Adopted Asian Daughter Chapter 8

Chapter 8


Jenna Wang walked the nine blocks from the school to the Cohn’s house, shivering most of the way and trying to avoid the startled, curious glances of the people she passed. She knew she looked as though she had been caught in a rainstorm, drenched from head to toe, her clothes clinging to her, her hair lank and dripping, her face running with moisture. Unless people got close enough to smell her, they probably wouldn’t know it was urine she was dripping with–mixed with a little semen from the white boys who had jerked off on her face when they had finished pissing on her the last time. People usually avoided getting that close to her, but they stared and wondered. Jenna felt shamed and horribly self-conscious, but her nipples were hard, as they had been through most of the day, and the moisture between her legs was from a different source. Part of her hated herself for responding in this way to such degradation, but she knew she couldn’t help it. That was how she was, and who she was. That was what had brought her here. She was Yellow Piss.

At the Cohn house, she went up on the porch and knocked at the door. In a moment she heard Raymond’s father’s voice. “Who is it?”

This time she knew the correct response. “It’s Yellow Piss,” she said, quite loudly.

The front door opened and Raymond’s father stood there. He looked her up and down slowly. “You are a disgusting mess,” he said finally. Jenna swallowed. “Yes, sir,” she said breathlessly. “I did what you–I followed your instructions, sir. Raymond told me to report to you. Sir.”

“Good,” Raymond’s father said. “But you don’t expect me to allow you into my house in that condition, do you, Yellow Piss?”

“I–I don’t–I–”

“Stop stuttering like an idiot. You will remove those stinking rags you are wearing–all of them–before you enter my house.”

Jenna looked around fearfully. There were a few people passing on the other side of the street. A few houses down a woman was sitting in a porch swing reading a magazine. Other than that there wasn’t much sign of life, but she didn’t know who might be watching from the houses. Or who might come along the street at any moment. She thought of protesting, but she knew it was futile.

“Once you have done that,” Raymond’s father continued, “you will take that clothing to the garbage can there by the curb, and put it in. Then you may come back and knock again.” And he closed the door in Jenna’s face.

The people on the other side of the street had passed by, but there were a few more pedestrians now on both sides. It was late afternoon and people were returning home. A few cars passed by, and a man came out of the house directly across the street and began to water his lawn. Jenna wondered if she could put off what she had to do until there was less traffic, but she knew she couldn’t. Raymond’s father was waiting, and possibly watching. There on the porch she began taking off her clothes for the second time that day. She was breathing hard, and she was shaking. Unbuttoning and pulling off her wet blouse, she tried not to look out at the street, but she couldn’t help it. Nobody seemed to notice her at first. Then, as she pulled off her skirt, she saw the man across the street look up and then stare at her, his watering hose forgotten. She looked away, but a man passing on the sidewalk had seen her now, and stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide. A woman down the block seemed to be pointing her out to her companion, both with their mouths open. Oh god, she thought, what would happen? Would they call the police? What if someone she knew saw her? What if–

She was making a little sound with each breath she emitted as she took off her bra. A passing car stopped. Another came up behind it and stopped too, the driver honking his horn impatiently at first, until he turned to see what the driver in front of him was staring at.

Jenna took off her panties. There were tears in her eyes, but her nipples protruded from her breasts like tiny rocket heads, and she could feel them throbbing. Nevertheless she had to gather all her courage and will power to pick up her discarded clothes and carry them out to the curb where the trash can stood. She wanted to use them to cover her breasts and her crotch, but she didn’t. If Raymond’s father was watching he would not like that. So she just held them in her hands, her hands at her sides as she walked as steadily as she could off the porch and down the little path to the curb, her breasts bouncing nakedly with each step, her small brown patch of pubic hair glinting in the afternoon light. Then she deposited her clothing in the metal can, turned, and walked back to the porch. As far as she could hear, none of the people watching her made any comments. They just stared.

Shaking harder now, she knocked at the door again. “Who is it?” came the familiar voice.

Jenna swallowed. “It’s Yellow Piss,” she said. She wondered how many of the watchers could hear her.

Raymond’s father opened the door. “That’s better,” he said. “Come in, Yellow Piss.”

Jenna crossed the threshold, and Raymond’s father closed the door after her. He seemed unconcerned with whatever audience Jenna had collected. Perhaps he had reason to be. After closing the door he turned to the naked girl. Then, very suddenly and with no warning, he raised his hand and slapped her very hard across the face.

Jenna cried out and fell backwards, falling to the floor, as much from shock and surprise as from the force of the blow. “What–why–” she gasped out.

“Why?’ Ramond’s father said. “Why did I hit you? Because I wanted to. That’s all. It was a whim. You are here to satisfy my whims, Yellow Piss. I don’t need a reason for hitting you other than that. Isn’t that right?”

Jenna swallowed. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, sir.”

“Right. And also to get you off your feet. From now on you are never to stand upright in my presence, unless I order you to, or give you permission. As a chink slave, you will be on your knees to me at all times unless told otherwise. Is that clear, Yellow Piss?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m waiting,” Raymond’s father said.

Jenna, who had been sprawled where she had fallen, hastily clambered onto her knees. Nervous and quivering, she was uncertain whether to sit back on her haunches or to kneel upright. She chose the former.

“No,” Raymond’s father said.

Quickly she pushed herself up so that she was in effect kneeling at attention, her thighs at right angles to her calves, her weight pressing her knees harder against the floor.

“Straighten your back,” Raymond’s father said.

Jenna obeyed, holding her body as rigid as she could.

“Put your hands behind you. Crossed at the wrists.”

Again she did as he said. Her hard-nippled breasts thrust toward him, her taut body still glistening with moisture. She knelt there with her eyes cast down, not daring to look up at him.

“Good,” Raymond’s father said. “That is your slave posture. That is how you will present yourself to me at all times, and that is how you will remain in my presence when not under other orders. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now you may get on all fours and crawl into the bathroom, where you will clean yourself off. You still stink of piss, a natural state for a chink, but somewhat unsavory for the rest of humanity. When you have finished you will crawl into the living room, where I will be waiting. Do not be long.” He turned and walked away.

Jenna got on her hands and knees and crawled to the bathroom. She cried helplessly as she showered and washed out her hair. She didn’t quite know why she was crying. Or rather, she was aware that there were so many reasons that she couldn’t possibly sort them out. Part of it was shame. Part of it anger, mostly at herself. Part of it was simple relief at finally ridding her body of the noxious feel and smell of urine. Part of it was a kind of despair at the knowledge that she was giving up her life, her freedom, albeit willingly. And part of it, she knew–perhaps the biggest part–was happiness.

When she had finished she crawled into the living room. Raymond had arrived now and was sitting there with his father. Jenna crawled to Raymon’s father’s chair and knelt before him in her slave position, upright, her back straight, her hands behind her, her eyes cast down. Raymond’s father said, “Raymond has been telling me about your performance today, Yellow Piss. I am happy to hear that you carried out my orders to the letter, with no trouble. I am convinced now that you will make an excellent chink slave, and I have decided to take you on permanently.”

A surge of joy suffused Jenna’s body, so unexpectedly strong that it drowned out whatever other emotions she might have felt. She wanted to jump to her feet, but she forced herself to remain in position. “Thank you, sir,” she said breathlessly. She could not restrain herself from looking up at him for a moment, but his expression as he looked at her made her lower her eyes again.

“As my permanent slave,” Raymond’s father went on, “I will want you to live here, so that you will be available to me whenever I want you. I may have you leave school to serve me full-time, but I have not yet decided that. You will not have to bring any of your possessions when you come here. A slave does not have possessions.”

A startled Jenna looked up at him again, her mouth and eyes wide.

“But–but sir I–I can’t–I mean–I’m–my mother would–she wouldn’t–she would never–”

“Stop stuttering. Your mother would object to such a move. Of course. I understand that. Do you have other family as well? A father? Brothers

nnd sisters.”

“N-no, sir. My father’s living in China, and I’m–I don’t have any–”

“Well, that makes it simpler, doesn’t it? Don’t worry about your mother. I will deal with her. In fact, you need not go home at all. Now that you are here, you may as well stay. Raymond, show Yellow Piss to the spare room, where she will stay until further notice. She will crawl behind you, of course.”

“Can I fuck her?” Raymond said.

His father looked at him in a way that made Raymond blanch a little. “I thought you were tired of her, Raymond,” his father said. “Didn’t you have Yellow Piss at your beck and call, able to do anything you wanted with her? And didn’t you pass her on to me because she was too much for you to handle? Is my memory failing me, Raymond, or is that not the case?”

“Yes, sir,” Raymond said. “But hell, it’s not that she wasn’t a good lay, you know? And after watching her all day, with all those guys and everything, well–it’s made me horny as hell. You know?”

“Of course. But let us get one thing clear, Raymond. Yellow Piss is now my slave, not yours. You will do nothing with her without my permission. Nothing. At any time. Just like with your sister. You understand that, do you not?”

“Yes, sir. I’m–I’m just asking permission now, Dad, okay? I’m really hot for her now. Can I fuck her? Please?”

“Yes,” his father said.


Author: jennifer suzuki

I have been a very confused—some might say very conflicted—girl ever since I can remember and I have always lived in a fantasy world of my own making. I was born in Japan, my mother is Chinese and my father is Japanese, and my father's mother or my grandmother was German Dutch, and I came to the United States as a teenager and lived and went to school in Maryland, and worked in New York. I lived in fantasy worlds since I was a teenager and I have always done so, sometimes so deep in my own fantasy I forgot my own identity. I no longer knew who I am. Physically I look more European than asian. My father is of mixed heritage—he has white blond hair, but he also has some distinctly Japanese features. On the other hand my features mostly resembled my grandmother, who was a full blooded European woman. Which was not something that really bothered me. Actually most modern Japanese look very European compared to the rest of asians. My father was a sadist, and my mother, on the other hand, was, in my opinion, a masochist with no self respect. Growing up, seeing my father beating my mother was almost as frequent as having dinner, and when not beating her, she was constantly being humiliated and degraded, like having to serve dinner to him naked on her knees or being tied to an utility pole only in her panties during the winter. At first I believed my mother was a victim, a unfortunate human being in the hands of a cruel evil man, but as I grew older I realized that it was my mother who enjoyed being treated this way. The initial realization made me feel she was a disgusting, perverted, sick person, but as I grew older I began to have the almost identical sexual fantasies that my mother lived and experienced through. I began to think that my mother was the luckiest woman on earth since apparently she had found a man who understood her desires and could give them to her. My dad studied and worked in America before, and during that period he desperately wanted to marry a white woman, and vehemently pursued several white women, but was unsuccessful. At the same time Japanese women were unwilling to marry him. Maybe because just like him they were looking to marry into the white race, or maybe because he had sadistic tendencies. Out of options he settled to look for a Chinese woman. Statistically, marriages between Chinese women and Japanese men have been quite common, and I personally knew quite a few couples just like my mother and father. Even here in America I knew several Chinese women who had Japanese boyfriends and those women were actually quite proud of having superior Japanese men as boyfriends. Japanese in general look much more European compared to other asians and I suspect it was the putative European appearance that attracts other asian women. Of course Japanese are not Europeans, no matter how much we try to become European, just as Jews will never be fully accepted as White Christians. I think Jews and Japanese have a lot in common. We were both persecuted by Europeans, the Jews by Germans, and Japanese by Americans, yet we both come to love our white Masters. Jews weren't officially considered white until very recently, and I think as time progresses eventually Japanese will be categorized as white in the future, though Jews and Japanese will always know that they are still inferior to their Nordic Masters. But as always the Jews will be Masters over the Arabs and the Japanese will be Masters over the rest of Asia. There is no other meaning to life, other than the degree of domination. I had an older sister who looked fully asian, as opposed to me who looked much more European. And ever since childhood I have always known for a fact that I was treated better by everyone else because of my distinctly European appearance. In school classmates would be hesitant to tease me because they always thought my father might be an American or an European man even though they knew my mother was Chinese but somehow they still were afraid of me solely because of my European appearance. The thing was that in Japanese naming system, my mother's last name automatically gets attached to mine, so for example, my name in Japanese would actually be "Suzuki Liu Jennifer", because my mother's maiden name is Liu; this way everyone would instantly know my mother is Chinese. On the other hand my sister was bullied almost everyday by upper classmates because she looked very Chinese. They made fun of her hair and clothes and told her that she looked like a Chinese pig and I had seen boys pulling down her pants and laughing at her for having a "Chinese vagina". I was a very young girl back then and I felt ashamed of having her as a sister so in school I didn't talk to her at all. When I was 12 years old, she committed suicide by hanging herself in her closet. I know this because I was the one who discovered her body. My parents would have never told me about her death if I did not saw her dead body by myself. And ever since her death a dark cloud formed over my head and throughout my teenager years I was constantly harrowed by thoughts of suicide. It was not until I was much older that I learned suicide is infectious and that had been why I was constantly thinking about suicide. The realization made me try not to think too much about death, but no matter how much I try I can never get her image out of my head. Sometimes I feel she still haunts me because I didn't talk to her in school. My parents divorced when I was 14 and I went to live with my mom in China for two years. Contrary to popular beliefs, I had never experienced any form of racism or discrimination against me when I was living in China. Most people assumed that I was an European girl and the aura of being European seemed to make me inapproachable, like the shield of Athena covering me from head to toe. Even when I was in school, when classmates would know my father was Japanese because of my last name, I had never really felt any discrimination, though I did feel they were kind of afraid of me. I had never realized how much being White meant until I was in America: the symbol of power, domination, and superiority that being White implies. Being White is being the entelechy of all that is beautiful, good and righteous. Which is strange because my nationality still is, in actuality, Japanese and as I grew older I started to look more asian. My hair has gotten completely dark and my looks started to resemble my mother's. I used to have very light-colored hair, but I just felt fortunate that I do not look fully asian like my sister was. When I saw this image [of a naked asian woman kneeling next to a black furred dog] in a Japanese SM magazine a few days ago, all of a sudden I remembered seeing my mother in a similar position when I was maybe just 5 or 6 years old. It was not a pleasant experience; it was an extremely scary and traumatic experience, and growing up I heard constant moaning and muffled screams coming from my parents' bedroom. Every evening was a nightmare to fall asleep. But knowing that many asian women were treated the same way as my mother had been treated somehow made me feel better about my own family. At least my parents were not as weird as they seemed, and while growing up I had gradually come to realize that many asian girls have the same masochistic tendencies as I do, but many were just very shy and wouldn't admit their secrets. So it seems there are many masochistic asian women out there who thrives on been humiliated and degraded just like the girl in this image; I don't know why but this image made me feel kind of normal. I have lived in the States for nearly ten years now and I have not talked to my parents, who had divorced, for several years, especially to my mother whom I had some very severe arguments with over the years, especially when she remarried after she went back to China. I was more fond of my father though I haven't really talked to him that much either because he too had remarried. Despite all the mean things I had said about my dad, he was always very gentle with me and never beat me. He beat my sister and my mother but never me and I suspect he was much more gentle with me because of my more European looks. I felt their divorce was a punishment for me, as if they had abandoned me and I never felt comfortable with either of them or their new spouses, whether it be in China or in Japan. My mother's new husband was a very cruel and domineering white man living in China and he never treated me with the same special treatment I received from my dad. And I remember one time when I went out with him people on the street mistook me for his wife and I felt so disgusted I never wanted to go out with him again and then he would yell at me and yell at my mom. I am glad to have gotten out of there. And my dad ... well let's just say I couldn't bear to coexist with his new wife either. The last time we talked was already 3 years ago. This image had brought back so many long forgotten yearnings. I miss my sister and my parents. The memory of my sister and my parents started to fade away, like wavering forms they passed before my clouded sight; their images have become a blur rise about me out of mist and cloud; their faces, and their figures have become shades of phantoms; I wanted to hold you close to me in that blessed fleeting moment when you reappeared to me in my dreams. If only I possessed the strength to draw you near. I wanted to forever remember you—you bear the images of happy days; your airy smiles still stir youthful tremors in my breast—but my memory faltered. It would have been simpler if I were already dead. I would never be seized again by those long forgotten yearnings. I shuddered at those thoughts; and a tear draws other tears. Crying is my only form of release; through crying I am channeled to the solemn and silent world of spirits; crying is my whispered prayer that lingers in a vagrant tone. I have no one to talk to. I live in solitary confinement. I have been driven to madness even though physically I stay put. My life—full of dolor, pain and suffering. Sometimes I wish I could end it. The only reason I continue to live is for otherwise I lack the courage to carry out that final act, to take me beyond and step into the unknown. It is so much better to have been never born at all, or at least to die an immediate death. How sweet and wonderful death would be. My dear Aya, I am so very sorry! A vast space of nothingness in the empty universe fills my heart. Everyday of my life I live in terror because of you. A family dog Growing up, I always felt lonely. My family dog was my only companion. He was a slightly larger than a medium sized dog, with grey and dark fur, and a nozzle that resembled a wolf. He was so cute, so adorable, and he was my only friend. I often played with him in my desperate attempts to communicate with another living being, like Madame Bovary sitting by her fire place in a melancholic longing for escape. I want out!, out of this nonchalant prison of thoughts, out of this cruel alienated society, out of these mind forged manacles whose clanking I hear like looming madness; the marks of domestication on their faces, marks of psychological slavery, marks of intellectual death; they are mere automatons, inanimate objects, so lifeless like straw men, hollow men, stuffed men. I can't bare to look at those miserable beings' faces. In a domesticated dog I see more humanity than the entire humanity. If only my family dog can take me away! And I will elope with him to a happy place, where there is no more sorrow, no more dread, no more cold metallic prison walls of the mind. My family dog was my only friend, and he was my only confidante. To him I entrusted all my deepest secrets. Sometimes I wished I was a dog: no more worries, no more sadness, no more consciousness, no more thoughts, just the need to satisfy my most basic instincts, lying by my owner's feet, worshiping him and completely dependent on him. Sometimes I wish I could have another dog just like the family dog I used to have in Japan. And he will be my husband. I will belong to him. I will be his bitch. I will obey him, crawl under his belly, gently caress his furs with my soft hands, and please him like I would please my husband. And he will be my beast and I will be his beauty. Albeit he will be a gentle beast, always so obedient to me, and yet always so much more aggressive, and animalistic; he will protect me from harm, with his sharp fangs and naturally endowed muscles for chasing down his prey; and yet he will honor me and obey me like a lover would. He will never be jealous, never be angry, as long as he is fed and watered. He will be my best friend.

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