Floating World Bitten Peach

Deng Qiao, owner of all of the cotton mills within sight of Langshan Mountain—Wolf Hill—at the fringe of the Yangtze riverside town of Nantung, sighed as he wiggled his hips into the pillows and held his young consort's silken black-haired head in his lap. Ping, the singer musician, who Qiao had bought from the Cut Sleeve Nanleshijia—men's pleasure house—was working vigorously on trying to bring Qiao's cock alive, but it was slow going.

Ping lifted his head and looked up into Qiao's eyes. Seeing concern there, he asked, "Why so sad, sire? Am I not pleasing you?"

"You always please me, little songbird," Qiao replied. "It is only a small spasm. It will pass. Please continue. Your lovely mouth is taking my mind off the world."

What Qiao didn't say was that it was more than a small spasm he was feeling in his chest. He was feeling a hint of the inevitable. And above that, he was thinking of Ming Lei, the accursed pirate, who had begun to worry the shipping off the mouth of the Yangtze River. He had lost two cotton goods shipments in the last full phase of the moon, and his fortune was beginning to sift through his fingers.

Qiao cursed his luck. Forty years building his fortune and begetting sons off of the ugly but fruitful and wealthy Meilin, and now, when he had entered the reward-enjoyment phase of his life, the double curse. He had nurtured the young and handsome Ping, knowing full well that someday he could leave his family behind at the court of the King of Wu in Gusu and retreat to his Nantung home with a little songbird like Ping, to enjoy his mature years fucking how and who he pleased. And it wasn't just that. He truly loved Ping; he had desired him for years before he could touch him, acting as the patron for the young man's training at the

nanleshijia

—the men's pleasure house—all for the privilege of taking that first bite of the peach—deflowering Ping—and then savoring it for years afterward. And then, when Ping had matured enough, Qiao had extended the invitation of sharing the Tea of the Full Moon with him, afraid, even though he was the patron summoning a

jinan

—a male prostitute—he had paid for, that there would be a form of rejection. He was confident that Ping would accept the offer—that was his responsibility to his nanleshijia master—but Qiao loved Ping and wanted it to be a union of mutual acceptance and desire.

Ping had been as shy as a bride. Handsome and beautifully formed, Ping had been demure and had trembled even before the touch. He had sat there, on the nanleshijia pavilion platform, under the moon as it opened wide into full blossom—just as Qiao envisioned Ping opening wide to him, and tasted of the tea Qiao had offered, the specially imbued tea that heightened some senses and dulled others, hardened the yang chu, the cock—and loosened inhibitions and opened the channel.

Ping was already sighing softly as Qiao moved his hand within the folds of Ping's

hanfu

-ceremonial robe. The youth flinched as Qiao took a nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolled it—but Ping did none of the things that signaled rejection or reluctance. In his courtesan training, Ping had been closely instructed in all forms of the foreplay—everything short of the biting of the peach. Instead, he moaned in a sound that came up from the very depths of him. Throwing all caution and ceremony aside, Qiao clawed at the sash of both his and Ping's hanfu, and he was pulling the loved one he had waited for—not patiently—but waited for, for years, into his lap and was assaulting Ping's virginal hole with his ready cock, barely giving the younger man sufficient time to open to him. This was the point at which Ping had not gone beyond in his training, but this was what Qiao had paid for.

The hard, throbbing yang chu—the erect cock—forced itself in deep and the thrustings were frenzied and resolute while Ping's writhings were pained and passionate, building up to Ping collapsing, fully open and vulnerable to the assault, allowing his patron into his soft core, and Qiao crying out and quickly releasing his seed, a dream he had built up to for several years. Ping lost his

chenchieh

, his chastity, quickly in a violent, passionate taking. But, though he cried out upon full possession and panted heavily and whimpered at the taking, Ping gave himself fully, giving Qiao no cause to lessen his love or his insatiable desire for his handsome vassal. And thus was how Ping rose many levels of importance in the House of the Cut Sleeve.

Although it was customary for patrons to visit their jinan at the house of pleasure and even for the jinan to entertain men other than their patron, Ping had been separated from the opportunities of the nanleshijia and become Qiao's Nantung retreat consort in exchange for comfort and a position in the household and a promise of a large inheritance. But now, a few short months later, Qiao was having trouble performing as he desired.

The second curse was connected with the first. Qiao was dying. Knowing that something was wrong inside, he had accepted the diagnosis—even had resigned himself to it beforehand. But he was keeping it to himself. In his world any sign of weakness could be a death sentence, a massive shock to the balances within a large household. His golden years would not be gold; they would not even be silver. They would be bitter, and they would not even be years. Bitter fruit. Bitter fruit indeed. He sighed again, willing his cock to harden, wanting to forget the real and the ironic in fucking the handsome Ping.

Part of the problem, Qiao reasoned as he flinched and felt a little spark of arousal when Ping took his balls in his mouth and started rolling them around in his cheeks while working on Qiao's cock with his long, slender fingers, was that he had felt little warmth in Ping recently. There had been plenty of fire in Ping's belly back in the pleasure house, when their trysts were a ritualized game. But here, in his own house, months after the biting of the peach, with no mystery or anticipation—or perhaps, Qiao had to admit, not having the variety of a young, virile yang chu in addition to Qiao's withered one, Ping's desires had gone dull. It was nothing in what Ping willingly exhibited; it was in what he could not hide.

There was progress on the rising of Qiao's cock, but at a glacial pace. Seeing the problem and not wanting to have to stand by in service and watch this upstart Ping worming his way into Qiao's heart for hours on end yet, Qiao's chamberlain leaned down and whispered in his master's ear.

"Perhaps some entertainment, master. I have something that you may find very helpful. A dancer, all the way from the land down under. Young, strong, old enough, but not appearing so. Perhaps if the master pleases, and Ping is unable . . ."

Ping snapped his head up, instantaneously sensing the danger to his position. He tried, not altogether successfully, not to flash a hateful look at the chamberlain. It was always household struggles for power in the homes of the Wu kingdom elite. Ping threatened the chamberlain's position, who, in turn, held Ping in check. But the balance had changed. Ping was on the ascent—unless the chamberlain could somehow neutralize that. The dancer hadn't just been passing through nor had he been an afterthought of any sort. The dark little down-under dancer was a card the chamberlain was playing.

Sensing the competition and knowing that Qiao was aroused by music, which is why he had been attracted to the singer musician Ping, the jinan put a little more effort into arousing Qiao's manhood, using his tongue more on the slit in the cock bulb and swallowing Qiao whole and putting pressure on the root with his teeth. Qiao squirmed and gave a little moan and thickened—a bit, not much.

"

Shih, shih

. Yes, yes," Qiao answered in slight irritation. "If I am paying for a dancing boy, let me see the dancing boy." He was waving dismissively at the chamberlain. But the chamberlain knew his master well from long service. He had acquired an edge.

"Not a dancing boy," the chamberlain said as he leaned down and murmured to Qiao and said in a silky, suggestive voice. "Fully manned—with a man's talents and full experience—but the aspect and size of a boy—although, as you will see, not everywhere. Like Yongrui. You remember Yongrui?"

The chamberlain looked down at his reclining master with the countenance of pure innocence. Ping gazed sideways at the chamberlain in suspicion as he worked Qiao's cock in his mouth.

Yes, Qiao definitely did remember Yongrui. A beautiful boy—but not really a boy. And not even a youth. He had the gift of perpetual youth. He had been Qiao's tutor, his laoshi, and, in addition to teaching young Qiao the classics, he had also taught him the ways of the world—which included teaching him how to take a cock—Yongrui's—and then when Qiao himself was fully manned, Yongrui had given himself to his student, fully, and thus taught him the pleasure that Qiao had craved all of his adult life, while he was doing his duty to his ancestors, and that he now was trying to fully enjoy on Langshan Mountain.

Ping felt the stirring of the cock in his mouth and the rumble of a sigh stirring through the master's body. Who was this Yongrui, he wondered. And in what way could he endanger Ping's position? How was he to know that Yongrui had died when Ping was still a boy—in fact just before Qiao had turned his eyes to the promising young, beautiful boy whose training had just started in the Cut Sleeve Nanleshijia? Still, Ping sensed a present danger. The chamberlain should not be this pleased.

Music started from singsong girls beyond the Western Pavilion curtains, and a young boy minced onto the tatami matting in front of the bed of pillows where Qiao was reclined and Ping was bent over his half-hard cock.

But it wasn't a boy. Qiao could see that now. It was a young man. The chamberlain had called him the dark beauty from down under. He was small, but perfectly formed, with the cock and balls of a man much larger than he was evident inside the diaphanous transparent, billowy pantaloons that were his only clothing other than the gold-bangled belt that was duplicated in bands around his ankles, wrists, and biceps. The richly dark-skinned dancer moved with supreme, undulating grace. He never was still the entire time he danced. And he danced beautifully, mesmerizingly.

Qiao was interested, but only slightly aroused—at least by the dance of the dark beauty.

When Ping looked up, however, he was smitten and drowned in the beauty of the movement of the dancer—and not just by his movement. As small as he was everywhere else, he had a yang chu to rival any man's. The discrepancy in sizes was enough to send Ping's arousal soaring. And this was transferred in the love he made to Qiao's cock. The electricity of Ping's arousal flowed through to Qiao, and his cock became almost as proudly erect as it had when he had first taken Ping.

Seeing his chance and his need to solidify his position, Ping rose, took Qiao's cock in his hand, and slowly descended his ass canal on the now-hard member. He did so, though, with his back against Qiao's chest. Ping sensed—correctly—that the dancer was the catalyst. That his own arousal for the dancer had flowed through to Qiao. And he knew without a doubt that it was Qiao's arousal that had to be maintained. Qiao encircled Ping's chest with his arms as Ping fucked himself on Qiao's cock and tweaked his young consort's nipples. Ping answered in the moanings that he knew were expected and desired—and that were further arousing to the master. He turned his head and they kissed.

When Ping turned his attention back to the dancer, he gasped and gulped in breath. The dancer had shed his pantaloons. He was holding his overlong cock in his hand and swinging it as he undulated his body. And there was a thick golden bar piercing the head of his cock.

Ping had never seen such as this before—and it put him into an arousal such as he had never felt before. His channel and hips went into overdrive, and his groans and moans mounted to meet the cries of desire coming from Qiao. Qiao exploded in a flowing that he had not managed in nearly a month.

Yes, he could die happy, he thought. If he could just experience this once again each day before he died. Memories of Yongrui swam up and clutched at him, and his love for his Ping overflowed in tears of appreciation.

Ping sighed and snuggled back into the embrace of his master, feeling the vitality of the old man wash away, knowing that his position in the house of Deng Qiao had been safe gained for at least one more day.

The chamberlain ushered the dancer out of the room. He was not really displeased at Ping's success with Qiao. In fact, he was very pleased with Ping's reaction to the dark beauty from down under. It fit into his plans precisely.

Later that night, Qiao stirred in his sleep—the pain in his chest almost unbearable. He could not sleep because of it. Would this be the night, he wondered. He had been told it would not be this soon—but soon enough. But how does mere man know of the plans of the ancestors anyway? Qiao thought bitterly—but not without acceptance of inevitability, which was blessed by a sense of peace.

He turned and reached for Ping. But he was not there.

He rose, worried about where Ping had gone. Wanting him there, holding him, if this was to be the night. On silent feet and covered only by a soft, cotton robe, Qiao padded to the chamber that was Ping's when Qiao preferred solitude.

He heard the sounds of passion before he reached the room. He knew what they signified. But who? Who could it be? He moved ever so quietly to the chamber opening and pulled aside the silken covering over the door.

Ping was on his back amid the pillows, arms thrown akimbo over his head, head lolled to the side with a glazed look of deep satisfaction on his face, legs spread wide, and the dark dancer's pelvis between his legs, fucking him with long, strong strokes with that oversized cock of his. The long, thick shaft pulled out to the point of which the gold bar in the bulb sparkled in the moonlight and then Ping clutched at the dancer's shoulder blades and, with a prolonged moan, thrust his pelvis up into the dancer's groin for the long slide deep inside his soft core and emitted a cry of passion as the dancer's bulb danced at his very center. Ping had already come—twice—lost in the maddening rubbings of the large gold bar crowing the dancer's cock deep inside his channel.

If he had had a sword, Qiao would have rushed them both and dispatched them there and then. How dare they? Under his roof, under his protection. But just as he was about to burst into the room, there was a dull, panicking thud in his chest. A missing of a beat or a bursting of something? There was no telling, but suddenly Qiao could not breath, and there was a painful pounding in his chest. Instead of confronting the two, he withdrew to his own room and willed himself to be calm and still and to hope that the pain would pass, which, in time it did. Even though he was trying to remain calm, that did not prevent him from thinking. And his thoughts turned to possibilities. The more he thought the more he realized that he could not do without Ping. He could as easily have killed himself as to either kill Ping or lose him. No, life would go on as usual with Ping—as long as Qiao still had life in him. But the dancer. The dancer.

The chamberlain had seen it all. Not only the wild fucking of Ping by the dancer, who the chamberlain himself had led to Ping's room, but the voyeurism of Qiao as well. When Qiao withdrew, so did the chamberlain—a little disappointed that Qiao did not intervene straight away and do what needed to be done, but at least with the knowledge that he had mixed up the relationships inside the house of Deng Qiao. And as long as the relationships were in flux, there was always the possibility that his own position would be enhanced.

Meanwhile, the dancer and Ping fucked on, Ping never before having been taken so vigorously and expertly and with such stamina—meltingly so from one who seemed only a boy—and certainly not with a gold bar caressing every fold deep inside his channel. Ping felt the stirrings of deeper feeling than lust. Ping was beginning to have an inkling of what constituted man-to-man love.

The only man he had had inside him before now had been Deng Qiao. Ping had had no idea what a young, virile, monster yang chu could do with his arousal and feeling of complete taking. When the dancer disappeared from the household the next day, Ping cursed that he had ever learned what true fucking could be like.

* * * *

It was a great honor—and an opportunity, more than one opportunity Qiao eventually would realize—when the Duke of Shi, ruler of the prefecture Nantung was in, chose to visit the Deng cotton mills. The warrior lord had a considerable army of his own and provided a great opportunity for cotton sales for war tunics for his soldiers. Such a consignment would go overland, and Qiao could avoid risking its seizure by the pirate Ming Lei at the mouth of the Yangtze. It had been fortuitous that the lord had been amenable to an evening's entertainment at Qiao's home after they had toured the busy mills in Nantung.

"It is a daunting task," the lord said with a sigh from the comfort of the pavilion platform's pillows—mellow and relaxed by the proffered food and drink—and not least by the special entertainment that Qiao knew the duke enjoyed when it could be obtained on the sly. They sat back and indulged in the choice tidbits and gazed up at the misty upper reaches of Langshan Mountain. Their mood mellowed as they listened to the sweet song and samisen being played in the near distance by Ping, who was artfully positioned on a tatami platform. Royal blue silk skirts billowed around him where he knelt, but his chest and arms were bare. Qiao had purposely had him arranged this way. After having seen Ping's response to his taking by the young down-under dancer and experiencing the singer musician's renewed ardor in the days that followed, Qiao had decided to try to accomplish two desires at the same time.

If the Duke of Shi could be influenced in his cotton buying by the charms of Ping and if Ping were then satisfied by a more virile and satisfying cock than Qiao could provide, there would be both rice in the house's bowls and peace in the bed chamber. Qiao, long a secret connoisseur himself, knew of the Duke of Shi's appreciation for the artistic and the exotic and the male. He also knew that the duke was monstrously endowed and took his pleasures on young men roughly and cruelly, and Qiao still harbored a resentment that sought some form of punishment for Ping for his indiscretion with the down-under dancer.

"A daunting task, you say?" Qiao murmured, hoping he could bring the desultory chat back to cotton cloth.

He was in luck here. "Yes, we have a destiny, you know, Qiao. The campaign of the Kingdom of Wu into that of Chu is doing very well now. And, since young King Jiayi has replaced that old bastard Jili, relations within the land of Wu have also become quite brighter. I have been appointed the quartermaster general of all of the armies of Wu. So, I am not visiting cotton mills only for the needs of the prefecture. I have the army of a kingdom to clothe. From what I can see your mills are very much in contention for the entire contract."

Qiao looked to the lord in interest and ready to form words that would increase the lord's favor toward his mills. The duke wasn't looking at him, though. He was looking and smiling benignly at Ping, who had taken on the look of a frightened deer. Ping was not really frightened, though. He had been coached by Qiao that the Duke of Shi liked his conquests to be innocent—and slightly apprehensive. Qiao hadn't told Ping that the duke also liked his conquests to be completely used and defeated.