as if it was yesterday, seeing his face in that painting, Martin’s face, my Martin, smiling, his face filled with love and with joy.

“It was a different time, Tien-Chien,” I say. “His parents, they were actually remarkably tolerant allowing him to bring me to their house to start with. They weren’t happy about it, they didn’t support him but they were open to meeting me and considering it. They might even have accepted me as a daughter-in-law. Such things were unusual, but they did happen now and then and that they permitted him to invite me to their house to meet than at all, they were prepared to consider me.”

I think back. “Yes, there was one Chinese girl I knew, she did marry an Englishman. His family accepted her. He was ostracized by most of their friends, but they were happy.”

Tien-Chien weeps for me. I place my arm around her shoulder, hug her gently.

“They didn’t reject me out of hand because I was Chinese, they rejected me because I was a whore, Tien-Chien. It was one thing for their son to marry a Chinese girl from the same school that their daughter attended. A Chinese girl from a good family. They didn’t like that, but they didn’t put their feet down and say no immediately, not like most did. They were prepared to consider it and that was more than most would do.”

“It was another thing completely for their son to marry a Chinese whore, Tien-Chien, and that was what I was by then. There was no denying that. It wasn’t as if it was a rumour. His father and half a dozen of his father’s friends, they’d been with me, they knew what I was. I knew what I was. His friends knew as well, they wanted to make that obvious to him. They wanted to save him from me. They wanted to save him from the clutches of a Chinese whore.”

I pause, wipe my own cheeks dry, sip at my jasmine tea, regaining my composure. “Let me continue now, Tien-Chien, because if I stop, I don’t know if I will have the courage to resume this tale.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” she says, and now her hand clutches at mine as mine once clutched Hua’s.

My good friend, Hua. My friend though thick and thin in those long ago days and I wish I knew what had happened to her, but she too is lost now, forever vanished in the mists of the past. Her too, I mourn and how I hope she found the happiness and peace we both yearned for in those last months of our friendship. In those last months as we suffered together, side by side, always friends.

She was there for me, always, as I was there for her. It was Hua’s strength that kept me going in those first weeks and months after I lost Martin. Without Hua, without my friend, I would have been one more body on the Shanghai streets. One more body thrown in the death carts and tipped into an unmarked grave.

She left with her Englishman, she saw her chance and I was strong enough to encourage her to take it, for such chances came rarely to girls like us in those long-ago days. How I hope the dice rolled her way, but I do not think that it did, for she would have written to me after the war if she had survived those years. She would have tried to find me, as I tried to find her, but neither of us ever did.

I can hope the dice rolled her way, but I will never know.

* * *

“There’s a new gentleman for you, Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says, tapping on my door. There’s always a new gentleman. I am known now. I am popular, in demand. I command a high price and foreign men will pay for me. They pay well, but no money can replace my lost love. No money can fill the bottomless hole in my heart.
She brings him into my room as I close my university textbooks. I have a room to myself now. The entire floor of this wing of the Boarding School is now Chinese boarders only. Girls like me. Pretty girls. Pretty girls with no family, no money and no other means than their bodies to survive. Our rooms are furnished in the schoolgirl style, but with elegance.

Mrs. Innes has inadvertently cornered a niche market. Her clients are foreigners, primarily Englishmen and Americans with a taste for Chinese girls in school uniforms. We girls, we do what we must to survive. There is no real choice for us and we know that, for we know Shanghai. There is no charity in Shanghai, no mercy, it is a struggle for survival and the losers are cleared off the streets, loaded into the death carts every morning.

We girls here in this school, we are the fortunate ones. Mrs. Innes pimps us out, but she cares. She protects us, she looks after us and we are all aware of how fortunate we are. Serving men as we do is not the worst fate that could befall us. There are far worse fates in Shanghai and all one has to do is walk the streets to know and to understand that we are lucky. We serve at the disposal of men at night, we attend classes by day, some here at the High School. Some, like Hua and I, are in our first year at University. All of us are gaining an education.

We gain an education in the evenings and weekends too.

A different education, an education in the stark realities of life.

The gentlemen Mrs. Innes brings to our rooms, they are our teachers.

Our teachers teach us late into the night, the corridor echoes with our cries.

I have accepted my fate now, I know myself for what I am. I know I am a whore.

I have been a whore for a year and a half now, and I am popular. If I wished, I could double the money I make, triple it even, easily. As it is, I can choose and I do choose and now I am expensive. Martin’s father was forced to give me up. For him, the cost was twice what anyone else paid and in the end, perhaps he loved me, perhaps he was intoxicated with me. He offered to set me up in an apartment, he offered to keep me. I laughed in his face, flirted with him, teased him, charged him three and then four times as much as anyone else until he could no longer afford me. Until his wife left him in disgust and his friends shunned him.

Only then did I refuse him.

He pleaded with me as I once pled with him.

I gave him the same heartless cruelty that he once gave me.

Mrs. Innes looks after us well. She pays off the local Triad, she pays off the police, Inspector Fleming is her friend, she makes money from us herself. Far more money from us than the school makes from its other boarding students but no-one cares. The members of the Board of Governors enjoy this new subject on the curriculum. Many of them devote entire evenings to the ongoing education of the students.

Now, after a year and a half, I sometimes find myself the teacher. The younger girls come to me. They weep on my shoulder and I comfort them. I tell them it could be worse. They could be working in a brothel or adrift on the streets slaving for a pimp, a fifty cent whore giving blowjobs to any passing drunk or far worse even, a ten cent coolie-whore. Here, they are safe. The men who come are all westerners, all referred to Mrs. Innes by friends or acquaintances. There are no drugs, no opium pipes, no beatings, no drunken oafs who will abuse us, no diseases, no pimps to exploit us, they are free to pick and choose, free to say yes or no as they decide.

“Be grateful to Mrs. Innes,” I tell them, my arm around their shoulders as they come to me for comfort, as they weep tears of bitter shame on my shoulder. “Yes, we sell men our bodies, yes, we have shamed our families, if our families are still alive. Yes, we are whores, but we are safe, we go to school, we go to University. One day we may even be able to hide our past and marry. There is no shame for us in what we do. Cast adrift on the sea of life, we do what we must to survive.”

They come to Hua and I for advice. We’re the oldest. We’re the ones who know. The big sisters. We give them the advice they ask for. We teach them if that is needed. We even teach little classes of our own. This selling of my body, it no longer shames me. I am no longer embarrassed by what I do. By what I am asked to do.

“Take the money and do what you must to survive. That is your duty. To survive.” This is what I tell the younger girls, the new girls, the ones who are still ashamed and scared and humiliated. That is what I tell myself, and I do what I must. I survive.

If a man desires a blowjob, that is what I give him. If a man desires to use my sex, I give him that. If he desires to possess my back passage, I am amenable and I know all the little tricks to that now and the men that take me that way are enthralled with the pleasure they experience. If men desire to share me amongst them, I will smile and agree, for a price. If a man wants a show, me with another girl, I will do that too. If he wants a beautiful escort to a nightclub, I am that girl in the high heeled shoes, the slender beauty in the elegantly erotic qipao, slit to the waist, hanging on his arm, smiling, chatting gaily, dancing, lighting his cigarette’s, flirting happily.

Everything in Shanghai has its price.

Shanghai is harsh teacher, but I have learnt.

I am a good student, I learn well and my price is high.

But still, still I cannot forget that love. My love for Martin. That never ending pain at his loss. The emptiness in my heart where he used to be. Sometimes I think I see him and my heart quickens. An angle of the head. The way a white man walks. The way he turns his head. I catch a glimpse, my eyes brighten, my heart comes to life at the thought that I might see him again, my step quickens and I am alive with hope for a moment, a minute, but when I catch up with the hoped one, it is never him.

Always it is just another white man.

Always, my heart dies, always that hope fades.

Will I ever see him again? And even if I do, what then?

It is hopeless, for I am a whore now. He will never love me again.

This one, the one that Mrs. Innes has ushered into my room, he looks me up and down and he is eager, I can see that as I smile for him, as I walk to him and he takes me into his arms.

“You’re as beautiful as Tom said you were,” he says, and I have no idea who Tom is.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says, reverently, only a couple of minutes later for he has said he wants me naked, not in my school uniform as many of them do. I am naked for him, waiting on my bed as he stands over me, looking down at me, undressing himself, and there is no shyness about him.

Only eagerness.

“By Jove, you’re good,” he says, five minutes later, as his cock enters me, slowly, thickly, for I tighten myself on him as he slides up inside me and I am wet and ready for him, as a good little whore should be, and a minute later, as he eases in and out of me. “Oh god… yes… oh fuck, yes.”

“Mmmmmm,” I moan. “You’re so big inside me.” He is, and I like that, I enjoy his weight on me, his cock inside me and he is moving slowly, he wants this to last, he wants to draw this out and I really am wet and ready for him. I enjoy sex, I enjoy men and in this act, I can lose myself. I can forget Martin while a man takes me. Any man and I do not even know this one’s name. He did not tell me, I did not ask. All I need is his money and his cock. I do not need his name.

“Please,” I beg him. “Oh please… please.” His cock penetrates deeply within my sex, filling me, as so many men now have filled me. His weight rides me, as so many man have ridden my body, as so many men had possessed me and used me and I revel in that possession, in that use, for if I do not have Martin, at least for now I have this man’s desire.

I do not have his love, I do not care for his love. It is his passion I desire, his passion and his hard male arousal using me, thrusting deep and I lift my hips, I draw my knees back, I open myself to him, I arch my back, I tighten myself on him. I moan. I moan again and again, and my moans are real, my excitement is real and he enjoys my excitement, as they all do. Every one of them.

“Please,” I beg him. “Oh please… please.”

“You like that?” he groans, and my sex answers him, spasming on him, clasping him, dancing on him. “Oh yes, you like that don’t you?”

His face says that my unfeigned excitement is doing things to him, stimulating him, inflaming him and my head arches back, I moan, I beat my heels against his butt, my hands clutch at his shoulders as his cock thrust deeply. Thrusts again and again and I am close, so close to my climax and I am no longer thinking of him. It is my own pleasure I seek now, and I writhe beneath him, I sob and I have lost all control.

“Ohhhhhhh,” I moan, my knees clutching at his ribs, my feet beating a wild little tattoo against his hips and his cock surges deep. Deep and he is so big and hard, his shaft sliding against the slippery walls of my channel, his cockhead swollen and far up inside me and I welcome him, welcome is long-sliding thrusts, cradle is body between my widespread thighs and he is pounding into me now, hos own control dissipating.

“Oh yes,” I squeal, taking him within me. “Yes… yes… yesyesyes,” and I climax, my sex dancing on him, my back arching, sobbing and wailing with my pleasure as that golden tide sweeps through me and it is good, so good and I lose my mind in that wave of ecstasy that fills me and it doesn’t matter at all that I have no idea of his name. I don’t care. I don’t want to know.

“Ohhhhhhhhh,” I sob, and I judder beneath him and now his cock throbs and spurts inside me, his semen exploding outwards inside me, pumping his essence into me, flooding my sex and I clasp him and I milk him for every drop as he groans, his body pressed so tight to mine, shuddering as he loses himself in his culmination and that glow fills me as I receive his pleasure, as I give him what he has paid for.

As I give him what a whore gives every man who pays to use her body.

“Oh God, that was good,” he groans, rolling off me at last to lie beside me on my bed. “Tom was right.”

“Of course Tom was right,” I smile, my own breathe coming in panting gasps. I roll onto my side, look down at him and he is my only client tonight. I know that, for I only take one man a night and he has paid, and paid highly for this time with me.

“Rest,” I say, sliding off the bed, standing, cupping myself for he has cum inside me, copiously. “I will run a bath and wash you.” I smile. “And then we will come back to bed and do this again.”

“Oh fuck,” he says, to my back, for I am already walking to the bathroom and I know he is watching my butt. All men do when I walk away from them in my bedroom, naked, and I know how to draw their eyes. How to stir their desire. How to tempt them with a sway of my hips, a look, a gesture, and this one is no different.

I will wash him, he will wash me, he will become hard again, he will take me and use me again and I will give him the pleasure he seeks. My body will satisfy him, I will sate his desire and tempt him even as I assuage his lust. He will leave wanting me again, as they all do and if I wanted to, I could do this act with half a dozen men every day and night and become wealthy. I do not. One a night is enough, for I do this to survive, to live, to study as my parents wished me to study.

I will do this. I will survive. I will stay loyal to my parents’ wishes and complete my studies at University and then I will look to my future. I do not know what that future will bring, for China is in chaos, war and fighting is everywhere, the Japanese continue to advance and my dreams have withered away. There is no hope within me, only sadness and pain and that deep sense of loss whenever I think of Martin, and I try not to, but I do, so often.

One thing keeps me going. Duty.

Duty to my family, for somewhere they may survive and I owe it to my parents, to my father and my mother, to do my best, to struggle, to survive myself and one day we may be together again, and perhaps they will not be proud of me, for what I do to live, to survive, to continue my studies, that would bring shame on them. That does not concern me. Hua and I have talked on this, openly now, and both of us will do what we must and at least we have each other.

“Come,” I say, returning to my bedroom, taking his hand. “The bath is ready, let me wash you.”

I will join him in the bath, I will wash him, he will wash me. Perhaps he will take me in the bath, perhaps we will return to my bed. Perhaps it will be as it was when last night’s client dried me and bent me forward so that my forearms rested on my bathroom counter and then he stood behind me and took me, watching my face in the mirror as he used me.

And so another night will pass, each one like the last and for now, this is my future. Man after man, night after night and after this one leaves I will wash myself, the maid will change my bedding, I will return to my bed and as I always do, I will think of Martin, of my lost love. I will think of him and mourn his loss as I fall asleep and it is better that I am exhausted, for then sleep will come the quicker and my tears for Martin will be the less.

* * *

“Chuntao?” Hua is at my door and her face is pale as I take her arm, as I seat her on my couch, for our rooms are furnished now. We each have our own and where her bed once was, now there is a couch and a small wooden table. It is not often used for tea. Many times I have been bent over that table and I know every grain of the wood from which that table is made. I have often examined it closely as I have been used on it. Its grains permeate my mind, its fine-grained wood is permeated with my sweat

“Hua, what is it?” I sit beside her, close beside her for there is comfort in touching each other and over these many months we have comforted each other often. I pour her tea, for I have just made myself a small pot, scented jasmine tea, with its delicate fragrance and taste. She sips, slowly.

“Mr. MacDonald,” she says. “Robert.” She sips her tea, puts her cup down, half turns to me; takes my hands in hers. “He has asked me to go with him, to Hong Kong and then to be his second wife in Malaya.”

I know Mr. MacDonald, for a time he was one of my guests as well as Hua’s and he has tried one or two of the other girls, but for the last months, he has been only with Hua. Often with Hua and it is obvious that he is deeply attracted to her. She and I, we have talked of this. He’s a kind man, gentle, considerate, he does not abuse his girls.

My heart sinks, for Hua is my friend, my sister, my family. We are each other’s family, we are all each other has now. My family is gone, not heard from in two years. Hers unheard from for even longer and all we have is each other. We are sisters and best friends, she and I and if she departs, I will have no-one. I will be alone, all alone, for the other girls, some of them are friends but not as Hua is.

“He says war is coming,” Hua says, her hands clutching at mine. “Not just Japan and China but the rest of the world, another war in Europe like the one we read about. He is moving to Malaya, he has closed down his business here, he is leaving for good and he wishes to take me with him.” Two tears trickle down her cheeks. “He told me he loves me, Chuntao. He wants to take care of me and he does, Chuntao, he really does care for me. He loves me and I almost love him. I will love him in time, I know I will.”

“He will marry you?” I ask.

“No,” she says, sadly. “He has an English wife, but she is in England. He says he will take care of me, he will make legal arrangements, I will have an honoured place, a house of my own, he will acknowledge any children as his and care for them as a father should.” Her hand clasps mine.

“Have you decided?” I ask, knowing that she has.

“He is a lonely man,” Hua says. “His wife is his wife in name only, he has not seen her in years. She will not leave England to come to him. As long as she has his money and his name, she is content. We have talked of this, and he has asked me to become his companion, his second wife.”

“The English do not permit second wives,” I say.

Hua shrugs. “It will be as it is here,” she says. “In Malaya there are many Chinese. Everyone will know who I am. My place will be known and respected. Englishwomen may not approve but our own people will know and respect my place.” She sobs now. “But I do not want to leave you, Chuntao. How can I leave you here by yourself?”

“You must,” I say, knowing it is true. “You must take this, Hua. An opportunity like this, it comes only once and you must seize it with both hands.”

“I do not want to leave you, Chuntao. You are my only friend, you are my sister.” Her tears flow, she takes me in her arms, we hold each other and she is shaking and I know this is tearing her apart. This is tearing me apart too but I know what she must do. How could I ever forgive myself if she did not take this opportunity because of loyalty to me? Because of our friendship.

“You must!” I say, my face buried in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her hair, her beautiful silky hair, holding her slender body tight and I know. I know what I must say. “You must go with him, Hua. You must escape all of this, go with him; take this chance with both hands. I could never forgive myself if you stayed here because of me.”

“Chuntao,” she sobs. “I do not want to leave you.”

“You must, Hua,” I say, and I want to cry myself, for losing my friend is a pain that spears my heart but I know she will go, she has made up her mind and all I can do is make this easier for her. I can ease her pain at the least and I will. “You must go with him, Hua. I will find my own way out of here.”

I do not know if I can or will, but if Hua escapes this, I will be happy for her. One of us at least will be free, and I know her Mr. MacDonald. He is an honourable man, as much as any foreigner in Shanghai can be honourable. He is a man who keeps his word and I have seen the way he looks at Hua. He adores her. He will care for her and cherish her and protect her.

“He says I will be as a second wife to him,” she says. “I will have a place, he will acknowledge and care for our children.”

“You must go with him,” I say. Then, “Oh, Hua, my sister, I will miss you so,” and the tears trickle down my cheeks and we cling to each other. “But I am happy for you. So happy.”

“I will miss you so much, Chuntao,” she says, and I smile through my tears, for she has made up her mind. She has found her escape. She will survive and I am happy, so happy for her even though in leaving she will take a piece of my heart with her. Another piece, for Martin has taken not just a piece of my heart. He has taken almost all my heart and when Hua goes, there will be very little left.

“He will come for me tomorrow morning,” Hua says. “We will tell Mrs. Innes and I will leave.” She smiles, sadly. “Spend tonight with me, Chuntao. One last night together, the way we did when we first came here?”

I smile, stand, take her hand in mind. “Come then, Hua,” I say, sadly, but smiling too, for her luck has changed. Her luck now is good and we lie in each other’s arms in her bed all night, talking softly of our early days here, our school days. The days when we were happy, before we lived this life we live and she tells me of her hopes and dreams with Mr. MacDonald, of the house he will build for them, where they are to live and she will write to me after they arrive. She will tell me everything.

Morning comes, dawn wakes me and I am curled up in bed, Hua’s arms around me, her body pressed warm against me and I lie there, treasuring these last moments with her until she wakens. We bath together in her bath, washing each other’s backs, washing each other’s hair as we used to do when we shared our room. We dress at last and that final parting is close. So close, and I am holding back the tears.
“I have a gift for you, Chuntao,” she says at the end.

There are two lockets on her dresser. Plain gold, on a chain. Taking her scissors, she snips a lock of her hair, curls it, places it inside the locket; hangs the locket around my neck.

“Remember me always, Chuntao,” she says, placing the locket around my neck.

“I will,” I say, and I know what that second locket is for. I too snip a piece of my hair, long strands which I curl and I too place them in that locket. I smile sadly as I hang it around her neck. “Always sisters,” I say. “Always, whatever happens. Always.”

We are in each other arms, weeping, for she will be leaving Shanghai, travelling to a foreign land and a new destiny and how I hope she finds everything her heart desires, there with her Englishman.

“Goodbye, Chuntao,” she says at last, and he will be here soon and I do not want to be here to see him. I want this farewell to be for Hua alone. “I’ll write to you, I’ll tell you everything.” She’s smiling now, eager to see her Mr. MacDonald and I’m happy for her, so happy.

“Goodbye, Hua,” I say, drying my tears, smiling, but I’m sad for me. So sad, for now I am truly alone, and I hold her one last time, I kiss her and then I leave, closing her door behind me and I’m crying as I walk down the long corridor to my room.

* * *

“What happened to Hua, grandmother?” Tien-chien asks, holding my hand in both of hers, for my hand is shaking now and I know I am old. Old, and my body may be weaker than once it was but my mind is as clear and sharp as ever it was and I remember so clearly, as if I was there.

I shrug, my eyes looking back into the past, seeing Hua as she is in my memories, for I have almost nothing of my friend. No painting, no photos, nothing but a single letter and a lock of her hair in that gold locket that she gave me on the day that we parted forever, as I gave her a lock of mine and I can only hope that, wherever she is, she has that hair with her still.

“She arrived in Malaya,” I say. “I received a letter from her. Her Mr. MacDonald owned rubber plantations there, he was a wealthy man with the surging demand for rubber. He had a new house built where he lived openly with her, she was indeed a respected second wife. Even the English acknowledged her as such and she received invitations to some small gatherings and hosted gatherings at his house. Everyone treated her well, except for some Englishwomen, but that was to be expected and that did not spoil her happiness.”

I smile sadly. “She was truly happy, I am so sure of that. She was expecting her first baby, she was so excited. I wrote back, I wrote again from here after your great-grandfather brought me to America but there was never anything further from her and then the war began and the Japanese took Malaya and Singapore. No-one expected that. I thought she would be safe in Malaya, her and her Robert MacDonald. She would have been safer in Shanghai, I think.”

“After the war?” Tien-chien asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “We had enquiries made. The rubber plantations he owned, your great-grandfather found them, but the ownership had changed after the war ended, his wife had sold them through the lawyers. She had never even travelled to Malaya. We did find his wife in England. Mr MacDonald died in the fighting against the Japanese when Malaya fell. He was an officer of some sort in the British Army there, your great-grandfather and I met his English wife. She was not offended at our asking about Hua, she said they lived apart and she wished him whatever happiness he found with her but she knew nothing of Hua.”

I smile sadly. “She helped us as best she could, gave us access to all his papers, all the documents she had. We found where he had lived in Malaya, up country, but when we travelled there, in 1951 I think it was, it was after the Emergency there had started, it was dangerous, the house had been destroyed, the neigboring planters had been driven out by the terrorists and there was no record of Hua, none at all, and no-one there who even remembered her. All I know is that for a while, she must have had what she wanted so much and she was happy and I was so happy for her after that letter.”

“Oh, grandmother,” Tien-chien says, and now tears trickle down my great-granddaughter’s cheeks.

“It is in the past now, Tien-chien,” I say. “I wish I knew what had happened to her though.”

For a moment, I sat there in silence, remembering my friend. My sister, for in our souls that is what we were. Sisters.

“I will go on with my story, Tien-chien,” I say at last, returning those memories of Hua to that place in my mind where I cherish them, for those memories, my memories, they are in all probability all that remain of Hua. Those, and the sketches I have made of her, drawn from my memories and I remember now, those sketches are in this rosewood coffee table on which our tea sits, together with her letter. The locket of her hair is with my jewellery, more prized and treasured than all my diamonds.

The diamonds? My children shall have them, I care nothing for diamonds and jewellery. Hua’s locket with her hair? I shall wear her locket to my grave, cherishing her friendship in death as I treasured my friend in life.

I free my hand from Tien-chien’s, lean forward, open the drawer and there they are, a dozen of those sketches, for I discarded the ones that did not meet the demands of my memory, that did not picture Hua as I remember her. I have not looked at them for many years, I could not bear the pain of knowing she too was lost to me, but now Tien-chien shall have these too.

Carefully, gently, I lift the top sketch out, and it is she. It is Hua. I drew her as I remembered her, sitting on her bed in our shared bedroom when we were students together. Students, young and innocent and happy, not the whores we would become, and Hua is as I remember her then.

“She’s so beautiful,” Tien-chien’s almond eyes sparkle with unshed tears.

“She was,” I say. “Hua was far more beautiful than I was.”

Even now, eighty years on, I miss her so.

But I must go on with my tale.

For I will tell this once.

Only this once.

* * *

“There’s a new gentleman for you, Chuntao,” Mrs. Innes says, tapping on my door.

This new gentleman, he’s an American, he’s from Texas. He’s been referred to me and I have accepted, sight unseen. What does it matter as long as he has the money and is free of disease, and those are things that Mrs. Innes takes care of.

The American likes what he sees. Me, I’m not so sure. He’s huge. Gigantic. Over six feet tall. A giant. His arms are bigger than my legs. His chest is a barrel. He’s hairy and I can barely understand a word he says but he pays well and he wants me. He doesn’t want to waste time.

“Hot damn,” he says, even before the door has closed behind Mrs. Innes. “Hot damn, gal! I want you now, here, on your bed.”

“So eager,” I say, smiling as he tells me so and I do not mind. It is faster this way, without the preliminaries and I have university assignments to complete. I take his hand in mine and his hand is enormous and that growing bulge within the confines of his trousers is as enormous as his hand and for a moment, I have some qualms about his size.

“You betcha,” he says. “They told me you were gorgeous but Jayzuz…” That’s the way he says it. Jayzus. “Sweet Jayzus, you’re beyond gorgeous, gal.”

“My name is Chuntao,” I say, smiling, for I do enjoy his open admiration. The way his eyes look at me, he is half in love with me already, I am sure and I hope he isn’t, because that could be a problem and already I like this American. Other men, I would use that love to relieve them of their money, for the ones that come to me these days, they pay much for their pleasure and I know they can afford more.

This one? He may be a giant, but he is like a giant puppy and I smile again as I take his jacket from him, as my fingers begin to unbutton his shirt and he is not like so many foreigners. He is not sweating from the heat of the Shanghai summer like the Englishmen do.

“You are used to the heat?” I ask him, removing his shirt and he is watching me, looking at me as I have seen foreigners look at those Christ statutes in their Church that I and Hua go to on Sunday’s with Mrs Innes and all the other girls. With adoration. That is the look on his face. Adoration, and I know I have this one hooked already. He has hooked himself and he is mine to strip to the bone.

“Ah’m from Texas, Shuntow,” he says, and I can barely understand him. Did he try to say my name? Shun-tow? I giggle. Yes, I like this American and adoring as he is, I will not take advantage of that as I would with other men. Not with this one. He’s sweet. A big sweet puppy, even if he is old.

“Texas in summer, it’s hotter than hell,” he says, watching my fingers as I unfasten his belt and that bulge is enormous. A monster and my knees are week, I am breathing hard, my face flushed pink and his skin is browned, tanned. He has scars across his chest, on his arms and his back and he is big but he is not fat. Muscle. It’s all muscle and I ease his trousers down. I go to kneel and he takes my hands in his enormous paws.

“You don’t kneel for me, Shuntow,” he says. “Ah don’t like to see a woman on her knees.” And he removes his own trousers and underwear and I gaze at his cock, mesmerized.

“Wow!” I say, and that is an American word I have learnt and when I look at his cock, I say that word with meaning. It is not big. It is enormous, long and thick and hard and he has balls the size of tennis balls, I am sure. Can he even fit inside me? My knees weaken at the thought.

He chuckles. “You ever see one like this, Shuntow?” he asks me. I look at it. Actually. I have never taken my eyes from it. I shake my head, no.

“Come here,” he says, and I obey, my knees weak and I’m a little scared now, because he is so big. He’s big. He’s massive. His legs are as thick as my waist, his arms are bigger than my legs and his cock? His cock is huge and I have seen many of them. I have had those cocks inside me. I obey him, I come, I stand before him, meekly obedient.

“How old are you, Chuntao?” he asks, and his face is serious.

“Nineteen,” I say, for I am, now, and I feel older. Far older.

“Good,” he says, and now he smiles and his fingers unbutton my white gauze blouse, the school uniform one that I still wear because the men that come to me enjoy my uniform. His fingers are deft, quick, they peel my blouse from me, his hands caress my shoulders, my arms, he turns me. My back is to him, my bra is unfastened, peeled off me, my skirt drops to the floor.

“Take your underwear off,” he breathes and I do. I stand naked in my room. Naked and on display for his eyes to examine. To enjoy. He does enjoy.

“Hot damn,” he says, and his mouth’s hanging open, like a dog slavering for a bone. That’s how he’s looking at me and his cock is engorging as he eyes me, growing, hardening and I watch, fascinated, as he swells, stiffens, rises and now his cock is no longer hanging, it’s jutting outwards, then upwards at an angle and his next words are almost a groan.

“Use your cute little hand on me,” he says, not moving.

I nod, my insides churning and I am hot and slippery and scared. I reach out and my hand finally touches his huge, hard shaft. My fingers cannot wrap around his shaft, it’s too thick and its strong and powerful in my hand. Like him.

“Stroke it, Chuntao” he breathes, and he’s almost shuddering at my touch, his breath coming fast, excitement writ across his face and when I look up and his eyes meet mine, I know he is hooked.

He is mine. This huge American puppy is mine, he is in my hands and almost, my heart warms at the adoration on his face and I stroke him, slowly, my hand running up and down the length of his shaft, exploring him and he is so hard. Rigid with his excitement and I want to bring him off. I’m scared but I want to give him pleasure and I want to experience him. I want him to drive me out of my mind.

I want him to use me and in being used, I will forget the pain of Martin’s loss, as I do for a while when men use me well. This American, he will use me well, I know that and I smile as one of his hands cups one of my breasts and it is small in his large hand. Small and delicate and his fingers brush gently.

“You’re like a doll,” he says. “A beautiful porcelain doll.” He says that is if he can’t believe it. His face says I am beautiful. His arousal is evidence that his words are true. “I want you,” he adds and there’s something in his voice that says he wants me for more than an evening together and inside me, I respond but my hand continues to stroke him.

“My balls,” he groans and I know what he wants. My other hand reaches down, I cup his balls as I stroke him and they are huge too. Enormous in their sacs of skin, the size of ripe plums, perhaps bigger and my mind presents me an image of all the semen they must contain.

“They’re big,” I gasp. “They’re huge.”

His hand leaves my breast, strokes my neck, my chin. Tilts my face upwards to look at him and I wonder how old he is. It is hard to tell sometimes with foreigners but I think in his forties or fifties and he is older than my father. All the men who have had me, except Martin and those friends of Martin, they have been as old as this American or older and it is easier that way. I cannot pretend to be other than what I am and I know what I must do. I must give him pleasure and take his money in return.

“They’re big, and they’re going to give you babies,” he says, and I blink, for no man except Martin has ever said that to me. I do not know how to respond to that and so I smile blankly.

“Come,” I say, and I draw him towards me bed, wondering if it will stand his weight and strength. Wondering if I can too and I want to take his edge off. “Sit down,” I say, and he does, he sits on my bed, naked, and standing before him, I am only a little taller than he, my breasts are at the level if his face and he smiles, his hands urge me closer, his mouth takes possession of one breast, engulfing it completely.

One of his massive hands is behind me, on my butt, caressing my smooth skin and his touch sends surging waves of excitement through me. His other hand cups the breast that his mouth does not possess, delicately tracing my taut curves, rolling my nipples under his fingers and I shiver under those multiple caresses.

His tongue tastes my nipple, his hand teases my other nipple and they swell, engorge, rubbery hard and one of my hands strokes his massive head, holds his head to me as he suckles at me, as I urge my breast into his mouth and I make no noise but my mouth opens wide, for he is skilful, he knows the ways to arouse a woman and he arouses me.

My other hand still holds him, stroking him slowly and he’s rock solid, rigid, a steel bar and I sink to my knees in the floor before him and his whole body stiffens as I stretch my lips wide around his huge girth and take the head of his cock into my mouth. His cock tastes of him, tastes the way he smell, clean, foreign, that masculine taste with which I am so familiar, for many cocks have now used my mouth and I this is something I do almost daily.

A cock in my mouth is as natural as cleaning my teeth and my mouth services him without conscious thought. My hand fists around him, stroking him as I run my tongue around the head of his cock, slide my tongue tip around the rim of his cockhead, savouring his taste, enjoying is excitement, bobbing my head slowly up and down for I am in no rush to bring him off and my other hand caresses those huge balls and I want him to finish in my mouth, that will take the edge of his excitement and when we do it again he will be gentler with me.

“Jesus, Chuntao,” he says, and it’s a little later and it’s more of a groan and he can’t even say my name correctly. It sounds like he’s saying “Jay-zus, Shun-tow,” and I’d giggle except I’m blowing him, my head bobbing up and down and his cock really is enormous, my jaws are stretched around him, he’s choking me and his balls are the biggest I have ever seen I can’t wait to tell the other girls about him. How big they are and I can’t even get half his cock in my mouth and he’s far too big to slide into my throat like I do with other men.

“Jay-zus, Shun-tow,” he groans, his head arching back and he’s shaking as he rests on his elbows, watching me as I blow him. “Jay-zus, gal, ‘ah swear, you’re sucking ‘ma brains out through ‘ma dick.”

I don’t reply, I’m too busy and the way he’s quivering, his muscles taut, he’s so close and I’m almost gagging on him, trying to get as much of his cock in my mouth as I can and I caress his huge balls, almost lovingly and I want him to finish, I want him to cum in my mouth and for him, for this American, this big happy puppy who so obviously adores me, for him I will swallow and I bob my head faster, sucking, swallowing cock-flavored saliva, my fist pumping him slickly now.

His breathing is harsh, heavy, he’s groaning wordlessly as I suck on him, his cock slippery with my saliva and now I hum as I blow him, and that vibration is enough to send him over the edge in an instant.

“Aaaaahhhhhhhh.” For the first time, one of his hands holds my head, his fingers curl in my hair, holding me as his hips jerk, as he urges his cock into my mouth, half choking me and in that moment I don’t mind, I don’t object, I want him to satisfy himself. I want him to finish in my mouth and I suck hard as his cock throbs between my lips, his muscles tighten, his hips arch towards me and he floods my mouth with that first jetting flood of his hot thick semen.

I swallow greedily. I gulp it down, tasting his thick salty seed. My cheeks bulge as he spurts again, as I gulp, swallow, suck and my first works him, my mouth services him and with every spurt I gulp more of his semen, draining him dry and by the time he’s finished, I feel as if I’ve drunk a half-pint of his cum and I almost climax as I savour those last diminishing spurts.

“Jay-zus, you swallowed it all?” he groans. “Oh sweet jay-zus… Oh fuck.” One of his hands is brushing my hair back from my face as I lick and suck his cock clean, swallowing every last drop and he tastes so good. He does.

“Ahm sorry, Chuntao,” he says, as my mouth slides lasciviously off this cock, as my tongue licks my lips clean, slowly, and I smile up at him, letting him watch me, for I know men enjoy that. “Ah shouldn’t swear in front of a lady but Jesus, ah’ve never had a blowjob that good in my life and I’ve had a few, ahm telling you.”

I lift my head, smiling as I lick my lips clean. “You’ve never met me before.”

“Jesus,” he groans. “I’m so… I’m… ” He looks down at me and he’s speechless and I’m sure he’s never been speechless in his life and I smile.

I smile, but that smile is sad now. “I’m not a lady. I’m a Shanghai whore and now that I’ve finished sucking your brains out through your dick, I’m going to suck you hard and then you’re going to lie here and let me fuck you.” I kiss his cockhead, a brush of my lips. “And if this monster of yours doesn’t kill me, we’ll have a bath together and you’ll fuck me again.”

Three times, sometimes four; that is all most men can manage and with this big American, I think that will be more than enough for me too.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says, smiling, watching me as I begin once more to lick his cockshaft and he responds. He hardens to rigidity so quickly under my tongue and my lips and my fingers.

“Lie on my bed,” I tell him. “Lie back.”

He does, he’s watching me as I ease myself off my knees and up and onto my bed. He watches me as I swing myself around, over him, straddling him and I’m moaning softly as I hold his rigid cock in my hand and he’s as big and hard as he was before I blew him.
I shiver, so hot and wet as I hold him upright with my hand, easing myself into the right position to sink myself down on him and I am slippery and ready, as I am slippery and ready for every man who desires to fuck me. I ease myself down, his hands rest on my hips, he brushes me and I bite my bottom lip as I lower myself a little further, opening to him, slowly, for he really is big. I have done this before, I have impaled myself for the pleasure of a man but this… he’s so big.

“Uhhhhh.” His hands on my hips urge me downwards, just enough that his cockhead enters me and his shaft stretches me around his girth, his cockhead presses against my channel walls where he is inside me. One hand moves on my hip, of his thumbs reaches to where we join, feathers over my clitoris and I am swollen and wet, my clitoris protrudes a little, his touch weakens me and I sink down on him, and we are both looking as his shaft slides up inside me.

“So tight and hot,” he groans.

“Uhhhhhh,” I moan, for his cock is huge in me, stretching me everywhere inside as he penetrates up inside me and I’m shuddering, helpless, easing forward, my hands on his chest, taking my eight, bracing myself but my thighs have turned to jelly, gravity and his hands on my hips draw me downwards, sink me onto his shaft and I’m shivering, I’m shuddering, I’m moaning as his shaft penetrates me, deeper and deeper and his cockhead is high inside me, touching places deep within me that have never been touched.

“Do you like that?” he groans as I finally take all of him. We are pressed together where we join and I am stuffed full, I am stretched almost to the point of bursting but there is no pain, no discomfort, only a thick fullness that holds me on him, unmoving, helpless, moaning as I sit on him.

“Yes,” I gasp. “Oh yes,” and I slowly topple forward to lie on him.

One of his hands takes my ponytail, lifts me head, he kisses me with a fierce passionate longing. His hips flex, his cock eases outwards, thrusts inwards, working his cock in and out of my sex as I kneel over him, straddling him, his to possess and my sex squirms and spasms and clutches at his cockshaft.

“Yes,” I moan. “Oh yes,” and my hands clutch at his shoulders. I am helpless on him, impaled. Thickly impaled on this rigid shaft that fills me, that reaches high inside me and my face rests on his shoulder, my hands clutch at his forearms and I am content to let him take me, enjoy me, use me.

“You’re good,” he groans. “You’re so good,” and both his hands grip my butt cheeks and he’s moving me on him as his hips flex and I’m helpless. I’m not riding him. I’m not anything him. All I’m doing his taking his cock and I gasp and I moan and I grunt and shudder when he goes a little too deep within me and it hurts and he’s as far inside me as anything can go, I am sure and I’d scream except I have no breathe for that.

“Uhhhh,” I gasp. “Uhhhhhh.”

He feeds me his cock. He pulls me down on him as he thrusts into me and he is deep and high and wet and slippery and hot and tight on him and I want him doing this to me and now I want to serve him. I want to give him what he paid for and I push myself upright, slowly.

“Ohhhhh,” he groans. “Oh fuck… oh fuck.”

I slowly sit upright, straddling him and he is so deep and high within me and I moan as his hands cup my breasts. I exhale slowly as I lift myself and now I am moving on him, riding him, up and down. Faster, deeper, harder, rolling my hips, sliding on him, squeezing him and his cock is a spear reaching to my heart.

“Ohhhhh.” It is my turn to sob. “Ohhhhhh.” His cock moves inside me and he’s swelling, he’s larger inside me. He’s harder, thicker, he’s pumping himself up into me and it is all I can do to continue to ride him and his hands take control of my hips, moving me with effortless ease and I’m being moved on his cock like a fireman on a greased pole and my hands are on his chest, bracing myself as he groans with his own pleasure and I can’t stop those little noises I’m making.

Little cries, sobs, gasps, mewling like a kitten with the excitement and pleasure of those thick thrusts high inside me and he’s relentless, he doesn’t stop and my body is slick with my sweat now, my forehead beaded, sweat drips from my nipples and for him it is no longer enough. He raises himself effortless, holding me in those large strong hands. He lifts me and turns me and lowers me onto my back and plunges is cock into me and now I am helplessly pinned beneath him,

His hands, his thighs, he uses them to spread my legs wider, my knees clasp his ribs, my feet kick at the air and his cock plunges deep, he’s grunting now, grunting with every thrust as he touches me high inside and every thrust sends a shockwave of pleasure rippling through me and I’m writhing beneath him, my head arching back, my back arching, pleasure filling me and I moan and sob and my sex spasms on him as he has me.

“Ohhhh,” I sob. “Ohh… ohhh… ohhhhh.”

“Chuntao,” he groans. “Chuntao, you’re beautiful… you’re the most beautiful…” and he plunges deep, one large hand spayed beneath my butt, lifting me and holding me to take his driving penetrations.

“Ohhhhhhhh,” I wail and my culmination overwhelms me, my back arches, those delicious waves of ecstasy roll through me as my sex clamps down on and I wail again as his cock throbs inside me, as he floods me with his release, groaning his pleasure as he spurts his semen into me in great hot jetting bursts that reverberate through my body and I can feel his cock throb with every spurt, I can feel those hot rushing bursts flooding me inside and a second orgasm washes through me in the wake of the first and he holds me tight, strength and tenderness as he relaxes on me and my body glows beneath his.

“Come back to my hotel with me, Chuntao,” he says, afterwards, many minutes afterwards, as I lie on my bed before him, exhausted, glowing, tired now and he’s propped up on one elbow beside me, smiling down at me, one of those huge hands resting on the taut flatness of my stomach, resting, circling, caressing. That touch, that look, he cannot have enough of me and so many men have worn that same expression but there is something else on this American’s face.

He wants me, yes, but he also cares. That is the look, and I have not seen that look on a man’s face since Martin and seeing this big American look at me in that way, I almost cry.

He sees. He notices, where no other men have, or if they did, they did not care and those huge arms engulf me, hold me, protect me and in that moment, as voices asks “what’s wrong, little honey?” I realize he cares.

I do not know why, I do not understand what he sees in me. Why he cares for a Shanghai whore, but he does and he holds me as I turn in his arms, as I bury my face against his shoulder, as I lose myself in that sadness and that loss once more and I cling to him as I have clung to no-one before but Martin or my friend, Hua.

He holds me, he strokes my head, my hair, he dries my tears, he asks me again to return with him to his hotel and when I tell him how much that will cost him, all night in his hotel room with him, he doesn’t even blink. He opens his wallet, he peels off ten times as much as I asked for and he tells me he wants me all week. He gives it to me without a thought.

“Let’s go, Shun-tow,” he says, and he’s grinning like a boy with a new toy as he takes my delicate hand in one huge paw, and I am like a child at his side as I leave with him and Mrs Innes will have to cancel my clients for the week because I do not think about it. I leave with my American and already that is how I think of him and in his hotel room, I undress. I bathe with him. I go to his bed willingly. I give him what he desires and afterwards, I sleep in his arms.

And in the morning… that first morning with my American…

* * *

“His cock was enormous,” I say, innocently. “The biggest I’d ever had. I’m glad there was no-one else after him, because he stretched me so much. Sitting on him that morning, it was like sitting on a baseball bat and riding a bronco at one of these Texan Rodeo’s and when he came inside me, it was like a firehose flooding me.”

“Uh… Grandmother,” Tien-chien says. “That’s maybe a little too much detail if that’s how you met Great-Grandfather.” Her cheeks are pink.

I giggle and I know, I’m ninety eight now, and a ninety eight year old great-grandmother giggling about blowjobs and sex and working as a whore when she met her husband, who was one of her customers, and nowhere near her first, it’s a little strange isn’t it, and I have to giggle again.

“I was a Shanghai whore, Tien-chien,” I say, and I am blunt now. Straightforward. Honest, for if she is to know my story, she should know the truth. All the truth. “More men fucked me than I can possibly remember, and I was good at it. Men begged for an hour with me. They fell to their knees and pleaded for an evening. Your great-grandfather, he was a lucky man and everyone told him why and he knew why, for I showed him. He paid me to be his whore and I was good at what I did.” I smile. “Very good. He couldn’t get enough and when he married me, he knew everything about me.” I pause and for a moment I am sad and then I qualify my words. “Almost everything.”

I look at my great-granddaughter, my eyes so wide and even at ninety-eight, I can still feign that wide-eyed innocence that men once paid so much for. That her great-grandfather paid so much for, because after the first time he fucked me, he couldn’t get enough and he wanted me again and again and I was willing.

“Aiiiyah! Grandmother!” she says, and then she grins. “I can see why you were in demand,” and she giggles now. “Keep talking,” she says, and to all appearances she’s Chinese but she speaks with that same Texan drawl that her great-grandfather spoke with. I can understand it now, but that drawl from a girl who looks like I once did, it still surprises me now and then.

“Go on, Grandmother,” she says again, her voice soft, her cheeks still a little pink. “Just, no more details about great-grandfather’s big cock, huh. Spare your great-granddaughter’s blushes on that one.”

I smile, place my hand on hers. “Okay, Tien-chien.” I say that in the American way but it still sounds strange to me.

“But he really did have such a big cock and when he came! Heavens. So much of it. Like a firehose every time.” I fan myself with one hand, remembering that first time that he came inside me. My own wide-eyed surprise as his gigantic cock pulsed and throbbed inside me, as he flooded me, and that climax. I can still recall that climax, unfaked, genuine, leaving me blind and helpless in the throes of my own pleasure.

“No wonder we had so many children,” I add. “He was a bull of a man, your great-grandfather.” Six children we had together in the end, my American and I. Five boys and one girl, my daughter, the youngest and I named her Hua after my friend and she is here today, with her family, her husband, her children and her grandchildren.

They are all here, so many of them and I know my American would be full of happiness for he loved our children and while he was so much older than me, he lived long enough to see his first grandchildren, to hold them in his arms and I gave him that. I gave my American everything he wanted from me except my love and I hid that love that still lived within me. I concealed that from my American and he was happy and in his arms, treasured and cherished, so was I and there are no regrets, for I did what I had to do.

I survived, where I do not think anyone else in my family did.

“Grandmother! The story!” Tien-chien interrupts my thoughts. She wants me to continue.

“Where was I?” I have to think for a moment and I swear, even at ninety eight, yes, I am excited at those memories and I do miss my American’s big cock and how he came in me. Is it any wonder we had so many children, he and I? Half a dozen of them. Where was I?

Oh yes, Shanghai and my American. I smile.

* * *

My American doesn’t care that I’m expensive. He buys me gifts. Jewellery. Clothes. Anything I ask for. Ridiculous things. Whimsies. Anything I want. Anything at all. He can’t buy back my innocence though. He can’t buy back my past. He can’t buy my memories away from me. He can’t buy my love.

But after three months, he buys my body.

“‘Ah’m goin’ back to Texas soon, little honey,” he says to me one evening, seated beside me in the White Horse Nightclub, watching the cabaret. “And ‘ah don’t want to leave you behind.” He looks down at me and I could swear there are tears in those eyes.

“‘Ah cain’t bear to leave you here all alone,” he says, because he knows a little about me now.

That I have no family. That they were in Nanking when it fell to the Japanese. That I haven’t heard from them since. He knows what I am. He knows what lead me to do what I do. He even knows a little about what happened with Martin, that fiasco of an afternoon with his family. He drew all of that from me with a dextrous skill that surprised me when I realized just how much I’d confessed to him. How much he’d drawn from me. How much he’d surmised for himself.

“Ah want to look after you, Chuntao,” he says, holding my delicate hands in his huge paws. “A little flower like you should be cherished and loved and protected.” He looks around. “Not like this. You’re not one of these girls, not in your heart. You want to be loved, you want a husband, a home; children.”

I look into his eyes and I know he’s serious and almost, almost I cry. “I’m a whore,” I tell him, bluntly, the pain of my words forcing back the tears. “White men like you don’t marry Chinese whores.”

“Chuntao,” he says. “Ah don’t give a good goddamn what anyone thinks ‘ah should or shouldn’t do. ‘Ah own half of Texas.” He laughs. “Waal, okay, maybe not half, but a chunk ‘n if I want to marry the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, well, if they don’t like it, they can kiss my Texan ass.”

He pauses and he’s thinking. I know he his. “Let me look after you, Chuntao. Come back to Texas with me and if you like it, we can talk more then, and if you don’t, why, I’ll bring you back to Shanghai and set up here with you instead. Or anywhere else you want to go. Come with me and we’ll see how you like it and we can talk after that about what happens later.”

Men have asked me this before. To set up with me. To make me their mistress. Always, I have refused. I open my mouth to say no and I look at him and he’s so serious, he means it and I know he loves me. He loves a Chinese whore and he’s willing to defy convention, defy everyone, he really does want to marry me and he doesn’t give a good goddamn that I’m a whore and the tears well in my eyes and how I wish Martin had had half my American’s courage, a quarter even. That courage you need to defy the conventions, to defy everyone and to do what you want to do, regardless.

My American has that courage. He loves me that much.

I do not say yes, not then, but I leave the nightclub with my American. I finally leave the Shanghai American Girls Private School, although I have not been back often since I first went to his hotel with him. I say farewell to the other girls. I leave almost everything behind except some clothes, that single letter from Hua, that locket of her hair, my painting, now removed from its frame and rolled in a protective case, and that red silk sheet. I openly move in to the Hotel my American is living in. I move in but I refuse to accept his offer of marriage.

Who would want to marry a Chinese whore? I tell myself he’s not serious. It’s desire. It’s lust. He wants me but if he marries me, he’ll regret it and cast me aside and then where will I be? Nobody wants a discarded whore.

It is known now that I am his exclusively, his mistress. His concubine. I don’t think of myself as being his concubine. His kept woman. I’m not. I’m a whore.

His whore, but still a whore.

That has not changed.

He pays for me.

* * *

I see Martin once more. It’s February 1941, two and a half years after I last saw him, and he must have returned to Shanghai. It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m wearing new diamond earrings and a beautiful diamond pendant that were my Valentine’s Day present from my American. I’m in a nightclub, I forget which one. I am with my American, as I always am, now.

I’m twenty one and inside my head I’m far older than I should be. In those two and a half years I’ve gathered a lifetime of experience. I’ve been the American’s mistress for months now. He calls me his girl now but I’m not. He pays me, he pays me well and I am his exclusively, but I know exactly what I am.

I am not his girl.

I’m his whore.

He’s thirty years older than me and he’s taking me back to America with him. I’ve agreed to go with him, and he’s overjoyed. Elated. We’re going to San Francisco by ship, and then to Texas and his ranches and his oil and he has all the papers for me. We’re leaving on a ship in three days’ time and I will have left Shanghai behind me. I will have left the last two years behind me as if it’s a dream. A dream and a nightmare.

A dream and a nightmare I should forget, but how could I ever forget Martin, and when I see him, when our eyes meet for a second in that nightclub, when I see that he remembers me, when he flushes and looks away, I know that I will never be able to wipe the memory of him from my mind.

In that glance, in that single meeting of our eyes, I know I still love him and how could I ever forget? I haven’t seen him since that Sunday afternoon of shame and humiliation, that dreadful evening with his friends and that once he came to me as one comes to a whore, two and a half years ago where my heart and my hopes and my love were shattered forever.

I gaze at Martin’s face, that face that I loved, and in that moment, I know I still love him and my eyes well with unshed tears. All the bitterness, all the shame, all the humiliation and the pain of losing him, I could never erase that from my mind if it meant erasing him from my memories and I know I can never forget.

I know this love for him will be part of me until the day I die.

“Hey, Chuntao,” my American drawls, and I still barely recognize my name as he drawls it. “There’s someone there I gotta talk too.”

He abandons me momentarily for an acquaintance, someone he loudly calls to as he pushes through the crowded nightclub with that arrogant self-confidence that so many Americans have, and I’ve met many Americans now. Americans, English, Germans, Italians, French. Every nationality under the sun. I’ve met them all and they’re men, they want one thing. The thing that every man wants and if they paid for me, I gave them what they wanted, I sold them my body. For a price.

Always for a price.

Only Martin has ever possessed my heart. He possesses it still.

“Chuntao.” It’s his voice, waking me from my reverie. Martin’s voice. He’s here, he’s come to me and he’s here, he’s standing beside me. My heart flutters like a sparrow’s, my love for him soars within me, renewed, filling me as it filled me that first time ever I saw his face.

“I’m sorry, Chuntao,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” He looks so helpless, so lost and forlorn and my heart goes out to him as we gaze into each other’s eyes. “I loved you,” he whispers. “I love you…” His voice breaks. “I love you, Chuntao.”

“I know you did,” I say. “I know you do.”

His eyes, his eyes say that he loves me still.

He did love me, he does love me, but he didn’t love me enough to take me to his family when it would have made a difference. He didn’t love me enough to stand up to his father when I needed him so much. He didn’t love me enough to save me on that Sunday afternoon where my dreams and hopes were destroyed. He didn’t love me enough to save me from his father. He didn’t love me enough to save me from all those other men.
He didn’t love me enough to save me from my fate.

Man after man, night after night. Martin didn’t save me from that. My American has saved me. My American saw me for what I really am beneath that whore’s veneer and he cherishes me and he cares for me and he coaxed me and he held me and he comforted me when the pain broke through at last and I cried all night in his arms and he brought me back from that dark night of the soul that I was sinking into beneath that smiling whore’s veneer that was only a shell.

My American bought me and he took me away from that life and he doesn’t care about my past, he doesn’t care about the other men. He cares for me and he loves me. I don’t love my American but I’m grateful to him.

“I know you loved me, Martin,” I say again, sadly, and my heart is breaking all over again. “But sometimes love by itself isn’t enough.”

“I love you,” he whispers again, as if that’s everything and perhaps it would be if he takes me from here, if he takes me with him and keeps me always and his hands take mine, both of mine and he holds them as if he’s drowning and my heart fills once more with hope. “I love you so much. I’ve never stopped loving you. I’ll always love you.”

“I love you, Martin,” I say, and my hands clutch at his as they clutched at him when we were lovers, as they clutched at him when I was his. Only his, and how I want to be only his. “I’ve always loved you. I always will love you, but you weren’t there when I needed you. I had to live, Martin. I had to survive and for a girl like me, with nothing, there’s only one way to survive here in Shanghai.”

My eyes well now with tears. “Forgive me, Martin. I had to live… I had to…” Inside my heart, I plead with him to take me back, forgive me and take me with him, take me from here. Take me with him and keep me and I will be forever happy.

He says nothing, as he said nothing on that Sunday afternoon two and a half years ago. As he said nothing when his friends took me before his eyes, using me, one after the other. He says nothing, as he said nothing on that last time he came to me, that last time he took me and he silently used my body and then he walked out and left me as one leaves a whore.

As he left me without a word. As he left me without hope. As he left me with nothing but the taste of him in my mouth, his wetness on my thighs and the money he threw on the floor as he walked out the door without once looking back.

“I love you, Martin,” I say, once more, desperately, and my eyes beg for him to understand that those other men, his father, his father’s friends, his own friends, all the men since then, even my American, they were nothing to me. They were nothing, they are nothing. Less than nothing. They bought my body, they paid to use me, their money kept me alive when there was no other choice for me, but it is Martin who holds my heart in his hands. It was always Martin.

It will always be Martin and I try once more. I try so hard.

“Martin,” I breathe, and all my love for him is in those words. “Oh, Martin, I love you, I do love you, I love you so much, Martin. I’ll always love you, now and forever,” and I gaze up at him, willing him to ask me to leave with him now, to take me by the hand and walk out of here with me and if he does, I’ll go with him. I’ll leave my American. I’ll break my American’s heart without a second thought. I’ll betray him. I’ll forgo my gratitude. I’ll leave everything behind me and I’ll go with Martin. I’ll go anywhere he wants and I’ll go for love, only for love.

I’ll be Martin’s concubine if he wants that of me. I’ll marry him if he wants me. I’ll be his whore if that should be his desire. I’ll walk out of here to be Martin’s whore and my eyes say that, but he says nothing. He looks into my eyes and he holds my hands in his and he holds my heart and he always will but he says nothing and my heart sinks, sinks and then shatters anew, for I know now that he never will.

“Hey, fella. Find your own girl,” my American says, and Martin releases my hands. He releases my hands but my heart will never be released.

“Got a little something for my Valentine girl,” my American says, and he does.

It’s a ring, an enormous diamond ring and he’s smiling that big happy-puppy smile as he places it on my finger and I’m not sure that I believe what’s happening. It’s a mistake, it has to be. I’ve said no to his offers before, but he’s down on one knee now, in front of everyone, holding my hand in his, kissing my fingers and the music quietens, the band plays softly now, watching.

Everyone is watching.

Life in Shanghai is a show, and here, this evening, we are now the night’s main act.

“Chuntao, dahling,” my American drawls. Loudly, and his voice carries to the far walls, carries over the music, carries over the murmuring voices of our audience. “I’m gonna make an honest woman outa you. Will you marry me, dahling girl?”

He grins at Martin but it’s not a humorous grin, it’s a shark’s grin, a wolf’s snarl, a tiger’s showing of its teeth, for my American is a predator through and through and he brooks no competition. I am sure he knows, he’s seen my hands in Martin’s. He’s seen my face, the unshed tears, the desperation and he knows. He knows what Martin is to me and yet my American, he wants me still.

My American’s voice is loud, a challenge, carrying easily over the soft background music and the now muted voices around us and every eye is on us. On the huge American kneeling before the beautiful Chinese girl. On the beautiful Chinese girl in the black silk qipao and the glittering diamonds with the sparkling eyes. On the tall blonde Englishman, young, handsome, elegant; the antithesis of my American in almost every way.

My American glances around but his eyes return to Martin and then to me. “And anyone that don’t like it can bite my big Texan balls, coz you’re sweeter than stolen honey, babe, and ah just don’t give a hoot what these goddamn limeys think of a good ‘ol American boy marryin’ a cute little sing-song girl like you, coz far as ‘ahm concerned, ah’d rather watch you walk than eat fried chicken for the rest of ‘ma life. Ah love you babe, ‘an ah want you to be ma wife forever.”

“Yes,” I say, “oh yes,” for in the end, what else is there for me, and I succumb to my fate. My American has said this before everyone, publicly. My American is willing to marry me and he has said so before everyone, where Martin won’t even walk out the door with me and make me his whore.

Better an honoured wife, even to an American whom I do not love, better that than continuing the precarious existence of a flower girl, a sing-song girl, a Peach Blossom to be used fleetingly by any man who is willing to pay for her. Used until she is too wilted and faded to be desired.

Maybe Martin does love me, but he isn’t strong enough to defy his father, he isn’t strong enough to defy convention, he isn’t strong enough to defy his upbringing. He isn’t strong enough to marry a Chinese whore.

He isn’t strong enough to walk out of here with me and make me his own whore and even now, all he would have to do is reach out with his and I would go with him but he doesn’t. He doesn’t and because he doesn’t, I have no choice to make.

My American loves me. He knows I don’t love him. He knows my background. I am sure he knows who Martin is. He knows some of my pain. He knows I’m a whore. He knows that many men have used my body before him and still he doesn’t give a good goddamn. Still he wants to marry me and he’s said it before the world and in that moment, almost, I love him and I’m in my American’s arms, weeping with gratitude.

Weeping with regret for a love now lost forever.

“Drinks are on me,” my American calls out, loudly, one huge arm around my slender shoulders and the club goes wild, the band strikes up, the girls are surrounding me, examining my ring, showering praise on me for hooking the American, men are slapping my American’s back, shaking his hand.

Some of them are even jealous.

I catch Martin’s eye for just a moment as he walks away from me and then he is gone. This time I know he is gone forever and my heart’s been ripped apart anew.

Three days later I am on the SS President Hoover, First Class, my American, my new husband, my first husband, for we are married now and he will be my only husband, he’s beside me, leaning against the railings, one arm around me and my heart mourns as the ship pulls away from the quay. The tears flow from my eyes as I leave my beloved homeland forever.

Never again will my eyes see Shanghai. Never again will I see the Whangpoo flowing through Shanghai. Never again will I lay eyes on the beauty and majesty of the mighty Yangtze where it flows into the sea. Never again will I see my family, for they have disappeared without trace into the maelstrom of war that engulfs my homeland.

Never again will I see Martin.

But how could I forget? How could I ever forget?

How could I ever forget the bitter pain of this never ending love?

* * *

“I never saw him again,” I say, looking at that painting of he and I. “Never, but I loved him always.”

I turn towards her, my cheeks wet with tears. I take both her hands in mine. “My story is yours now, Tien-Chien,” I say. “And the painting will be yours too when it is time.”

“Grandmother,” Tien-Chien says, and she’s holding my hand, the tears flowing down her cheeks. “Oh Grandmother,” and now it is my hand that squeezes hers.

“He died in the war,” I say. “He never married, there was never anyone else after me and he was put into a camp by the Japanese and he died there. I contacted his sister, Emily, long ago, a long time after the war. He and his father, they both died there in Shanghai. They were together to the end at least. Emily’s mother died in Hong Kong during the war. Emily was back in England well before then.” I pause, remembering. “Her husband died in Singapore when it fell to the Japanese. There was no luck in that family, she lost everyone, as I did, and when we talked, she and I, we had a lot in common in the end. More than either of us knew.”

“Your parents?” she asks. “Your little brothers and sisters? Your Uncles and Aunts? Your cousins?”

“I could never find them,” I said. “Your great-grandfather tried, your grandfather tried, others tried for me, but China back then, with all the fighting. Nanking was destroyed by the Japanese, so many people died, nobody knows what happened to my family. They vanished as if they had never been. The house was destroyed, everyone that knew them gone. There was nothing. We tried again, after Nixon, after you could return. Your grandfather took me back to search, we hired people to look but nothing remained. Nothing at all.”

Where our family house had once stood, there were now apartment buildings, ugly towers of grey concrete, soulless roads crowded with buses and trucks spewing diesel fumes and smoke and it was hard to know if it was even the right place, for everything old had gone. There was nothing left of my childhood. Nothing whatsoever and I close my eyes momentarily, once more experiencing that loss, that emptiness.

“China was like that back then. I’m not alone, Tien-Chien, don’t feel sorry for me. I was one of the lucky ones. Millions died in the war and the fighting afterwards, between the Kuomintang and the Communists and there were the famines, the prison camps, the executions. There were so many like me, left alone, losing everything. Everyone. So much loss. So much pain and sadness. So many tragedies.”

I wipe the tears from my eyes. “I had good fortune, Tien-chien. I survived. Your great-grandfather loved me, he brought me here; he married me. Gave me your grandfather and your great-uncles and great-aunts and I’m blessed with my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren.”

She takes one of my hands, places it on her stomach; rests her hand on mine.

“Great-great grandchildren too, Grandmother,” she says, and she’s smiling with tears in her eyes. “Your first great-great grandchild. Keith and I are going to tell everyone else this evening but we wanted you to be the first to know. Our Valentine’s Day gift to you, Grandmother. Her Chinese name will be Chuntao.”

I’m shocked for a second, she’s not married. Her and that young man of hers, Keith, who’s American-Chinese, they’re living together, but they’re not married and then I laugh at myself. That I should be shocked, I whose body was used by a thousand men in so many ways, long before I was her age. That’s funny.

“A girl?” I ask.

“Yes, grandmother, a girl,” she says, and I smile.

“It is a beautiful name,” I say. “And such a beautiful Valentine’s Day gift for your great-grandmother. She’ll be as beautiful as her mother.”

“As beautiful as her great-great-grandmother,” Tien-chien says, and we both look at that painting on the wall.

“Pass my painting on to her, Tien-chien,” I say. “And tell her my story.”

“I will, Grandmother,” Tien-chien says. “I’ll write your story down to go with your painting,” and her hand holds mine.

I look at my painting, I gaze at my younger self and at Martin as we were so many years ago, eighty years ago now, and I know that this story of love will not be forgotten, that it will outlive me now. I’m blessed that I have those memories of him still and that I’ve shared them with this great-granddaughter who’s almost an image of my younger self. I gaze at that young couple, so in love, so filled with their love and while I live, how could I ever forget?

I can’t, and I know that I never will. I know I love him still. I love him after all these years. I love him as much now as I did then, when we were together for those few brief months in Shanghai, and I flick my music on and Tracy Huang’s voice begins to sing her version, the cover of this old song that I love so much, this old song from those long ago days in Shanghai that expresses everything I feel for my love so much better than my own poor words can ever convey and I sing with her, very softly.

Tien-chien knows this song, I’ve played it often over the years, she knows now why and knowing, she sings with me, her voice as beautiful as mine once was and the tears flow down her cheeks as they flow down mine.

忘 不 了, 忘 不 了 (wang bu liao, wang bu liao)

How could I forget, how could I ever forget?

忘 不 了 春 已 盡 (wang bu liao chun yi jin)

How could I forget the end of spring?

忘 不 了 花 已 老 (wang bu liao hua yi lao)

And how could I forget falling leaves and wilting flowers?

忘 不 了 離 別 的 滋 味 (wang bu liao li bie di zi wei)

Never can I forget the bitter taste of our parting,

也 忘 不 了 那 相 思 的 苦 惱 (ye wang bu liao na xiang si di ku nao)

And never can I forget the torment of my longing for you…

Never can I forget, and her hand squeezes mine and I squeeze back and I dry my tears and then I laugh and for a moment, I’m that young girl in her boarding school bedroom talking to my friend in those few short years of life in Shanghai, talking to Hua, comparing men, talking about sex and what it might be like and what men like in girls like us and I’m no longer thinking of Martin, no longer sad.

“Remind me tomorrow to teach you a few tricks to use on that young man of yours after little Chuntao is born,” I say. “Something to make sure he stays interested.”

“Grandmother!” she says, shocked, and then she laughs, and her laughter is tinkling music as mine once was.

As I remember myself laughing in those long ago days when we laughed together, Hua and I.

As I remember myself laughing with Martin. Martin and I, holding hands in the winter snow, walking down that long lane to the building in which that room lay. Laughing together as we walked the streets of the French Concession, drinking coffee, eating croissants, making love, every moment a moment of love. Every gesture, every thought, everything we did together an act of love, and I will never forget. Never.

“Okay,” Tien-chien says, in that American way that still seems strange after almost eighty years. “I bet you do know a few.”

“Your great-grandfather didn’t marry me just for my pretty face,” I say, smiling, because he didn’t.

I might be ninety eight now, but there’s nothing wrong with my memory. I smile, remembering some of those first little tricks I picked up from those books Hua and I read with such interest together, never imagining how we would put that knowledge to use. Those little tricks that I first practiced on Martin with such innocent delight as we made love together and how he enjoyed them.

Tien-chien laughs again and we sit there together, my hand held by hers while the song plays to its end and from the wall, Martin looks down at me, smiling.

I smile back, for I know that somewhere, Martin still loves me and he’s there, waiting for me and soon, very soon now, we’ll find each other and this time, he will be strong. There will be no father, no family, no friends to come between us. He’ll see me walking towards him, then running, as I did back then when I was young and eighteen and so freshly in love. He’ll smile at me as he’s smiling at me now from our painting. He’ll take me in his arms and we’ll be together again, together as we once were, but this time, this time it will be forever.

This time our love will never end.

* * * The End * * *

And of course there’s that final note on the story from Chloe: I do hope you’ve enjoyed this story — if your feedback says it’s worth it, I plan this to be the first of a series of stories set in Shanghai in the same period although I can’t promise more tear-jerking romances. There are some anomalies here and there (the song “Never Ending Love” was recorded in 1961 for the movie, but the sound is that Shanghai sound). In general I’ve tried to stay consistent with the time period, right down to Ferrero lingerie photographed by Boris Lipnitzky, and if you look at Ferrero’s creations, wow, Victoria’s Secret get out of the way. This guy did all that back in the 1930’s, which goes to show there’s nothing new under the sun.

“Shanghai Nights” was however from the time period this story is set in and Zhou Xuan was a famous Shanghai singer at the time. Jiang Qing is of course Madame Mao, the Chinese Communist Revolutionary, actress, and a major political figure during the Cultural Revolution. She was the fourth wife of Mao Zedong and she did actually play Nora in Ibsen’s “A Doll’s House” in Shanghai in the late 1930’s, as in the story.

The street names, the cinemas, the clubs, the hotels, the movies, the movie stars and actresses, the singers, the odd gangster, they’re all real, along with some of the public figures in Shanghai from the time that I’ve slipped in here and there. Lest you think the schoolgirl whores are pure fiction, well, no. It’s a little earlier but in the 1850’s, a British vice-consul took as his mistress a pupil at a Protestant girls’ missionary school. When he was transferred, he took the girl out of school and moved her with him. The only person who seems to have objected was the head of the school, who reported him to the Bishop of Victoria in Hong Kong. The Bishop denounced the vice-consul’s actions from the pulpit, embarrassing him enough to return the girl home after which he no doubt acquired a suitable replacement. So no, not total fiction.

In writing this, I’ve relied heavily for background on books about Shanghai in the 1920’s and 1930’s (but don’t blame them for any mistakes — I wrote this in a rush of words and while I tried for as much historical accuracy as I could fit in, I wasn’t fanatical about my research or the historical accuracy, although I’ve worked the story around the Battle of Shanghai and the subsequent Rape of Nanking by the Japanese as that city fell.
I haven’t written the fighting into the story, its incidental to Chuntao and Martin’s story, but the Battle of Shanghai was one of the largest and bloodiest battles of WW2 that was fought between the Chinese and Japanese forces. Between August and November 1937, the poorly equipped Chinese Army fought a doggedly one-sided fight against the overwhelming might of the Japanese Army, Navy and Airforce, buying time for the Chinese government to move vital industries to the interior. Out of 700,000 Chinese soldiers who fought, approximately 190,000 died and 83,000 were seriously wounded. While this fighting took place, Chuntao would have been as safe as anyone could be in her school in the International Settlement so I wrote it in as background rather than something she experienced directly.

Those qualifiers made, my main sources for background material and also for some inspiration have been :

“Shanghai — The Rise and Fall of a Decadent City” by Stella Dong

“Shanghai — Crucible of Modern China” by Betty Peh-T’i Wei

“In Search of Old Shanghai” by Pan Ling

“Shanghai – Collision Point of Cultures 1918-1939” by Harriet Sergeant

“Love in a Fallen City” by Eileen Chang (fiction)

“Lust Caution” by Eileen Chang (fiction)

“Sin City” by Ralph Shaw (autobiographical, and I love this book, it was actually what gave me the idea that sparked off this story)

“Peach Blossom Pavilion” by Mingmei Yip (fiction) — I wrote most of the story before I read this, but the idea for the old lady remembering her past and the painting and telling her story came from here.

“All the Flowers in Shanghai,” by Duncan Jepson (fiction) — set in 1930’s Shanghai, this was a really enjoyable look at the life of a young woman in Shanghai in the time I was writing my story in.

“Nora’s Performance in China (1914-2010): Inspiration, Communities and Political Theatre” by Xiaofei Chen (it’s a thesis on the popularity of Ibsen’s “The Doll’s House” in China in the first half of the twentieth century) and omg, I just had to write that in, especially as Jiang Qing acted in the play in Shanghai in the period I set this story in).

“Cinema and Urban Culture in Shanghai, 1922-1943” edited by Yingjin Zhang

“Courtesans and Streetwalkers: The Changing Discourses on Shanghai Prostitution, 1890-1949” by Gail Hershatter

“Love is a Many-Splendoured Thing,” by Han Su-yin (Fictionalized autobiography). Han Suyin was a Eurasian doctor whose father was a Belgian-educated Chinese engineer while her mother was Flemish. Set in 1950, this really helped me visualize some of the challenges faced by an Englishman and a Chinese girl in this period, altho even in this post-WW2 years, inter-racial relationships were not quite as frowned on as they were pre-WW2, when social and racial stratification was rather more rigid.

“Performing Nation: Gender Politics in Literature, Theater, and the Visual Arts of China and Japan, 1880-1940” Edited by Doris Croissant, Catherine Vance Yeh, Joshua S. Mostow (this had a great chapter on the Chinese Modeng (Modern) Girls of the 1920’s and 1930’s — but the online price is ridiculous)

And finally, “The Love Pagoda,” (portions of the “Chin P’ing Mei”, written in the second half of the sixteenth century and first printed in Soochow in 1610, it’s been in print ever since). It’s not exactly Tolstoy, I’m telling you, but the author definitely had talent and imagination and it just goes to show, we Chinese have been writing great erotica for literally centuries. I have a great literary tradition on my side if anyone asks why a Chinese girl is writing this sort of story! It’s in my genes, I tell you! That’s my story, anyhow. The copy I have is from 1965, picked up in a used book store and it’s quite the read. The passage I quote early on in this story is one among many…

I also watched a couple of movies from or of this period, more just to get the images and some visual background in my mind than anything else. You might find these interesting. I did.

“Lust, Caution,” directed by Ang Lee, set in Hong Kong in 1938 and in Shanghai in 1942, when it was occupied by the Imperial Japanese Army. Some hot sex scenes too. I loved this movie myself.

“Shanghai Triad”, directed by Zhang Yimou and starring Gong Li. The film is set in the criminal underworld of 1930s Shanghai. Beautiful movie.

“Flowers of Shanghai”, set in the 1880’s, about courtesans and their wealthy patrons. Sloooooow and arty and very Chinese.

“Purple Butterfly,” directed by Lou Ye and starring Zhang Ziyi and Li Bingbing. It’s a period piece evoking the bustling, dense and increasingly dangerous Shanghai of the ’30s. Mixed reviews but I liked it.

“Shanghai”, directed by Mikael Håfström, starring John Cusack, Chow Yun-fat and Gong Li. Thriller set in Shanghai in 1941. Loved this one, but then I like anything with Chow Yun-fat or Gong Li. Good thriller.

“Snow Flower and the Secret Fan”, set in the 19th century, a very evocative look at what it was like to be a woman in China at that time. Not an action movie. If you like arty films, yep, go for it. Action, it ain’t. Not much use as a source but this was the old China that Chuntao was escaping from.

“Empire of the Sun”, tells the story of the young son of a wealthy British family in Shanghai who becomes a prisoner of war in a Japanese internment camp.

For me, this story was a labor of love. I’ve always wanted to write a story set in Shanghai. I’ve never been there and while I’m part Chinese, it’s Vietnamese-Chinese. Nevertheless, that vision of the old Shanghai from the 1930’s really captures my imagination. I hope in this story I’ve recreated at least a little something of that city of the past and its people in your minds. It’s nowhere near as historically accurate as it should be and the whole girl’s school thing is almost totally fictitious, before anyone asks (as far as I know, anyhow). I researched and wrote this over four weeks, and my fingers were just flying because I’ve been writing a second short story for Literotica and two novels for my publisher at the same time but hey, I wanted to get it done and it’s a short hot erotic story, not a masterpiece of modern historical chicklit fiction. LOL.

I did write this for the 2019 Literotica Valentine’s Day competition though, so do give it a vote if you think it’s worth it and thank you so much for reading this and all my other stories as well as this long comment at the end. It’s every single one of you whose here on Literotica reading, voting and commenting on my stories that keeps me motivated and writing here and who have motivated me to keep working to improve my story-telling and get myself published. Yes, shameless plug coming up.

As well as about 50 (now 51 with “Never Ending Love”) of my stories here on Literotica, (and one — “And the Snow Fell” — written as Unity Mitford) you can find one of my novel’s — “Mistaken Identity” – on Amazon, as well as a Science Fantasy short story — “Blood Sacrifice”, in “Sex and Sorcery 4” – and there’ll be more coming out on Amazon over 2019 — two more novels, the sequels to “Mistaken Identity” — (“Shanghai Candy” and “The Final Night”) – as well as an erotic science fiction novel and a full length novel version of “Blood Sacrifice” and likely a few more after that, as well as more short stories from me coming out on Literotica through 2019. So do follow me here on LIT and if you want to follow me on Facebook, I’m there too.

And once again, thank you every single one of you for helping me along the way just by being here and reading this, and a huge thank you to Laurel and Manu for giving us all Literotica ….. Chloe.