Not a Stroke Story
 
 
 
 

Entering her, he'd been surprised by the firmness of her body, how tightly she
gripped him.  Even through the condom, he could feel the firm delicate grip of
her pussy in excruciating detail.  Although he had just come a few minutes
before, he felt himself tingling, growing rock-hard again inside her and he knew
it wouldn't be long before he exploded again.

His intention had been to go slow, to savor this improbable moment, but when he
wriggled his hands under her to grab her ass he lost control and began the
headlong rush towards orgasm.  Spreading his legs, he forced her thighs farther
apart, pushing her knees upwards and towards her chest, banging her tiny body so
hard he could hear the slap at the bottom of each stroke.  When she reached
between his legs to touch his balls, he knew he couldn't hold out any longer.
He fucked her wildly until, like a great wave sweeping over him, he came,
emptying himself inside her.

***

The rain that day was gentle but persistent, the kind of soft drumming on the
windowpanes that made it almost impossible to get out of bed - exactly the kind
of mild San Francisco winter day he had come to enjoy after having lived in the
Midwest for years.  He began with a drawn-out cup of coffee, then spent the rest
of the lazy morning in the library among the musty smelling books, just killing
time until his lunch appointment.  Catching the BART into the city, he found
Chen waiting for him at the agreed-upon corner.

"You don't seem very excited about this," Chen remarked as they edged their way
along the crowded Chinatown street, pausing to let groups of tourists and short,
umbrella-toting Chinese ladies file past along the narrow sidewalk.

Richard shrugged.  "Maybe it's the rain," he said.  "I just can't seem to get
going today."

"How's the paper coming?" Chen asked.

Richard shrugged again.  The library had been a waste of time.

Chen guided him into a crowded restaurant.  At first, the place seemed full -
everybody taking refuge from the rain - until a quick exchange in Mandarin
between Chen and the waiter got them a cozy booth at the back.

"I grew up here," Chen said, giving Richard the same sheepish, apologetic smile
he used when pointing out to a senior faculty member that six months of research
results had come out all wrong.  Richard enjoyed Chen's sardonic demeanor; it
was so much like his own.  The two had become friends quickly, developing a kind
of empathy that made words superfluous much of the time.

Inside the warm restaurant, steam rose from the damp hanging coats and dripping
umbrellas; the teapot set between them emitted a plume from its spout, and each
time the door to the kitchen door swung open, a thick, savory cloud would billow
into the restaurant.  Through the fogged windows, the street outside had gray,
hazy appearance.  The noise of clattering dishes and people talking around them
made their booth feel closed-in, private.

Chen waited until they had a large plate of noodles between them.  He took a
deep breath.  "Are you SURE you're interested Richard?  You seem distracted."

Richard saw his friend needed some reassurance.  "I'm interested; of course I
am," he said.  "I'm just out of it today.  It's got to be all this fog, the
rain..." He gestured at the window.  "It makes me long for one of those brisk
Chicago winter mornings."

Chen looked at him like he was crazy.

"Well at least you see the sun," Richard said, and they both laughed.

"OK then," Chen said, appeased.  With practiced ease, he took his chopsticks and
dug into the heaping plate of noodles.  For the next few minutes, they both ate
in silence.

"So you're sure..." Chen said again, finally.

Richard sighed audibly, making Chen put down his chopsticks and hold up both his
hands.

"Sorry, sorry..." he said.  "I'm just making sure.  You don't know how much
trouble I had setting this up.  They rarely cater to people they don't know."
He leaned forward.  "Have you ever been to one of these...places...before?"

Chen's dramatic show of secrecy, the way his eyebrows bobbed suggestively up and
down, drew more attention them than if he had just spoken normally.  Richard
couldn't help but laugh at his friend.

"This isn't a joke." Chen seemed hurt.

"I'm sorry," Richard said through the chuckles that threatened to flare into
laughter again at any moment.  "It's just the look on your face...  You'd think
this was serious espionage, James bond stuff."

Chen smiled.  "Well to me this whole thing WAS like espionage.  I'd heard of
this place for years.  Mrs Fong's was something we knew about back when I was in
high school.  It was like one of those urban legends: guys talked about it, but
I never met anyone who actually went there.  I mean, it was right in the
neighborhood, right under our noses, but nobody knew where it was."

"There was always the rumor that you went into some fish store.  I remember that
vividly, a fish store; you went through the back door and up some stairs.  We
looked for the store, but of course, we never found anything.  The place is kept
VERY private.  Another rumor had it that the father of one of the rich kids in
our school sent him there once a week.  It was supposed to keep his mind on his
studies, you know, keep him from chasing girls and all."  Chen shrugged.  "I
don't know how much of that is true except that the place really DOES exist."

Richard had heard the story before, but he let his friend tell it again.

"There really IS a Mrs Fong," Chen said.  "I happened to be down here about a
month ago and I ran into one of my old buddies on a street corner.  We had lunch
and he told me about it."

"You believe him?" Richard asked.

"No reason not to," Chen said.  "We're not in high school anymore.  This guy
stayed right here, in the neighborhood all these years.  He took over his
father's business, so he knows what's going on around here.  He told me he'd
just been the week before."

"Why didn't he take you up there right then?"

Chen shook his head.  "That's not how it works.  By appointment only, and they
usually only deal with people they know.  You have no idea what I had to go
through to get you in.  I don't think they take many white guys."

"I'm honored," Richard said.  "But this Mrs Fong, how old is she?  I mean, if
she was around when you were in high school, and she's still at it now..."

"I'm not that over-the-hill," Chen protested.  "Let's see...I graduated twelve
years ago.  The rumor was that Mr Fong, a sort of notorious local underworld guy
here in Chinatown, went back to China and bought himself a young wife.  Back
then, people were saying she was fourteen or fifteen and he was in his fifties,
but that's probably an exaggeration.  Still, I doubt she's an old lady yet."

"She must be very good at what she does," Richard said, relieved.  The thought
of Mrs Fong as an old crone had been at the back of his mind.  "I mean, fifty
bucks for..." He made a circle between his thumb and first two fingers, shaking
his arm back and forth.  "It seems high.  She'd BETTER be good."

"Don't worry," Chen said.

"Is there any chance to get, you know, something more?"  Richard asked.  "I'd
pay extra, of course."

Chen shook his head emphatically.  "No way," he said.  Don't even ask.  That's
all she'll do.  My friend said he asked and she got angry with him, almost threw
him out.  I guess old Mr Fong, if he's still around, doesn't mind his wife doing
THAT for other guys, as long as the money keeps rolling in; anything else is
strictly off limits."

After paying the bill and emerging back onto the crowded sidewalk, the two
noticed that the rain had dwindled to a soft mist.  Overhead, the clouds were
shredding, letting through glimpses of a pale blue sky.  Chen took a small piece
of paper from his pocket and unfolded it carefully.

"Directions," he said, frowning as he read.  "Oh, one thing I forgot to
mention," he said looking up.  "You're not supposed to reveal to anyone the
location of this place, OK?  That was part of the deal.  They definitely don't
want curious outsiders dropping by."

"Of course," Richard agreed.  "I promise."

Even if he had wanted to, Richard wasn't sure if he would have been able to
retrace the route to Mrs Fong's.  Chen led him through a series of small alleys
and side streets, moving up the hill and away from the tourist part of
Chinatown, eventually emerging onto a small street of shabby, nondescript
buildings.  The storefronts all had Chinese lettering, but these businesses were
mostly wholesalers, not the gaudy gift shops and restaurants that lined the
streets in Chinatown Richard knew.

Chen, who had been silent, concentrating on his map finally turned to Richard.
"You know, the funny thing is, you DO get there through a fish store after all,"
he said. "It's just down here."

They turned into an alley that began abruptly in the middle of one block.  There
were a few dingy storefronts, none with any English lettering that Richard could
see.  With one last look at the paper in his hand, Chen guided them inside one
of the shops.

The old man inside regarded them with suspicion, or so it seemed to Richard, who
stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other while Chen entered into a
lengthy conversation in Chinese.  At last, the man grudgingly got up from his
stool and showed them through the back room to a narrow stairway.

Richard's heart beat a little faster as he climbed the stairs behind Chen.  Up
until this point, he hadn't taken things too seriously.  Chen's conspiratorial
attitude, the secrecy, the little map, all made him feel like he was out on some
Junior High boy's club prank.  The sound of Chen's feet plodding up the stairs
ahead of him made Richard finally realize that this wasn't on some wild goose
chase after all.  He was surprised at how nervous he had become.

The stairway led directly in to a large room with a bay window overlooking the
street: what had probably been the parlor when this floor of the building was
used for apartments, years ago.  The room was bare, save for an old sofa along
one wall, an armchair set facing the window, and a folding card table where two
old men were sitting, playing Go.  One of the players rose to speak with Chen
while Richard looked around, feeling a little self-conscious.  He noticed that
there was another old man in the room.  Sitting in the armchair with a magazine
draped over his knee, he appeared to be asleep.

When he had finished speaking to the man, Chen put his had on Richard's shoulder
and ushered him to the sofa. "We're going to have to wait a minute or two," he
said in a low voice, nodding his head in the direction of the sleeping man.

"Is everything OK?" Richard asked.

"Sure, sure; no problem."  From the sound of his voice, Richard could tell Chen
was a little nervous too.

In another moment, the man who had spoken to Chen got up and woke the sleeping
man, who shuffled his way to the back of the room and through a door.

"I bet his herbalist sent him," Chen whispered in Richard's ear.

Richard looked puzzled.

"He's probably a widower, lives alone: this is good for the prostate you know.
I'm serious," Chen said.

Richard waited for his friend to smile, showing him he was joking, but Chen had
picked up a magazine and was leafing through it.  Seeing nothing he could read
Richard sat uneasily gazing out the window at the bland face of the building
across the street.  He wasn't sure what he expected - maybe elegant ladies
serving tea, who could say - but he knew this wasn't it.  He felt like he was
waiting for a bus, or the dentist.  Other than the brief burst of nervous
excitement he'd felt when climbing the stairs, the overwhelming feeling was one
of dreariness.

Listening, he tried to make out sounds from the next room, or wherever the old
man had gone, but all Richard could hear was the soft clack of the Go pieces and
an occasional grunt from one of the players.  There were no sounds from outside
either.  He remembered the small street they had walked down: although it had
been lined with parked cars, there wasn't any traffic at all.

Richard never bothered to look at his watch, and it was impossible to tell how
long they waited before the Go player got up, seemingly without any signal from
the next room.  Approaching, he spoke a couple of words to Chen, who turned to
Richard.  "It looks like I'll be first."

Again, Richard settled into waiting, now much more fidgety knowing he was next.
A minute or two after Chen left, the old man who had been asleep emerged from
the same doorway, exchanging a few words with the men at the card table before
shuffling down the stairs.  Richard picked up a magazine and idly turned the
pages, not really seeing what was before his eyes.  He was thinking about a girl
he'd known years ago, when he was in Junior High: Joyce Chen.  Although she had
the same name, she wasn't related to Chen - it was just one of those odd
coincidences that made him feel he was the butt of some cosmic joke he couldn't
quite get.

Joyce Chen moved in next-door the summer Richard turned fourteen and he had
quickly developed a powerful crush on her.  Eventually, they had a brief
physical relationship - not more than childish experimentation really.  When his
parents had separated abruptly, Richard went away to live with his mother and
never saw Joyce again.  Although the experience had a certain amount of pathos,
Richard knew it was no more heartbreak than any adolescent experienced.  Still,
he was profoundly affected by it for the rest of his life.  From that moment on,
the only women he ever found attractive were Asians.  There were times when he
tried to figure out exactly what he was seeking in these women, the string of
Asian girlfriends that he knew caused some of his friends to snicker behind his
back, but he never arrived at an explanation that fully satisfied him.  He knew
it had something to do with recreating that golden age, the end of his youth,
his innocence; but why was it embodied so totally in the ghost-image of this one
girl?  In every woman he met, he looked into her eyes hoping to see the spirit
of the one who was irretrievably gone.

Richard had tried to track Joyce down over the years, returning to the city
where she had lived, the old neighborhood.  Undoubtedly she was married by now,
with a different name, and he always came up empty-handed.

He had never admitted what he began to think of as his fetish for Asian women to
anyone, although he imagined after knowing him for a while, most of his friends
had figured it out.  Richard had taken extra care to hide his secret from Chen,
always acting evasively when the subject of relationships came up.  He wasn't
sure why, but he decided that it would be something of a betrayal if he admitted
his secret obsession to Chen.  Richard knew Chen hated stereotypes, probably
because he had wound up on the wrong end of them too many times.  To him, Mrs
Fong was just a woman, a woman who happened to be skilled with her hands.  How
could Richard admit that simply because she was Asian, when he looked into her
eyes he would see something completely different, something beautiful and
exotic, disturbing to the restless depths of his soul?

Richard was so lost in his thoughts he never noticed the old man rise up and
walk over to him. "Stand up," the man said.

The room to which he was ushered looked more comfortably furnished than the one
he had just come from.  As the door close behind him, Richard took in the small
space.  The first thing that caught his attention was a large divan, richly
upholstered in red, taking up one entire wall of the room.  Before it,
suggestively positioned, stood a small round ottoman.  A large standing Chinese
screen, decorated with elaborate paintings of dragons and mist-shrouded hills
obscured the opposite wall.  As he looked at the screen, he became aware of the
door behind it.

Richard strained his ears for any sound coming through the door but heard
nothing.  For a full minute, he stood uncomfortably in front of the door that
had closed behind him, unwilling to move farther into the room, until, all at
once, he took two steps forward and gingerly settled onto the divan.  All at
once, he realized he was quite on edge.  To quell his nerves, he took more
deliberate stock of his surroundings.  Covering the walls, someone had hung
numerous inexpensive Chinese prints, the type sold in almost every tourist shop
in Chinatown.  The red paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling over the divan
were of similar vintage.

Without warning, the illumination in the room was dimmed by about half.  Richard
still hadn't heard a sound, and the dramatic cutting back on the light struck
him as a little tacky, like the d�cor of the room.  Before he could dwell on it,
he heard the door behind the screen open and close.

Mrs Fong was surprisingly short; she couldn't have been over five feet tall,
Richard thought.  The first thing he tried to do was guess her age, but found it
impossible.  Her face was smooth, like a young girl's, but something about her
mouth, the set of her jaw, made him feel she might be much older.  His initial
reaction was one of relief, expecting her appearance to be either hideous or, at
best, bland.  When he looked at her more closely, he saw she had a delicate,
fine-boned body and she moved gracefully as she crossed the room.

"Hello," she said in singsong voice that retained only the slightest trace of
accent.  "I'm Mrs Fong.  How are you today?"

"Fine, I guess," Richard said, looking up at her.  She had on a high-collared
silk jacket that flowed loosely over dark trousers.  Her hair was cut short into
the kind of bowl-cut little schoolgirls often wore.

"You guess?" she said, settling on the divan before him.  "You should be great.
I'm going to make your day."

Richard, finding the situation a little embarrassing, smiled as he took his eyes
off her for a moment.

"Ah...I see.  You're one of those men who needs to relax."  She placed a hand
softly on his knee.  "A little nervous?  Shy?"

Richard looked first at the hand on his knee, then into her eyes.  He was afraid
of the power those eyes would have over him, knowing that if he let himself, he
would loose himself and drown completely.

"Hey," her voice was much gentler; "this is supposed to be fun.  I'm very good
at what I do, you know.  Why don't you just lean back and relax?"

Her hands were on his chest, pushing him back into the cushions.

"Close your eyes," she whispered, and her fingertips were running over his face,
softly stroking his neck, down his chest, over the tops of his thighs.

"That's better," she said, as she continued running her hands over him.  "You'll
get more out of this if you're completely at ease; believe me."

"Mmhmm," Richard nodded.

She took her hands away.  Richard could feel her breath close beside his ear.
"Much better," she said.  "Now, I'm going to get a few things.  While I'm gone,
I want you to take off as many of your clothes as you want to.  Whatever you
don't take off, I'll take off for you.  You can hang your things by the door."
She gave his shoulder a little pat and then he felt her get up and heard the
swish of silk as she went behind the screen.

Richard, unsure of what to do, stripped down to his underwear and returned to
the divan.  He had a mild erection, and his first impulse was to cover it,
folding his hands on his lap.  After a moment, he felt foolish and nervously
removed his hands, only to put them back again a few seconds later. When Mrs
Fong returned, they were resting stiffly on top of his thighs.

Under one arm she had a rolled up towel and in the other hand, a tiny vial of
red liquid which she set on the ottoman.  She had him stand as she spread the
towel out over the divan and then knelt at his feet when he sat down again.

"I have to protect the furniture," she said apologetically.  "We're going to
make a mess, a beautiful mess, if you let me."

Mrs Fong knelt between Richard's legs.  She ran her hands lightly up his inner
thighs, raising goosebumps, then upward, along his sides to his chest, finding
his nipples through the T-shirt.

"We need to take this off," she said, tugging at the shirt while Richard leaned
forward to help her slide it over his head.  Through his underwear, he could
feel the cool silk of her jacket as it draped over his cock.

Mrs Fong gave him a thorough massage over his chest and belly before moving her
attention to his thighs.  Richard felt his cock begin to strain painfully inside
his underpants as she delicately played her fingertips up and down his thighs,
each time coming a little closer, until finally she began softly stroking his
balls.

Richard let out an involuntary moan.

"OK, OK," Mrs Fong said softly, as if speaking to herself.  "I won't tease you
much longer; just a little bit more."

Richard moaned again as she ran her fingertips over the outline of his cock,
tracing a little circle around the head.

"You want me to free him, don't you?" she said, and when she took her hands off
him he could hardly stand it.

"Well...?"

"...please..."

Mrs Fong deftly slipped her fingers under the elastic band, and when Richard
raised himself, she had his underpants around his knees in one fluid motion.  In
another second, they were off completely.  Richard enjoyed the sensation of the
cool air against his erection and Mrs Fong waited a moment before touching him
again.

He shivered, feeling her fingertips on the underside of his balls, stroking, and
then gently lifting them, as if to feel their weight.  She ran one or two
fingers between his testicles, separating them, touching the throbbing erection
that passed between.  While she continued to gently play with them, Richard felt
his balls growing hard, the skin drawing up tight, and she tugged on them; not
enough to be painful, but a gentle, firm pull that made him gasp softly.  To
Richard, his cock felt impossibly large, painfully erect, and the skin on his
balls was burning hot where her cool fingers touched him.

At last, she moved her fingers to his cock, letting the tip of one finger run up
the underside, from his balls to the tip, with excruciating slowness.  It felt
as if it took her several minutes to make the trip, so that when she reached the
most sensitive spot, just below the head, his whole body jerked.

"Good...good..." Mrs Fong said, in the same distracted voice that sounded like
she was talking to herself.  She lightly grasped the tip of Richard's cock
between two of her fingers and tugged upwards on it gently.  Then she grasped
him firmly with her whole hand, hard enough so that Richard could feel his pulse
pounding against her cool palm.

She released him and turned to take up the small vial she had set on the ottoman
beside her.  "You know, there isn't much mystery to what I do," she said while
removing the tiny cork.  "It's simply a matter of close observation, figuring
out what a particular man likes.  I can touch you in a few places, noting your
reactions - how your muscles tense, the way you move, when you take a breath -
and in a few minutes I can figure out what sort of touch you like."

She poured some of the red liquid onto her palm.  "Don't worry, this is just
oil," she said, noticing him watching her.  When she grasped his cock again, the
oil felt warm and so soft...

With a firm, slow flowing motion, she began to stroke his cock from the base to
head.  Richard could already feel the come rising inside him, building up
pressure, and he knew he wouldn't be able to last long under such an experienced
touch.

"Of course," Mrs Fong went on, "I could never do this as well as you do it
yourself.  You've had more practice, I'm sure, and you know exactly what you
like.  There's no way I can compete with that."

Richard let his head sink more deeply into the cushions.  She was doing a pretty
good job anyway, he thought.

But Mrs Fong kept talking.  "When I first started doing this," she said, "I
learned pretty quickly how to be fast and efficient.  You know, give the
customer instant gratification.  But in the long run, that turned out to be
boring, for them as well as me.  The most enjoyment is had when you open up,
even just a little bit."

She slowed her pace, and her grip on his cock became feathery light.  "Why don't
you look at me while I'm jerking you off, hmm?"

As though he had been given a post-hypnotic suggestion, Richard opened his eyes
and found his gaze locked with Mrs Fong's.  She was smiling at him - a faint,
soft smile that made him feel weak.

"Better," she said.

Richard watched for a few moments as the dark, straining head of his penis
appeared and disappeared again between her delicately curved fingers.

"Now, tell me," she said; "do you like oriental women?  Do you find us sexy?"
she asked.

Richard found it difficult to speak.  He had never been in such a vulnerable
position in his life.  Had she read his mind, or did she say this to every non-
Asian guy she dealt with?  He didn't want to say anything.

"No?"  Mrs Fong took his silence for disagreement.  "Well I'm sure you have a
fantasy then, something you can tell me.   If you think about it, it will make
this feel even better," she said hopefully.

Richard wasn't sure what happened next: it seemed as if the dam within him
burst.  He began to talk, and then it was as if there was no stopping him.  He
told Mrs Fong all about Joyce Chen, how she had moved in next door, and how he
had fallen secretly in love with her because she was beautiful and exotic and
mysterious...  How they had become close friends that summer, hiding out in the
old carriage house in her backyard, mostly just talking or reading books, all
innocent, kid stuff until the night of the thunderstorm.  They had been trapped
in the carriage house for hours - the heat and humidity almost unbearable until
it finally broke and the rain came pouring down.  He wasn't sure how it started
- maybe she asked him - but they'd started kissing.  After a while she had
unzipped his shorts and took him in her hand, stroking him, just the way Mrs
Fong was doing now.

After that, Joyce had taken him into the carriage house and given him hand jobs
regularly, whipping out a handkerchief at just the right moment, or letting him
come all over himself before cleaning it off.  At fourteen, his appetite was
nearly insatiable; he was ready and willing whenever she was.  Throughout their
relationship, Joyce was completely in control; she never let things go any
farther. Richard never touched her, once, and then everything in his life had
fallen apart and he had gone away.  It was the greatest frustration of his life:
that he never fucked her had hung over him, unfulfilled all these years.  The
last time they were together - it was as if she had had a premonition - she had
sucked his cock.  Feeling curious about it, she gingerly placed her lips on him,
all the while looking into his eyes to see his reaction.  The memory of it was
almost too much to bear: those beautiful almond eyes holding him in their gaze
while her lips drove him to ecstasy.

Richard was looking into those eyes again, only now they belonged to Mrs Fong.
The girl of all those years ago and the woman on her knees in front of him now
had blurred together.  Her eyes filled his vision: the same eyes that were still
waiting, expecting.  He couldn't hold out any longer: he was coming, sending his
sperm deep into Joyce's mouth, watching her slender neck as she swallowed, and
again...

Mrs Fong had a way of touching him, coaxing him, so that his orgasm seemed to go
on forever.  The grip of her fingers circling his cock was tight, and then
feather-light, like a pair of quivering lips; the way Joyce Chen's lips had
quivered, tasting come for the first time.  Richard never forgot the look on her
face: surprised at the force of his ejaculation, bravely trying to contain it
all.

Mrs Fong continued stroking him until he grew quite soft before she cleaned him
off with a warm, damp towel.  She straightened up her things, wiped her hands.
To Richard, everything moved in exquisite, underwater slow motion.  Mrs Fong was
still watching him.

"Very nice story," she said, still on her knees, turning sideways to return the
small vial to its place.  "Is it true, or is that your fantasy, a young Chinese
girl?"

"No, it's true...unfortunately," Richard sighed.

"Why do you say that, unfortunately?" Mrs Fong asked.

She moved beside him on the divan.  Suddenly aware that he was naked while she
remained fully clothed, Richard was self-conscious.

"We never...consummated anything," he said.  "I mean, I wanted to.  I think she
would have too, if there had been more time.  My parents broke up and my life
was never the same after that, never so good again.  When I was finally with a
girl, it was sordid, not the way it could have been with Joyce," he said
wearily.  "I guess I've regretted it all my life."

 "Regret is an awful thing," she said.  "It's like cancer, eating away from
inside."

Richard said nothing in return, letting his eyes fall closed.  He felt suddenly
so tired...as if he had lived all the intervening year again, the restless,
futile years.  The soft rustle of silk brought him back, and he saw Mrs Fong
slipping the silk jacket over her head, revealing her lithe body, her soft
breasts; but Richard's gaze did not linger there, instead seeking out her eyes,
and the soft, knowing smile that had come across her face.
 

Fin

Richard Rivers
10/99
 

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Richard Rivers