Pornopsychedelica Page 5

  'I'm sorry.'

  'So why is your pathetic cock getting bigger?'

  'I'm sorry. But you are so close to me.' His voice trembled. 'I . . . I can . . .'

  'You can what?'

  'I can feel.'

  'Feel what?'

  'Your pussy.'

  'What does it feel like?'

  'Soft. Wet.'

  She was so close to him her lips were almost touching his. 'You think I would get wet for a little worm like you?' She was breathing into his mouth, biting her lower lip. 'You would love the feel of my tight Asian pussy, Willard. That's what you want, isn't it, more than anything, to slide that pathetic little cock inside me.'

  'No, Mistress.'

  'Don't fucking lie to me.' She pressed herself against him harder, felt his body shudder. 'You have to tell the truth. Your body can't lie to me. You want me, don't you?' He looked away from her and she caught hold of his chin and forced him to meet her gaze.

  She ordered the slave to get to his feet and go over to the wooden cross, where she used the straps to hold his wrists and ankles. A strap went tight around his neck. The whip she found was made of about a dozen leather thongs.

  'We never discussed a safe word,' he said.

  Tomoko ceased tweaking his little brown nipples. 'Safe word. Right.'

  'So you know when to stop.'

  'Okay.' She played the thongs on the whip across his groin, whispering into his ear, 'If you think you can't take any more you can say 'I worship your pussy'. Got it?'

  'That's several words, Mistress.'

  'Quiet.'

  She whipped him across his chest, maybe harder than she should have. She'd drawn blood, but it didn't seem to bother him.

  'I like my slaves to bleed.' Tomoko touched her finger to the welt and drew a red line across his cheek. 'Now you have a little scar to remind you of me.'

  'Thank you, Mistress. I am grateful.'

  She unfastened him from the cross and led him to the bondage chair, pulling on his penis like it was a lead on a dog.

  'These boots are dirty, Willard. I can't teach you how to behave with dirty boots.' She raised a finger and pointed downward.

  He nodded, excited that he understood what Tomoko meant, falling to his knees and licking the boots. He worked his tongue around the heel. He was down there for several minutes, on his belly sometimes, Tomoko wondering how Teja was getting on at the sim hospital.

  Then Tomoko thought about Kameko having power like this, punishing and humiliating Peter Yang. Sometimes she wandered what their relationship was like, if he treated her like a slave, or maybe like a proper wife. Kameko kissing him on the cheek when he came home from the office, asking him how his day had been. She couldn't separate the dead Kameko from the simulant Kameko, no more than she could separate Peter Yang from Saigo's death.

  The bondage chair was a strange thing, with a tall back with straps to restrain the hands, a board to rest one or both knees on, more straps to restrain the ankles. She got Willard strapped in, standing behind him, her hands on his body, over the smooth skin of his back. The candles flickered around them and she closed her eyes against the darkness. She could still see the expression on Kameko's face, right before she squeezed the trigger. Maybe that's what she looked like just before her car collided with the Futabuyama tunnel wall. The mother she never knew. Okāsan. She had her arm around Willard's throat, the images of Kameko falling down in Peter's apartment still in her head.

  She pulled Willard's head back and whispered into his ear. 'You belong to me, Willard.' She squeezed clear lubricant from a tube onto her finger and pushed it into his anus, squeezing out more and working it over the tip of the strap-on dildo she'd found. 'Is this what Rosemary does for you?'

  'Yes, Mistress.'

  'Do you like it?'

  He shook his head. 'No. I feel ashamed.'

  Tomoko said, 'You should feel ashamed. Coming here and wasting my time. You're not worthy to be in the same room as me.' She took a firm hold of the dildo and pressed it against him, pushing the tip inside him. He gasped and she pushed harder, feeling his anus open slightly to accept the toy. She caught hold of his waist, easing the dildo out of him a little and then sliding it back inside, deeper. Then she was fucking him in slow, even strokes, the noise of him whimpering and moaning, pleasure and pain switching from one instant to the next.

  'You'll tell me everything.'

  'Yes, Mistress.'

  'Because you love me. You love my body, my pussy and the love and pain I can give you.'

  'Yes, yes.'

  'What did you give Paul at the hospital?'

  She felt his body tense, the rhythm of his breathing change.

  'Hospital? I don't know . . .'

  She broke two of his fingers, heard the bone crack and pop just before he yelped. He was shouting then, saying he didn't know anything. She thrust her hips into him, driving the sex toy deeper, pulling his arm back and cutting into his finger with the lock knife. She twisted the point of the blade into cartilage until it poked through the joint, wiggling the blade like she was trying to get a winkle out of its shell.

  Willard's finger popped off and flew across the room, followed by a spatter of blood. Then he was talking, telling his Mistress everything. She soothed him afterwards, stroking his hair.

  Five days later, Tomoko returned to the sim hospital. A lot had happened over those five days. It was raining.

  Teja came out from under the glass hands, protected from the weather by an umbrella held over her by Dr. Foster. Tomoko stood in front of her car, raindrops tapping on the brim of her cap.

  'Pretty as pie,' Dr. Foster said to Tomoko. 'You're starting to look better yourself. Those bruises look like they'll be gone in a few days.'

  'Thanks.'

  Teja was dressed in new, fashionable clothes. She'd chosen them herself from a catalogue Tomoko had dropped off at the hospital.

  'What's that?' asked Teja.

  Tomoko held the little silver box Willard had given to Paul.

  'Just something I picked up. Do you feel well enough to meet someone?'

  Teja looked past Tomoko to see the man on the driver's seat, resting his elbow on the wheel, the teenage girl on the passenger side pressing her face against the glass. Teja seemed curious, though in no way alarmed or hesitant when Dr. Foster opened the car door for her.

  7

  Short Slash and Sides

  Seeing Peter Yang's wife floating in a tank with a coil of intestine poking out like a chewed-up inner tube wasn't exactly the hospital visit Martin expected. He wasn't prepared for that, no more than he was seeing the Asian girl with the body and the face. He tried to be cool, tried not to stare.

  She had thick black hair all the way to the small of her back. Paul gave her another smack and she hit the floor, hard. She staggered to her feet, dripping blood. A kick to the stomach and she collapsed again.

  Christ, she was tall.

  She rolled over onto her side, showing teeth stained with blood.

  Martin glanced over at the small guy who'd entered Mrs. Yang's private room just before the girl. He stood against the wall, as if nothing had happened. Round glasses, black hair hugging his skull. A striped suit that somebody had probably died in. He stepped forward and spoke to Yang in some alien language, gave Paul a little box. When Paul opened it Martin could see two black discs.

  The girl got to her feet, unsteady yet determined. Martin thought she hadn't seen the two hospital guards. Her eyelids fluttered when they zapped her with a Taser. Martin watched her for a moment, then casually scratched his ear. The guards dragged her away. He couldn't be sure, but he swore for a second she opened one of those swollen eyes and looked straight at him.

  'I want them at my office by tonight,' Yang said from the screen.

  By the time they left the hospital it was mid-afternoon. The streets were busy, people on motorbikes and scooters moving in swarms from one gap in the traffic to another. Some protected themselves from the wind by wear
ing a jacket back-to-front. They did the same thing in Thailand, where a medium-paying job had tied Martin down for the past three months. Jerking soda in an Uncle Bob's Protein Shack and throwing out anybody the boss didn't like.

  'You got yourself a decent apartment?' asked Paul

  'It's not too bad. I'm somewhere in French Town, near a gambling joint. I think they race mice or something.'

  'Yeah. I know where that is.'

  'So how many pick-ups like this do you do for Peter?'

  'Depends,' said Paul. They were making their way back to the car the same way they'd arrived, cutting through a drugstore to get thirty seconds-worth of air conditioning. 'Sometimes one a week, sometimes one a day. Never ask what it is you're collecting. Just take it from point A to point B.'

  'Why did we have to meet that fella at the hospital?'

  'Not very smart, are ya?' Paul made a fist and showed Martin scarred knuckles. 'You see that? I got that from the last stupid bastard who asked too many questions.'

  It was hard to tell if Paul was being serious or just trying to rile him. Martin was still sounding him out, and until he got to know him better he could say what he liked.

  A woman on a street corner standing in front of a table pushed a leaflet toward Martin. 'We're collecting to help lost souls escape the wastelands. Hopefully get them to the city.'

  Martin said, 'Fuck 'em,' and raised an arm to brush her aside.

  They reached the car, parked next to a virtual advert for shampoo. Water and soap cascaded between a girl's breasts.

  'I reckon I could take you down.' Paul did the same shadow-boxing move Martin had seen him do in front of the Asian girl. He moved to the other side of the car and made two punches in Martin's direction. 'Pop. Pop. Out for the count.' He laughed to himself, fumbling in his pocket for his keys. 'Fucking army guys. You're just metal junkies plugged into those machines all day. Bet you've got a dozen stories to tell about how you dropped a mech into the jungle to take a hill in the middle of god-knows-where.'

  'You could never drop a mech into the jungle,' Martin said dryly.

  Paul just mumbled something.

  There were always stories to tell, but Martin wasn't about to waste any of them on Paul. He'd been a soldier in Thailand, hunting bandits in the jungle. He never thought he'd be returning to that part of the world, serving drinks to the same shady characters he used to crack on the head with his rifle butt.

  He scratched his chin through his beard, the same one he had before he joined the army, when he had his ear and left nipple pierced, looking like a guy in some grungy death metal band. The army didn't like that crazy beard, sprouting from the end of his chin like it was glued on. Being called Sergeant Martin Lawson suited him just fine, and he got to carry a rifle and shout at people.

  'Let's get something to eat,' said Paul. 'My gut won't quit grumbling.'

  Paul knew all the decent places to eat. That is, he knew the Western places where they didn't serve any of that 'chink slop'. Martin didn't mind the Asians' food. You could comfortably walk into one of their restorans and enjoy a cheap meal once you knew what to avoid. You never ate durian fruit again after the first time. It smelled like a dead rat and tasted worse.

  Paul got in the car and Martin took the passenger side, turning the air-conditioning on right away and fumbling with the radio controls. Songs in Chinese, songs in Malay.

  Paul said, 'Fucking chink radio,' as he made the car reverse out and cut off a taxi to make the main street. 'How do you figure we ended up here? It must be hotter than Mexico. I used to change my shirt twice a day, now I just think fuck it. If I smell bad, blame the climate.'

  Martin was thinking about the girl, trying to imagine what she'd look like in a summer dress.

  'Sometimes I wonder if I should've taken my chances in the States,' said Paul. 'You ever think about what would've happened if you'd stayed?'

  'I was too young. I didn't have a say in staying or leaving.'

  'But you must wonder what's going on over there now.'

  'Starvation and disease.' Martin glanced out of the window at the people on the sidewalks, a mix of Chinese and white, black and Hispanic. Weird writing on the storefronts he knew he'd never be able to read. They passed a nun rattling a tin full of change. A scrappy dog taking a leak on a bicycle. He realised they were going back to the club, to the basement room hazy with cigarette smoke, where guys in sleeveless shirts boozed and gambled, and the grill served up food that was hard-n-chewy, just the way Paul liked it. They'd stay there for three or four hours, sucking beer from a bottle, playing cards, and waiting for the cellphone to chime. Then they'd drive across town to collect a small, insignificant-looking package. He saw himself losing another fifty dollars and buying booze on a tab he couldn't afford. He said, 'I suppose it's pretty lawless over there now. If there's anything left.'

  Paul smiled and Martin felt the sideways look coming his way again. 'Right. That was your job. Keeping the law.'

  'Yeah, it was.'

  'Must've been hard work.'

  'It was never easy.'

  'How many did you kill?'

  'You think I kept count?'

  'Sure, why not?'

  'When you're crouched behind a heavy machine gun? You see shapes. You see the shapes fall down.'

  'Is that it?' Paul pushed in the car's cigarette lighter, patted his breast suit-coat pocket and pulled out a pack of Raymond Lights. 'Must have been hard, all those bodies, the graves. Whole world turned to shit, we thought it was all gonna end.'

  Martin was only half-listening. He was thinking about the girl, picturing her wearing a smart business outfit, one of those tight jackets with wide lapels. Yeah, that's how he could see her, power dressing for a day at the boardroom. He couldn't get the image of her looking at him when the guards were dragging her down the corridor out of his head, like she was only pretending to be unconscious and wanted him to know it.

  Paul blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. 'What's wrong with your hand? You're shaking like a dog taking a shit.'

  Martin leaned against the wall outside Ed's Bar, a basement drinking hole with no sign and a plain brown door. Paul was already inside, probably sticking to his routine of smalltalk. There were voices in Martin's head, images he couldn't shake.

  He closed his eyes and the images only became more clear. He was back in the ruins of a destroyed city, looking down at the soldier called Lucas, his legs shattered and his groin blown away. Viscera hanging out. He heard a crack of sound in the distance and he was back in a patrol vehicle, an RPG impacting on the ground close to the open door and filling the interior with choking smoke. He moved along the wall, following the shade. He touched the single quick dial number on his phone, sank into a crouch while he waited.

  'Hey.' Martin swallowed. 'How you doing?'

  'I'm doing laundry.'

  'Great. Good.'

  The girl on the phone paused. She knew why he was calling. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. She took in a long breath and he closed his eyes, listening to the sounds she made.

  'It's a nice day, daddy. I went to the shops and I bought the lemonade that I like.'

  'Yeah. The one with the dancing panda?'

  'You know the one. I saw the most beautiful butterfly. It had blue wings and red spots. I took a picture.'

  'What else did you do?'

  'I had my breakfast. I slept in again. I had a shower and Lee came round with some old music he'd found.'

  'What did you have for breakfast?'

  Martin heard footsteps and when he opened his eyes there were two men standing over him. He got to his feet and one of them moved so close he pushed Martin into the corner, against a black rubbish bin. He noticed the smell of the place now.

  A guy said, 'Give me your watch.'

  'Fellas, it's a ten dollar watch.'

  'What is your fucking problem? Give me the watch and empty your pockets. You wanna get cut?'

  Martin raised the phone to his ear and the other guy sa
id, 'We'll take that piece of shit phone too.'

  Martin said, 'I'll call you later.' He dropped the phone into a pocket. 'Show me?'

  'What?'

  'The knife.'

  'You'll see it when I stick it in your fucking neck.'

  The fat guy might have been about to make his move, Martin never gave him the chance. He punched him in the side of the head, then again, and again, until he staggered back. Martin's fists hammered into flesh, skull and jaw. He heard the second guy shout something, it sounded like 'what the fuck', then they were rolling across the ground, bouncing off the walls, the place rotating and turning upside down. They crashed against a bin and a rat jumped up between them. There was a blur of fists and feet and then the guy was falling down, choking on blood and teeth. There was no more crying from the guy after Martin had stamped on his head a few times. The fat guy groaned in the corner and sat up. Martin kicked him in the chest and slammed his head against the wall.

  Martin sniffed and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. The rat scurried into a hole. He felt two knuckles starting to swell, his hands steady when he examined them.

  He made his way into Ed's Bar. Paul looked up from his poker hand.

  'Where've you been? What's going on?'

  Martin passed him and went to the bar, said, 'Nothing to report.'

  They were on their fourth game of poker when Paul got the call. It came just in time. Martin was thirty dollars down and didn't want to duck out of the game and look like a sore loser. They had to go to a barber's and collect a box of Scotch for Mr. Yang. It was late in the afternoon and Martin was glad to finally get moving.

  On the drive over, Paul said, 'I'll get a haircut while I'm there. You get the Scotch.'

  When they arrived at the place, Paul sat in the black leather chair. An old Chinese man called Henry started snipping his hair. He looked as though he'd been cutting hair all of his life.

  Martin appeared in the doorway to a storeroom, holding up a bottle.

  'Can't you read?' jibed Paul. Henry repositioned his head and continued cutting. 'That's Glenrose, Yang wants the Glenfeldon.'