Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 4: Flashman and the Dragon, Flashman on the March, Flashman and the Tiger. George Fraser MacDonald

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      Directly ahead of me there was a sort of sloping ramp which led up to an alcove entirely filled by a bed large enough to accommodate the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry and a couple of signallers; it was sheeted in purple silk with gold lamé pillows in case anyone wanted to sleep. To the left of the ramp were low ebony tables covered with the kind of bric-a-bric that Susie Willinck had insisted on taking to California, only more expensive: silver opium pipes and skewers, delicate golden chains and fetters, cords of silk and velvet and plaited leather, a tiny cat-o’-nine-tails with minute gems glinting in its lashes, and a scattering of exquisitely-tinted pictures which they wouldn’t have shown at the Royal Academy in a hurry. Hang it, this ain’t the billiard room, thinks I, and glanced to my right – and forgot everything else.

      Yehonala was sitting on a low stool, dabbing her lower lip with a little brush before a dressing-table mirror. She was wearing a robe of some gauzy, shimmering material that changed colour with every movement – a wasted effect, since it was entirely transparent. But it wasn’t only the sudden vision of that flawless ivory body that set me gulping and gloating as I surveyed the slender foot and ankle, the slim tapering legs, the smooth curve of belly and rump, the tiny waist, and the splendid conical breasts standing clear of the robe – well, you can see it wasn’t … it was that perfect face in the mirror, so arrestingly lovely that you couldn’t believe it was flesh and blood, and not a picture of some impossible ideal. She glanced at my reflection in the mirror, cool up-and-down.

      “You look much better in a mask,” says she idly, as she might have addressed her pet Pekingese, pouting her lip to examine it in the glass. “Go to the bed, then, and wait.” I didn’t move, and remembering that I was an uncomprehending barbarian she pointed with a silver finger-nail, flicking her hand impatiently. “To the bed – there! Go on!”

      If there’s one thing that can make me randier than a badger it’s an imperious little dolly-mop giving me orders with her tits out of her dress. “Don’t you believe it, my lass!” growls I in English, and she stopped, brush poised, eyes wide in astonishment – I reckon it was a shock to her to hear the noise the animal made. She gasped as I pulled off my mask, and for an instant there was fear in the dark eyes, so I smiled politely, made her my best bow, and came up behind her stool. Her face set in anger, but before she could speak I had applied the fond caress that I use to coax Elspeth when she’s sulking – one hand beneath the chin to pull her head back while you chew her mouth open, the other kneading her bouncers with passionate ardour. They can’t stir, you see, and after a moment they don’t want to. Sure enough, she stiffened and tried to struggle, writhing on the stool with smothered noises … and then she began to tremble, her mouth opened under mine, and as I worked away feverishly at her poonts her hands reached up to clasp behind my head. I disengaged instantly, dropped to one knee by her stool, smiled tenderly into the beautiful bewildered face, squeezed her belly fondly, stole a quick kiss on each tit, and swept her up in my arms as I rose.

      “Wait … put me down … no, let me go … wait …” But having no Chinese I strode masterfully up the ramp, whistling “Lilliburlero” to soothe her, dropped her head and shoulders on the edge of the bed while holding the rest of her clear with a hand under either buttock, leaned forward in the approved firing position, and piled in, roaring like a Gorgon. I believe she was quite taken aback, for she gave one uncertain wail, gesturing feebly with those dear little white hands, but I’d arranged her artfully in a helpless position, hanging suspended while wicked Harry bulled away mercilessly with his feet on the ground, and what was the poor child to do? I was fairly certain, from the look of the Emperor’s bedside tackle, and what I’d heard her tell Little An about Reluctant Shrimps or Galloping Lobsters or whatever it was, that she had never been romped in normal, true British style in her life, but you could see her taking to it, and by the time my knees began to creak – for I spun the business out to the ecstatic uttermost for her benefit – she was in a condition of swoon, as I once heard a French naval officer put it. I was quite breathless myself, and blissfully content, but I knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.

      She fulfilled, you see, four of the five conditions necessary for what may be called the Australian Ideal – she was an immensely rich, stunningly beautiful, highly-skilled professional amorist with the sexual appetite of a pagan priestess; she did not own a public house. And having spent ten years entertaining a depraved idiot of unspeakable tastes, she was now determined to make the most of Flashy while he lasted, which was until about noon next day, so far as I could judge, and if Little An had offered to carry me away I’d have held out my arms, whimpering weakly. Mind you, it was partly my own fault for being such a susceptible romantic. For it wasn’t only her beauty, or passion, or matchless skill in the noble art that were nearly the death of me; it was her pure irresistible charm. When I was ruined beyond redemption, face down and fagged out, thinking, aye well, it’s been not a bad life, and who’d ha’ thought it would end on the Emperor of China’s mattress, in the Chamber of Divine Repose (ha!) on the morning of September 25, 1860? … then that perfumed musical whisper would be in my ear, and I’d turn feebly to meet that angelic face with its little smile that pierced me through, and such a wave of sentimental affection would come over me, and a great longing to lock her in my heart forever, and … well, somehow, before I knew it, it was boots and saddles again.