The Return of Xiang-me

It's an odd feeling when you arrive home, open your apartment door and someone who doesn't live there greets you.

"Xiang-me!" I exclaimed, sort of. Xiang-me is Mandarin-Chinese but judging from some of his little habits you would swear he hailed from across the Sea of Japan. After giving a deferential bow a grinning Xiang-me said:

"Ms. Claire! So nice to see you again. Welcome!"

He's welcoming me to my own house? I thought, as I dropped my shopping bags on the livingroom couch. "I'm...surprised to see you, Xiang-me. What's going on?"

Another head bow. "I wait for you, Ms. Claire. Important I show you something. Follow, please."

Now he's giving me a tour of my apartment? "Wait," I said, bending to yank off one heel then the other. "My feet are killing me." My declaration, for some reason, eliciting giggles from my guide.

"You have pretty toe," Ms. Claire.

Just one? I thought. At any rate, after a tenfold wiggle I followed Xiang-me down the hallway. Xiang-me is my husband's Homeopathic PhysioSpiritualist (HPS). For the past several months he's been coming to our apartment on Saturdays to provide, perform I should say, among other things, a ceremonial prostate-milking on my husband. Although, before hiring Xiang-me, I saw a video of the procedure, I've never actually witnessed him milking hubby. I've only seen, after arriving home from my weekend shopping sprees, along with other activities, the copious results.

Even the word "copious" being an understatement. Xiang-me manages, through his therapeutic magic, to coax so much sperm out of my husband that he's drained—spent—sexless—for virtually the entire duration of the week before Xiang-me returns. This is good for him and, more importantly, good for me. I love my husband, someday I want to have his baby. However I stopped looking to him for sexual fulfillment some time ago.

I've had—have—others for that. Most recently Alex, who, on this weekend unfortunately, is in Chicago on business. He invited me to tag along...But I don't like to play tag and I can do without Chicago in January thank you.

"What the fuck have you done to my husband!" This time it was very much an exclamation. A still-grinning Xiang-me gave another silly little bow and said:

"He very happy, very peaceful."

"He doesn't look happy."

"No, he sleeping. I make him special Chinese tea after massage. Very good for you. Make him drowsy." Xiang-me put his small hands together, prayerfully, and pressed them to his cheek. "He rest. He sleep. Body tired. Open him up. He in state of bliss. Or would be if he conscious."

"But what the fuck's that up his ass, Xiang-me?"

"That? I show you..."

Let me see if I can describe the scene Xiang-me and I were standing over. My husband was lying on his left side—no, his right—on my yoga mat. His ankles were bound with white rope as were his wrists. In fact a piece of rope detouring around his left thigh connected the two. A double strand of rope also tightly binded his lower thighs, just above his drawn-up knees, and this was capped by some sort of fancy knot. My husband lay, in other words, in extremis, in the fetal position. He was blindfolded. His lips were parted, slightly. A little drool had escaped and pooled below. On my yoga mat. From his knees, two tightly tensed strands of rope ran up and around his neck and over his shoulders. At spine's midpoint, approximately, the white rope threaded through the eye of what appeared to be a giant fishing hook (I used to go fishing with my dad when I was younger; I was pretty good at it—fishing, that is) which bent around my husband's shaved crack before disappearing up his rectum. Jeesh!

Xiang-me had dropped to one knee. "It called a butt-hook," he explained, smiling up at me all the while.

"A what?"

"Butt-hook!" Xiang-me repeated emphatically.

"That looks positively...Medieval."

"No, it stainless steel."

"Awful..."

"No, very pleasurable. If you like pain."

"What's on the other end of that...?" I was envisioning barbs. A crappie pulled aboard. My dad extracting the hook from the flapping thing, before tossing it in the live well. A miserable death. "Good catch!" he said aloud. Or rather I did.

"Catch?" Xiang-me asked, hand around hook's shaft just above its descending curve.

"No, nothing," I said, giving my head a shake. As Xiang-me pulled down, my husband's bound knees rose closer to his chest. And I stared in disbelief as hook's terminus was glossily revealed not to be a barb—relief!—but a stainless steel ball about the size of one you would hit off a tee. "Jesus..."

As the ball came out my husband emitted a moan. His lips closed and reopened. His virtually immobilized body twitched ever so slightly.

"Whud he say?" I asked.

"Uh?" Xiang-me parroted. "He sleep. He happy. Special tea. Watch..."

And just as easily as hook's ball had exited my husband's dilated hole, it slid back in, about five inches' deep.

"Crisco."

"Cisco?"

"No, Crisco I use. Also good for fisting. Very good anal therapy. He not ready for that yet, though," Xiang-me declared, wiping his extraction hand on the back of his pantsleg as he rose. He said something else. Xiang-me said something else but I was so dumbfounded by what I'd just witnessed—by what I was witnessing—that I only heard accented noise, not words.

"What?"

"I say 'Ms. Claire. You want sperm inside you?' He sleep. I fix you."

"Fix me?" I was staring down at my butt-hooked, bound and fetal husband again. A smiling Xiang-me, meanwhile, was pumping his fist through other hand's encirclement.

"Fix, you know."

I didn't.

I don't know which is worse: being fucked by my woefully premature husband or being fucked by his diminutive Homeopathic PhysioSpiritualist. In fact, I don't even know how it got to that point. In retrospect, it's all kind of a blur.

Typically, on Saturdays when I get home, my husband and I engage in a session of artificial insemination. This involves that day's sperm production, induced by Xiang-me's patented prostate massage and usually contained in a sterilized mayonnaise jar, along with my medium-sized dildo. If I've been with Alex that afternoon, I only let hubby do me for a few minutes. If not I let him dip-and-do me for upwards to fifteen minutes. In these cases I play with my myself while the spermy dildo slides in and out, though I rarely, if ever, orgasm as a result.

If I've been with Alex my husband typically says: "You smell like condom."

"At least I make him wear one."

"Why?"

"Why?" my head lifting off the pillow. "Why do you think?"

"No, I know. I mean..."

Who knows what he means? Sometimes I tell him to turn the vibrator on, sometimes not.

"Last thing I need...," my head settling back down, "is to get pregnant by a man with a wife and two kids."

"I thought you said he had three kids."

"Three kids."

"At least he's potent."

"You're potent. You've been tested. I'm the problem."

"You're not a problem."

"I'm the problem when it comes to this."

"Maybe we should go back to doing it the old-fashioned way. Like husband and wife."

"Keep dreaming." My head lifts off the pillow again: "Don't tell me you're horny. After all that...?"

"No. I'm just saying."

"Don't say. That's enough by the way."

"Enough?"

"Turn it off. Take it out. Dump the rest of that."

"Such a waste..."

"There'll be more next week, right? Who cares? You have an endless supply. I think that powder's working, don't you?"

"Quantity-wise, yes."

"What other wise is there?"

"Well, quality."

"Look. A million little sperms are swimming up inside me at the moment. It's up to me at this point. What are you doing?"

"Looking at it."

"Pour it out. Pop some popcorn and let's watch a movie."

"We could pour this over it," he grins.

"That's disgusting. Hurry up, wash my dildo off and melt some butter."

That being more or less how a typical Saturday evening goes for the two of us. But on this occasion, with my somnolent, butt-hooked husband on the floor, Xiang-me was doing the honors. It's nothing sexual, he explained. It was him volunteering to perform his role as a therapist. He called it Phase something. Six, I think. Sometimes he's a little hard to understand.

"I tie you up? First?"

"Hunh?"

"Tie you?"

"Me? You want to tie me up?"

"Not like your sissy husband. Just your wrists, to the bedpost Ms. Claire."

"Why?" (I was intrigued, I admit it. Sex with my husband had always been...vanilla. As for my lovers...With men of that sort it's always about them shooting their load. Them, them, them. Wham, bam...You're just the vessel. Orgasms—that's the most you can hope for. Kinky sex had eluded me for years.)

"It enhance your pleasure."

"I thought you said it wasn't about pleasure."

"I say it not about sex. No reason therapy can't be pleasurable. Yes? I blindfold you too."

I found myself lying there blinking. On my back, naked, head nestled into a stack of pillows, blinking. Voluntarily—but involuntarily, as if I were in a trance—raising my arms over my head and allowing a smiling Xiang-me to tie me to the headboard. Had I missed something? Had he slipped me more of that Chinese tea? Did he have some kind magical, mystical, persuasive powers over people? Did he turn us into willing zombies.

"Now I blindfold you, Ms. Claire."

I nodded, automaton-like. He'd hypnotized me, that's what he'd done. At some point between extracting the butt-hook from my husband's ass and now...

"You been giving husband special powder, hunh?" (The sound of a mayonnaise jar lid unscrewing.)

Another nod. "I sprinkle it on his cereal in the morning. Like wheat germ."

"It work! He produce...fifteen, maybe twenty percent more product now when I milk him. I measure!"

Product? "That's a good thing," I yawned. "I guess." All of a sudden I was beat. All that shopping. Xiang-me inserted the juicy dildo. My body so relaxed my lower back didn't even arch. Normally my considerate hubby soaks it in warm water prior. The jelly dildo, that is. Today it was room temp—cold in relative terms in other words. Didn't bother me. Not one fucking bit.

"I turn vibrator on."

Be my guest! A buzz filled the room. Not to mention my vagina.

"Feel good?"

"Wonderful?"

"You cum?"

"I what?"

"Cum?"

"Yes, keep dipping it in his cum."

"You want baby."

"Yes."

"In worst way."

"Well...it's a life goal. Eventually."

"You know what cute, Ms. Claire?"

"Thank you."

"Chinese baby. You ever see Chinese baby? Round face, little black bangs. Like panda."

"Pander?"

"Super cute. You hold in your arm. Love baby. Breast feed."

"What are you doing?"

"Massage. Enhance pleasure. Your nipple hard." (Actually both were hard.) "You excited 'bout Chinese baby, that why. Thought makes you happy. Yes?"

I remember frowning at this point. Under my blindfold. "You...want me to adopt a Chinese baby, Xiang-me?"

"Not adop. Conceive."

"Cun...?"

"Why you waste time with this sissy man's cum? He impotent."

"No, he's..."

"Chinese baby smarter'n American baby, too. He, she go to Harvard. You watch. Become President. Sexretary of State."

"Xiang-me..." The bed springs were creaking. My slippery dildo seemed to be in freefall. Then out it popped. Oops! 

"Open mouth."

"What?"

"Open mouth. I give you taste. Husband get taste every week. Gives Xiang-me happy ending. Open."

Not only was Xiang-me's voice closer; it came from above, like a cryptic voice from heaven. I opened. I obeyed.

"You like?"

Well...This was no Alex. This was no jaw-popping monster. This was not even my husband's thinner, but long, member. Xiang-me's cock was a very accommodating five inches. Tops. At least he was circumcised. I sucked him. And wished my arms were now free so I could play with my spermy self while doing so. It had been a week since I'd had sex. I was horny. And men come in all sizes, and everyone of them is a new adventure. And I wouldn't see Alex again till next Saturday...

"I give you sloppy second."

Was this a baseball term? A reference to time? "What, Xiang-me?" I asked, after he abruptly pulled out.

"Sloppy second. Your husband, now me. His baby, Chinese baby. We roll dice. Yes? Like Las Vegas."

"You're losing me, Xiang-me..."

All I knew was that Xiang-me's voice, while still above me, had grown more distant. And now the bed springs again creaked as he came forward between my legs; and I lifted my legs as he guided himself inside me; and I wrapped my legs around his urgently humping back as tightly as my husband was bound with those white ropes. And moments later Xiang-me let out a moan—someone moaned, anyway—and he was done. 

He pulled out, a wetspot ensuing.

"You pretty lady, Ms. Claire. You make pretty mama for Chinese baby someday."

"For...? Where're you going?"

"I wash up. Take some pictures. Untie husband. Then untie you. Wife waiting at home for me. I hurry."

"Wait!"

I tugged at my restraints. First they'd helped make me horny, now they inhibited me from fulfillment. I was desperate. I needed to masturbate. Needed my dildo! What I really needed was Alex but, in lieu that, hell, I would've even settled for my pathetic husband.

On second thought...

He walked in a kind of stagger, rubbing his eyes. Untied and released from the hook by Xiang-me before he left for home, and his wife, and perhaps some round-faced beautiful children...my husband had continued to sleep on my yoga mat, still under the influence of that potent Chinese brew.

He was naked now, dick wagging. I thought of the mayonnaise jar and wondered how his testicles must feel. Empty, that's how. At the end of the week it's amazing how full they've become, how full they are to the fondling hand. Spilling from the crotch of his lace panty...

"You OK?" I asked. I was sitting on the couch with my legs tucked under me nibbling on popcorn, sipping Chardonnay and watching War of the Worlds. The Spielberg version. Tom Cruise. Not sure why I chose a horror movie, under the circumstances. On the other hand, it was better than watching the news.

"I don't know," my husband said. "I feel...I'm thirsty."

"There's an open bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge if you want."

"No, water..." He sounded like a man crossing the desert. He returned with a glass. I found his body at this particular moment, his nudity, a little disconcerting. "What happened?" he asked, glancing at the flatscreen.

I'd hit pause. "Well the aliens are, like, taking over the entire world. And Tom Cruise and his kids-"

"No, here," my husband frowned. "Today. Xao-whatshisname."

"Who?"

"You know who I mean!"

"Don't get testy."

"I feel like I've been...in a Jack-in-the-box. My head hurts."

"You have, sort of."

"What do you mean?"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

He thought for a slow minute. "Uh...being milked?"

"Nothing after that?"

Another slow thought. "No."

"A lot happened. Xiang-me was still here when I got home. He'd done quite a number on you."

"He made me...some tea," my husband latently recalled.

"Yeah. Well, a lot more than that. He took some pics. He's gonna send them to you."

"Of what?"

"Of you. You'll see. Of me too."

"Of you? What kind of pics?"

I tried to sound as matter-of-fact about it as I could. Our marriage was completely open, after all. "Of me tied to the bed. With his cum...well, both of yours...dripping out of me after we finished making love."

My husband's water glass fell to the floor. Metaphorically speaking. "Xiang-lee...WHAT?"

"Yeah, he fucked me," I found myself saying somewhat boastfully. As in: See how desirable your wife is? Everybody wants her! You should see the looks I get at the mall—in my miniskirt. And my heels.

"Where was I all this time?"

"On the floor. Asleep. Tied up. That's just the half of it."

"What's the other half? Xiang-me fucked you?"

"You'll see. Wait for the pics. Yes, dear. Your PhysioSpiritualist or whatever he is...fucked me. Fucked your wife. While you dozed on the floor like a dope."

"I just got up off the floor."

"Exactly, dear. Welcome to reality."

"Jesus." Hubby was rubbing his forehead. I patted the couch next to me. "Come sit. Watch the movie with me. Are you hungry? I can make you something."

"No. Yes. You let Xiang-me cum in you?"

I ignored him. I hit play. One of the alien spaceships had just vaporized a row of tanks. Millions upon millions of tiny creatures were swimming upstream inside my body. Life is a dream. Or a nightmare, one. Depends.

"How 'bout a bowl of cereal?" I asked, rising. I'd seen the movie many times before. It was a metaphor for terrorism, right? "I'll sprinkle some of that Chinese wheatgerm shit on it."

Who could refuse?