The Hanging Chink
She arrived just as ordered, at four o’clock sharp, and she let herself in with the key she had been given. The room was small, and sparsely furnished. There was no one there, but the note was lying on a small table, just as he’d said it would be. Resting on it was a pair of metal handcuffs, bright and glittering in the dimness of the room. The sight of them made her throat tighten up. Although she saw that there was some kind of padding on the inside of the cuffs, she couldn’t help the shudder of fear that went through her, or the slight trembling of her fingers as she picked up the note.
It was a list of instructions, all neatly typed, and each one numbered in his usual methodical way. He had told her to follow them all to the letter, and of course she would. He knew that, and so did she. She had no choice. Her eyes filled with tears as she slowly read what he had written. God, it got worse every time. Did he really expect her to—but of course he did. And she would. If she could. She began to sob softly as she forced herself to read through the numbered commands.
“One. Strip yourself naked. Completely. This means not only clothing, but any jewelry, any adornment, any paraphernalia of any kind.
“Two. Pick up your panties and stuff them into your mouth, to muffle any sounds you may wish to make. Pack them in solidly, so that your mouth is completely filled, with no part of them remaining outside.
“Three. Place your brassiere across your mouth and tie it around your head. Knot it in back of your head at least twice, very tightly, to keep the panties in place.
“Four. Fasten the handcuffs around both your wrists. Close them as tightly as you can.
“Five. Stand on the chair in the middle of the room, underneath the large hook in the ceiling.
“Six. Raise your arms as high as you can, until you can maneuver the chain of the handcuffs over the hook. I have placed it at the precise height so that this can be done. If you have difficulty, persist until you succeed.
“Seven. Kick the chair over, so you no longer have anything to stand on.
“Eight. Hang there. And wait.”
That was all the note said.
She cried even as she began to follow his instructions. She took off all her clothes, and her bracelet, and her ring, and her wristwatch, and even took the hairpins out of her hair. Her naked body was tan and slender, though attractively curved. She picked up her panties, then opened her mouth and took a deep shuddering breath before stuffing them inside it. Why hadn’t she worn a thong? She gagged several times as she packed them in deeply, pushing the stray bits of material past her lips, tucking them in until the entire garment was inside, leaving her unable to close her mouth. She was breathing hard through her nose as she took up her brassiere, twisted it as best she could into a thin strip of cloth and placed it over her mouth. She pulled the straps around her head and tied the ends into a knot at the back, pulling them as tight as she could before knotting them again to keep it secure.
Doing her best to stifle her sobs—it was hard enough to breathe as it was—she took the handcuffs from the table, her hands trembling as she fastened one of the cuffs over her left wrist. Even with the layer of padding, the feel of the iron tightening around her wrist made her sick for a moment. Still, she pressed it closed as tightly as she could, and then repeated the action with the other cuff on her right wrist. The feeling of helplessness was like a fist in her stomach.
But she wasn’t helpless. Not yet. She could still follow the other instructions. She felt weak in the knees as she walked to the small metal chair in the middle of the room. As the note had said, it was placed directly under a curved silver hook that hung by a chain from an exposed beam in the ceiling. She was trembling as she climbed awkwardly onto the seat of the chair, her cuffed hands making it difficult. But she managed to get onto it and finally stand erect, though almost losing her balance two or three times in the process. Trembling harder now, she very slowly raised her arms, stretching them high over her head. The small chain that linked the cuffs did not quite reach the lip of the hook. Try as she might, she could not get it high enough. With a muffled whimper, she stretched herself up on her toes, straining to the utmost as she tried to pass the chain over the curving metal. She missed, and cried out again as she barely managed to keep herself from falling. She almost collapsed then, but instead she made one more frantic try, exerting every ounce of strength and will, and this time the chain just slipped over the hook. And stayed there.
Now she stood there, arms stretched above her, the cuffs already chafing her wrists. She was moaning through the panties in her mouth and panting for breath through her nose as her whole body shook. For some moments she stood that way, trying to get up the courage to take the next step. But she knew she would. He knew it too.
It took her some time, but finally she took in a deep breath, then pulled herself up by her wrists and kicked at the chair as hard as she could as a stifled cry of fear escaped her mouth. The chair fell away, and now she hung by her wrists, with nothing to stand on but air.
Her arms ached with strain, and the pain in her shoulders was more than she thought she could bear. Her legs kicked reflexively for a moment, her feet instinctively searching for support, but there was no support, and the movement only added to the torment of her position, so she let her legs hang limp.
She recalled the last instruction: “Hang there. And wait.” And she hung there. As if she could not! Hung there, helpless and straining, her body taut, in terrible pain. And she waited. For what, she did not know.
It seemed like hours that she hung there, her agony growing with every slow second that passed. Sweat ran down her body, she was moaning through her gag, and her breathing was harsh and heavy through her nostrils.
Then at last she heard something—some steps in the hallway outside. Then the sound of a key in the door. And then the door opened, and someone came in, and as she saw who it was she nearly passed out with shock and horror. Then she screamed. Screamed as loudly as she could, though her panty gag muffled the sound. But still she kept trying to scream, while her body twisted frantically, struggling, kicking, in spite of the indescribable torment that threatened to tear her apart.
But it was useless. There was no escape, and finally, defenseless, exhausted, and in agony, she went limp and just hung there once more, her eyes wide and terrified above the gag, little whimpering sounds coming from deep in her throat. The man stood and looked at her, grinning a little as he slowly removed his suit jacket, draping it over the table on which the cuffs had been resting.
“Well, Miss Chink,” he said at last, and she sickened inside at the way that he uttered her name. Rage, shame and horror mingled with her terror and pain. She could not stop her muffled whimpers, and she felt herself quivering violently now as she dangled helplessly before him.
Her visitor moved now to the small chair she had kicked over, picking it up and setting it a few feet away, facing her. Then he sat down on it, settling back and crossing his legs, as if for a comfortable stay.
“You look lovely, Miss Chink,” he said then. “Truly lovely. Mr. Simon told me you would, and he was right.” He smiled at her. “We have plenty to do,” he went on, “but you are such a fine sight that I think I’ll just sit here and watch for a while.”
So he sat there and gazed at her agonized helplessness, his eyes devouring her, taking in every inch of her luscious nude asian body, her tautened breasts and round hips and curved thighs. At one point she couldn’t stand it any more and she started to plead, to beg frantically, knowing it would do no good; but the sounds that came through her terrible gag were an unintelligible muffled babble, which brought no response from him but another smile. Then she could only sob with despair and hang there waiting for what was to happen to her.
“I have some instructions,” he finally said, and reaching into his shirt pocket he pulled out a folded piece of paper and opened it up. She saw that it was some kind of note, neatly typed, just as hers had been. Suddenly she was trying to scream again, her eyes wild with horror, the veins swelling in her throat as nothing but a soft humming sound came from her packed mouth.
“Yes, our friend has told me just what to do to you, my darling chink whore,” the white man went on. “And I think it’s going to be most enjoyable. For me, anyway. Listen.” And smiling once more, he cleared his throat and began to read to her.
“One. . . “
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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