A Meditation on Asian Women and White Cocks

Why are asian women so grateful to be treated like whores? To be degraded and humiliated? To be owned and enslaved by White Men?

It’s because it’s the only thing in our lives that give us our purpose. The moment we realize that White Men would never be attracted to us the same way they are attracted to White Women, the moment we realize, no matter how beautiful we are, how accomplished we might be, we would never be as good as “White Girls”; so we resort to whoring ourselves out to attract dominant White Men.


And when we’re bestowed upon the privilege of serving one, no matter how much pain or humiliation we are forced to endure, we will accept it with the utmost gratitude.


Because, deep down, we know we are merely horny Asian bitches for White Men’s pleasure, we know we are merely sluts and fuck-toys to White Men and we love it, we thrive on the fact, and we even masturbate ourselves to those thoughts.

We whimper and shake in front of the Big White Cock, eternally grateful that White Man took pity on us and fucked us.

Call me a whore? It’s “Thank you, Sir.”

Call me a bitch? It’s “Thank you, Sir.”

Call me a slut? It’s “Thank you, Sir.”

Call me a chink? It’s “Thank you, Sir.”

The inferior asian race—will always be there to take our abuse from White Master’s whip and say “Thank you”.

The Size of White Cock

Every Asian slut is guilty of this when we first see a white cock. The shock and awe of the incomprehensible size leaves us flabbergasted that we try to look for a frame of reference. We compare it with our ex-Asian BF’s tiny asian cock, our tiny Hua-Wei phones that are cheap knockoffs of Apple, our tiny Asian hands and feet, and we are left incomprehensive as how our tiny vaginas are going to even accommodate such a monster.

But the best way to grasp the true size of a white man’s cock is, obviously, to measure it.

It needs to be quantitated into a number. And once we find out the actual size, it surpasses our expectations and proceeds to blow our minds once more. We measure it again and again, looking at how it spanned to digits we never realized could be possible for a cock. We imagine the tiny Asian cocks of our fathers and brothers (whom we are so used to) being juxtaposed to the measuring tape, and we count how much bigger the white cock is down to the millimeter.

We memorize the number, like every Asian who is good at math does. It becomes seared in our head, and catalogued in our memory. With every white cock that we encounter, we place their measurements in our mental folder: 8 inches, 9 inches, and some truly massive ones.

And during the moments we are fucked, as the pain and pleasure spasm through our whole bodies, the number replays in our heads over and over. Reminding us of the size we are taking and our own inferiority, knowing that we can never go back to Asia again and yet we can never fool people into believing we are white, but that we can only take white cocks in our holes and hope to give birth to half-Asian babies that are slightly superior to ourselves.

Remembrance of my mother’s, my sister’s and my life in Japan

The Secret Diary of A Submissive East Asian Girl

“Chink pigs die!” I still vividly remember those words spoken by my sister’s Japanese husband. At the time my Japanese was not as fluent as it is now, and those words were the first ones I learned when I arrived in Japan. So it’s true, you always learn swear words more quickly.

Some other Japanese words that I still vividly remember was when he called my sister “shallow, materialistic, gold-digging.” He had a special nickname for my sister. When I heard it for the first time, both me and my mother thought it was a nickname of endearment, like darling, sweetheart, etc. Only later did I learn that my sister’s nickname meant “Anal Slave”.

Initially, right after my sister married her Japanese husband and moved to Japan, my mother and father were of course very proud and bragged to our neighbors about the extraordinary wealth their son-in-law had, “He can…

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The Origin of My Obsession

When I was in high school, being one of the few Asian girls, I was feverishly pursued by many white boys. Even though secretly I was very much attracted to them, I was scared to death at the same time and I never had the courage to accept their advances. I rebuffed them, acted as if I was offended, but in reality I very much craved and enjoyed their attention.

I remember going home once and I heard a guy saying, “When I grow up, I’m going to China. Because there are so many Chinese women in China and they all love white American guys.” The other white boys chimed in and said the same, how so many Chinese women will marry white American men for green cards, how “We are all going to China to bring hot Chinese wives to America to bang them like sluts.”

Their conversation made me feel very embarrassed, and yet simultaneously it rekindled a question to me that I was never able to answer, a question that all Asians sort of knew in their heart of hearts but sometimes were just … kind of … embarrassed to admit. Whence this attraction between white guys and Asian girls? I know as an Asian girl that I’m simply irresistible to many white guys. And of course, some people would say that those white guys have yellow fever, Asian fetish, etc. On the other hand, there are many, many Asian women who absolutely love and worship white men so much so that it has become an open secret and so much so that it has become a fact so well known that people would rather shamefully conceal it. …

I remember once overhearing a conversation my mom was having with a girlfriend of hers, a divorced single mother from Shanghai who lived in New York. She bragged about the beautiful landscape on Long Island, the quiet neighborhood, and most specially, the beautiful people. “They are all white! So beautiful. I want to go live there. I want to buy a house there.”

When I was in college I shared a suite with three other Asian girls and one white girl. The white girl was the only one who had a boyfriend, a tall white boy with a full beard. One night, when the white girl was out of town, the white guy put his moves on one of my Asian roommates. My Asian roommate wasn’t considered beautiful by Asian standard. Her skin was dark, her eyes were small, and she was short and her legs bowed like a typical Japanese. But something about her attracted the white guy, what, to be honest, I wasn’t sure. The white boy was tall, over six feet, over a foot taller than all the Asian girls in the suite, and also much taller than any of the Asian boys. His brown beard made him look ruggedly handsome. His girlfriend, the white girl, was tall also, around 5 feet 8 at least. They towered over the rest of us like two aliens with long slender limbs and giant torsos.

Long story short, that night he caroused his way into our room and started to cajole and tease my roommate, a shy and reserved Asian girl who had never been with a boy before. With honeyed words, trinkets and gawds, trifles, nosegays and sweetmeats, messengers of strong prevailment in unhardened youth, he filched her heart and seduced her to bed with him. He said he has always been secretly attracted to Asian girls. Something about her made him tingle whenever he saw her. My roommate later said that she has experienced a joy that she had never experienced in her entire life up to that point. “It was love,” she said. They went to bed together and I heard her moans. Like all the rest of us, she was a virgin at the time. But unlike the rest of us, she was made a woman that night.

It was my first time to know a girlfriend of mine having actual sexual experience other than merely fantasized.

Ever since she became a changed person. She started wearing high heels; she pierced her ears and wore earings; she put on perfume and painted her face with makeup. Soon, words started to spread. The boyfriend of the gorgeous white girl deflowered an Asian virgin, in the suite 203.

I suppose we all knew her love was doomed. There was no way that he would leave his drop-dead gorgeous, blond-haired, blue-eyed girlfriend, to be with her, a lowly, nerdy Asian girl. Even so, she still felt happy during that period of time. She felt loved, and she loved, even if that love was doomed to be sad. She did everything he demanded of her, and she even asked one of my other Asian roommates to join her in a threesome, just for him. Both of them were virgins before he deflowered them. “Two Asian virgins deflowered by a white guy who already has a girlfriend, a white girl”, so the rumor spread.

Ever since, I have been obsessed. I always wondered, how come Asian girls are so easy when it comes to white men? Why are those Asian girls, supposedly chaste, seemingly virtuous, studious, obedient to their parents, reserved and observant of their traditional Asian culture, become so cheap, so slutty, so whorish, so easy prey to the charms of handsome, tall, gentle white men?

That was my freshman year in college. By my sophomore year, my other roommate, the only other remaining Asian girl from suite 203, also had a boyfriend, an international student from Portugal. He was far from good looking. He was short; his teeth was crooked; he had black hair, and his skin wasn’t even very light. He had those swarthy Mediterranean features, as one of my white girlfriends explained to me. I accidentally bumped into them on the bus and she introduced him as her boyfriend, which surprised me since she had never told me about it. She seemed embarrassed. I don’t know. Maybe it was I who felt embarrassed. She didn’t talk much. After the first semester she moved off campus with her boyfriend and I rarely saw her again.

At some point I started to connect the dots. I was reminded of my aunt Julie, who at the time—before I entered college—was in her late twenties and was gorgeous. When I applied for colleges, she accompanied me to my interview for MIT. While I was being interviewed, in a coffee shop, sitting across a narrow aisle, my aunt was being “hit on” (I suppose that’s the correct nomenclature to describe what I saw) by a white guy. After the interview, I walked over to tell her that we can go and I saw them exchanging numbers. She told me the guy was a lawyer and went to Brown University and he asked about why she was sitting there alone by herself. She told him about my interview for MIT. My aunt came from a very prestigious family in China. Her father worked in the politico bureau of the Chinese Communist Party and her mom was the Vice Chair of the Beijing Board of Education. She herself got her MBA from Purdue University and worked as an operations manager for NYU. Being not only gorgeous and absolutely beautiful, but also wealthy and well-educated, of course she had many suitors …

Jump now to two years after that uneventful event. My aunt was moving out of her old apartment and we were helping her. And I saw that white guy again. I just realized that he wasn’t very tall, only around 5 feet 7, which is very short for a white guy. Most of the white guys I saw on campus were well over 6 feet. He was rather good looking, but given how most white guys are very good looking for us Asian girls, he probably didn’t really stand out among white guys. My aunt saw me staring at him and told me that “you can talk to him.” I honestly don’t know what she meant by this at the time, but it was what she said, and so I started talking to the white guy, hesitantly. The white guy didn’t seem to want to talk much either anyway. When my aunt was off to carry some more boxes and was out of sight, the white guy led me to a corner of the bedroom and showed me a box and in this box was a large, brown spider covered with hair. He was very excited to see how scared I was, and, leaning close to me, with an evil smile on his face, he whispered in my ear: ”At night, when we have sex, I would tie Julie to the bed, and put this on her body. Then she does anything I ask of her.” I was shocked, but trying to be polite, I smiled awkwardly. When Julie walked in, I smiled at her with that kind of smile that showed that I sort of knew what was not supposed to know. She glared at the white guy and didn’t say anything.

From what I could surmise, I guess my aunt Julie was also engaged in some sort of SM relationship with her former white boyfriend, just like in the novel Shanghai Baby. Art imitate life or life imitate art? I don’t know, but it seems that many Asian women engaged in relationships with white men are also engaged in SM relationships. And just like in the novel, Julie has had a long time Chinese boyfriend who was still living in China. A few years later, she married that Chinese guy. Like most Chinese men, he is very much hen-pecked and “pussy-whipped”, if I’m using the expression correctly. And no, he never knew about Julie’s past relationship nor about her submissive role in the bedroom with her former white boyfriend. Julie had warned my mom to never let me bring up about that white boyfriend in front of her Chinese husband.

Having an Asian ride your White Cock requires constant supervision.

An Asian is not used to a cock this big and so when it enters her for the first time you can bet you will hear a loud scream as she cums like a 20-dollar-Chinese whore. She won’t know how to maneuverer your cock in her cunt, as she squirms in pain trying to crawl away and she won’t be able to slide every inch of your cock inside her and she will be constantly shifting positions to try to accommodate you in anyway she could think of, unable to gain comfort or satisfaction.

As you watch your big white cock slide in and out of her tight Asian cunt, you can see her hole being stretched wider than normally possible and it will feel so right.

Because remember, though Asians may be smart, once she gets a white cock inside her, she loses all her cognitive functions, ends up lost in her lust and becomes a stupid white-cock-obsessed whore.

So you will need to guide her and make sure she knows she is serving you correctly.

Good Asian requires good training. Good Asian needs to be constantly reminded of her purpose in life. Only then can white men help Asian achieve any worth in her life and help her become a better slave for the enjoyment of the White Race.

Asian slut seduces her future father-in-law

I was having dinner at my future father-in-law’s house when my fiancé got a call from his work place. His boss asked if he could take an extra night shift and he agreed. He didn’t have time to drive me home, so we decided that I’d stay the night in his old room, a small bedroom on the second floor, right next to his dad’s master bedroom. It wasn’t the first time. He and I had slept there before so it wasn’t an issue.

As night fell I slipped in my pajama shorts and a thin, loose-fitting, white T-shirt. Even though the shirt was a bit big, it was hugging my breasts showing my nipples and my body. I was feeling sexy, so I sent a naughty text to my fiancé.

I was watching Netflix in the bedroom room when John, my future husband, the love of my life, the master of my universe, started to voice-chat with me.

He said he was bored and asked me what I would do to his dick if I were there with him. Smilingly, I explained how I would tease him by licking and kissing his cockhead until he would grab my hair and slam his entire cock down my throat. When he was done with my mouth he would force me to stand up and bend over his desk as he did whatever he pleased with my holes. My pussy was getting so wet as I dirty-talked to him and I said that I really needed to be fucked. Badly. I would do anything for him to take me right there and then.

After he had cum, we stopped sexting. Technically he was still at work, so he actually was supposed to be doing something. I was feeling pretty thirsty after all those talking so I thought I would get a glass of water from the kitchen before slipping back under the blankets and then I was going to be getting myself off.

It was about 2:00 A.M.

I figured his dad would be fast asleep. Therefore I didn’t care to put my shorts back on. Wearing just my T-shirt and underwear, I snuck into the kitchen. While the water was running from the tap, I felt a hand gripping my hair and another hand caressing my butt. A warm, whiskey-smelling breathe of air tickled my ear as I heard the words: “So, you would do anything for a good fuck?”

I just froze, paralyzed by the shock of being groped and not understanding what was happening. John’s father abruptly yanked me by the hair from the sink and I fell to my knees only held upright by his tight grip of my hair. It hurt so bad I thought it was gonna fall out. I tried to scream, but no sound would come out. Suddenly his cock was in my wide-open, scream-less mouth. “Lick it,” he said. I tried to shake my head. “Lick it,” he repeated. “Lick it like the good Asian slut you are”.

He pulled out and I quickly closed my mouth and tried to get free, but it was hopeless. He proceeded to smear his precum on my lips. After my lips were fully covered by his precum, like a glossy lipstick, he told me to open my mouth. When I refused he took a big black paper clamp and pinched my nose so that I couldn’t breathe. Finally, I had to gasp for air and that was when he jammed his cock right down my throat. I felt disgusted and gagged a little as his cock was deep in my throat.

He face-fucked me for about 15 minutes making my eyes tear up and sometimes he would stay in deep for so long I thought I’d pass out. The father’s cock is so much bigger than his son’s. When I finally got to breathe properly I coughed and cried and asked him to stop, but he just answered that he knew I liked it and needed a big white dick inside me.

He pulled me up, turned me around and bent me over the sink, shoving my head under the still-running, ice-cold water. His hands pulled down my panties, and I was so wet I could feel my own juice between my thighs. Even though I was scared to death and crying my eyes out, being forced to blow him got me really horny. Plus I was already soaking wet from earlier.

He laughed and said he knew I would love it and that I was “just another submissive asian slut” and needed to be good to him. He ran his cock up and down my pussy and asshole. John’s father had been divorced twice and his third wife was also Asian.

Not knowing when he was going to put it in or where he was going to put it was both terrifying and exciting. Suddenly he was forcing his dick into my pussy, thrusting hard. He grunted and moaned and I felt a sting of pain as he put his thumb in my ass. I pleaded “no” several times but he kept his finger there as he fucked me. Without warning he pulled out and shoved his entire cock in my asshole.

I screamed from surprise and insane pain, but he only seemed to get even more excited by that. He spanked my ass hard, several times, to get me to scream louder. Then he started to breath more and more heavily until he pulled his cock from my ass and came all over my butt. He slapped me on my butt cheek a last time, turned off the tap and just walked away.

I remember trembling as I headed for the bathroom. The ugly black paper clamp was still clamped to my nose and it made me look like a clown. I took it off and my nose had turned beet-red. My hair was all wet. I turned around and saw big red finger marks on my ass. After cleaning myself up and recovering from the shock of what had just happened, I went back to bed and masturbated and came several times to what had just happened. I knew I should have felt disgusted. I was scared and deeply hurt while it was happening, but thinking about it afterwards just made me so horny.

For that entire night I was unable to sleep.

As the morning approached my heart was pounding hard. My face was blushing red and hot to the touch. I kept on thinking back to what happened and by the time it was about 7 A.M. I think I dozed off to a light sleep. And I dreamed a weird dream of John and his father using me at the same time. I felt so dreadful. Then I realized it was just a dream. I wondered how could I ever see both men eye-to-eye again. As I dozed off to sleep again I was nudged awake and I saw John standing right next to me with his cock out. I was startled, but recollected myself after realizing it was my love. Without saying another word he shoved his cock in my mouth and face-fucked me. It was now day time and the sun was beating hot on our naked bodies, reflecting off a golden sheen. Memory of what had happened the previous night made me emotional and I started to tremble and tear up. John didn’t seem to notice as he turned me over on the bed and started to fuck me in my pussy. I was moaning loud and almost screaming as I came. After several more minutes John came too and fell asleep laying on top of me.

I lay awake still wondering how I could face him and my future father-in-law, as my hand slipped beneath the crushing weight of John and started to finger myself again.

Confession of an Asian cum dump

Lisa

Gender: female

Age: 32

Height: 5 ft 2

Nationality: Japanese

Occupation: College Faculty at Manhattan School of Music, Associate Dean for Assessment & Programs

Relationship status: single

Hobbies: sucking white cocks and swallowing every drop of their cum

I randomly discovered this blog and I thought I’d make an confession and let you know something that makes me feel like a piece of inferior asian meat, a cheap slut and a horny cumdump.

I’m not really an Asian slut who sleeps around with a lot of white guys. I do not actively seek out white guys to have sex with, but it just naturally happened–that every guy I’ve ever been with has been a white guy. I have wondered why, and I don’t really know, not that it has mattered to me all that much. I’ve lived, studied, worked in America for a little over ten years now. Since day one of my sexual history with guys, I’ve always swallowed all the cum that’s ever been shot in my mouth, and licked up and swallowed all the cum that’s been somewhere else on my body.

I guess this started just because it’s kind of the way I “learned” to have sex—when I gave my first blow job the guy said “Oh yeah baby! Swallow my cum,” when he was about to orgasm.

So I just did.

At the time I felt it was impolite to do otherwise.

And then I did the same thing for the next several times we got together. Then, when we started having sex, when he was about to cum, he would—more often than not—pull out, pull the condom off his penis, straddle over my face and jerk off into my mouth. And sometimes, when some dribbled out to the side of my mouth or something, I would wipe it up and swallow that too.

It just seemed like the natural way to clean up.

So this just continued over the course of the next few boyfriends I had, then at one point I was with a guy who especially liked to cum on my face and on my tits and so forth, which made it a little more of a process. One night as I was doing cleanup, he told me how much he loved the way I swallowed all his cum, because previous girls had mostly wiped it off with a towel or something, and he told me how turned on he was every time he had sex with me. Because he knew when it was over I would swallow his load.

I asked if those previous girls were Asian and he said no.

I guess I didn’t fully realize until, back then, how much of a turn-on this was for guys, so I leaned into it more, and whenever we were making plans to get together, I would say stuffs like “I really need your cum tonight, can you come over?” or something like that, and he loved that, and I would beg for his cum while he was fucking me, and say “thank you” after I was done swallowing.

And it started to become a real turn on for me as well, so I have pretty much kept on with all that for every guy I’ve been with since.

Now I’m in my early 30s and sometimes when I masturbate I try to visualize all the cum I’ve ever swallowed collected in like a big jug sloshing around, and I feel like a complete psycho because I’m getting off not on images of guys or cocks or being fucked but just on this big pool of semen. It makes me orgasm really hard. Soooo … yeah there’s my confession, good to get it off my chest, so to speak.

White God in Shanghai

Chapter 26

Miss Chink wakes up with a jolt. She has just fallen down some stairs in a dream, and she bolts upright, momentarily disoriented. It is dark, and she’s in White God’s bed alone. Something has woken her, some nagging thought. She glances over at the alarm clock on her bedside. It is five in the morning, but she feels rested. Why is that? Oh—it’s the time difference—it would be five in the afternoon in New York.

Holy crap … I need to take my pill.

She clambers out of bed, grateful for whatever it is that has woken her. She can hear faint notes from the piano. White God is playing.

This I must see.

She loves watching him play. Naked, she grabs her bathrobe from the chair and wanders quietly down the corridor, slipping on her robe and listening to the magical sound of the melodic lament that’s coming from the great room.

Shrouded in darkness, White God sits in a bubble of light as he plays, and his hair glints with burnished copper highlights. He looks naked, though she knows he’s wearing his PJ bottoms. He’s concentrating, playing beautifully, lost in the melancholy of the music. She hesitates, watching from the shadows, not wanting to interrupt him.

I want to hold him.

He looks lost, sad even, and achingly lonely—or maybe it’s the music that’s so full of poignant sorrow. He finishes the piece, pauses for a split second, then starts to play it again. She moves cautiously toward him, drawn as the moth to the flame … the idea makes her smile. He glances up at her and frowns before his gaze returns to his hands.

Oh, crap, is he pissed off that I’m disturbing him?

“You should be asleep, Chink,” he scolds mildly.

She can tell he’s preoccupied with something.

“So, should you,” she retorts not quite as mildly.

He glances up again, his lips twitching with a trace of a smile.

“Are you scolding me, you little chink slave?’

“Yes, my White God, I am.”

He frowns once more as a trace of irritation or anger flashes across his face.

With me? Surely not.

She ignores his facial expression and very bravely sits down beside him on the piano stool, placing her head on his bare shoulder to watch his deft, agile fingers caress the keys. He pauses fractionally, and then continues to the end of the piece.

“What was that,” she asks softly.

“Chopin. Prelude pus twenty-eight, number four. In E minor, if you are interested,” he murmurs.

“I’m always interested in what you do.”

He turns and softly presses his lips against my hair.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. Play the other one.”

“Other one?”

“The Bach piece that you played the first night I stayed.”

“Oh, the Marcello.”

He starts to play slowly and deliberately. She feels the movement of his hands on his shoulders as she leans against him and closes her eyes. The sad, soulful notes swirl slowly and mournfully around Ms. Chink and her White God, echoing off the walls. It is a hauntingly beautiful piece, sadder even than the Chopin, and she loses herself to the beautify of the lament. To a certain extent, it reflects how she feels. The deep poignant longing she has to know this extraordinary White God better, to try to understand His sadness. All too soon, the piece is at an end.

“Why do you only play such sad music?”

She sits upright and gazes up at him as he shrugs in answer to her question, his expression wary.

“So you were very young when you started to play?” She prompts.

He nods, his wary look intensifying. After a moment he volunteers. “I threw myself into learning the piano to please my new mother.”

“To fit into the perfect family?”

“Yes, so to speak,” he says evasively. “Why are you awake? Don’t you need to recover from yesterday’s exertions?”

“I need to take my pill.”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Well remembered,” he murmurs, and she can tell he’s impressed. “Only you would start a course of time-specific birth control pills in a different time zone. Perhaps you should wait half an hour and then another half hour tomorrow mroning. So eventually you can take them at a reasonable time.”

“Good plan,” she breathes. “So what shall we do for half an hour?” She blinks innocently at him.

“I can think of a few things.” He grins salaciously. She gazes back impassively as her insides clench and melts under his knowing look.

“On the other hand, we could talk,” she suggests innocently.

His brow creases.

“I prefer what I have in mind.” He scoops her onto his lap.

“You’d always rather have sex than talk.” She laughs, steadying herself by holding on to his upper arms.

“True, especially with tiny chink slaves.” He nuzzles her hair and starts a steady trail of kisses from below her ear to her throat. “Maybe on my piano,” he whispers.

Oh my. My whole body tightens at the thought. Piano. Wow.

“I want to get something straight,” she whispers as her pulse starts to accelerate, and her inner goddess closes her eyes, reveling in the feel of his lips on her.

He pauses momentarily before continuing his sensual assault.

“Always so eager for information, Miss Chink. What needs straightening out?” He breathes against her skin at the base of her neck, continuing his soft gentle kisses.

“Us,” she whispers as she closes her eyes.

“Hmmm. What about us?” He pauses his trail of kisses along her shoulder.

“The contract.”

He lifts his head to gaze down at her, a hint of amusement in his eyes and sighs. He strokes his fingertips down her cheek.

“Well, I think the contract is moot, don’t you?” His voice is low and husky, his eyes soft.

“Moot?”

“Moot.” He smiles. She gapes at him quizzically.

“but you were so keen.”

“Well, that was before. Anyways. The rules aren’t moot. They still stand.” His expression hardens slightly.

“Before? Before what?”

“Before …” He pauses and the wary expression is back.

“More.” He shrugs.

“Oh.”

“Besides, we’ve been in the playroom twice now, and you haven’t run screaming for the hills.”

“Do you expect me to?”

“Nothing you do is expected, chink.” He says dryly.

“So let me be clear. You just want me to follow the rules element of the contract all the time and not the rest of the contract?’

“Except in the playroom. I want you to follow the spirit of the contract in the playroom, and yes, I want you to follow the rules—all the time. Then I know you’ll be safe, and I will be able to have you anytime I wish.”

“And if I break one of the rules?”

“Then I’ll punish you.”

“But won’t you need my permission?”

“Yes.”

“And if I say no?”

He gazes at the chink for moment, with a confused expression.

“If you say no, you’ll say no.”

She pulls away from him and stands. She needs some distance. He frowns as she stares down at him. He looks puzzled and wary again.

“So the punishment aspect remains.”

“Yes, but only if you break the rules.”

“I’ll need to reread them,” she says, trying to recall the details.

“I’ll fetch them for you.” His tone is suddenly businesslike.

Whoa. This has gotten serious so quickly.

He rises from the piano and walks lithely to his study. Her scalp prickles.

Jeez, I need some tea. The future of our so-called relationship is being discussed at 5:45 in the morning when he’s preoccupied with something else—is this wise?

She heads into the kitchen, which is still shrouded in darkness. Where are the light switches? She finds them, flicks them on, and pour water into the kettle.

My pill!

She rummages in her purse, which she left on the breakfast bar, and finds them quickly.

One swallow and I’m done.

By the time she finishes, White God is back, sitting on one of the barstools, watching her intently.

“Here you go.” He pushes a typed piece of paper toward her, and she notices that he’s crossed some things out.

RULES

Obedience:

The Chink will obey any instructions given by the White God immediately without hesitation or reservation and in an expeditious manner. The Chink will agree to any sexual activity deemed fit and pleasurable by the White God excepting those activities that are outlined in hard limits (Appednix2). She will do so eagerly and without hesitation.

Sleep:

The Chink will ensure she achieves a minimum of eight seven hours’ sleep a night when she is not with the Dominant.

Food:

The Chink will eat regularly to maintain her health and wellbeing from a prescribed listed of foods (Appendix 4). The Chink will not snack between meals, with the exception of fruit.

Clothes:

While with White God, the Chink will wear clothing only approved by the White God. White God will provide a clothing budget for the Chink, which the Chink shall utilize. White God shall accompany the Chink to purchase clothing on ad hoc basis.

Exercise:

White God shall provide the Chink with a personal trainer four three times a week in the hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agree upon by the personal trainer and the Chink. The personal trainer will report to the White God on the Chink’s progress.

Personal Hygiene/Beauty:

The Chink will keep herself clean and shaved and/or waxed at all times. The Chink will visit a beauty salon of the White God’s choosing at times to be decided by the White God and undergo whatever treatments the White God sees fit.

Personal Safety:

The Chink will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs or put herself in any unnecessary danger.

Personal Qualities:

The Chink will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than White God. The Chink will conduct herself in a respectful and modest manner at all times. She must recognized that her behavior is a direct reflection on the White God. She shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings, and misbehavior committed when not in the presence of White God.

Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the nature of which shall be determined by White God.

“So, the obedience thing still stands?”

“Oh yes.” He grins.

She shakes her head amused, and before she realizes it, she rolls her eyes at him.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me, Chink?” HE breathes.

Oh, fuck.

“Possibly, depends what your reaction is.”

“Same as always,” he says, shaking his head, his eyes alight with excitement.

Miss Chink swallows instinctively and a frisson of exhilaration runs through her.

Holyshit. What am I going to do?

“Yes?” He licks his lower lip.

“You want to spank me now.”

“Yes. And I will.”

“Oh, really?” She challenges, grinning back at him.

Two can play this game.

“Are you going to stop me?’

“You’re going to have to catch me first.”

His eyes widen a fraction, and he grins, slowly getting to his feet.

“Oh really, you little chink slave?”

The breakfast bar is between Miss Chink and White God. She has never been more grateful for its existence than in this moment.

“And you’re biting your lip,” he breathes, moving slowly to his left as she moves to hers.

“You wouldn’t,” she teases, “After all, you roll your eyes.” She tries to reasoning with him. He continues to move toward his left, as does she.

“Yes, but you’ve just raised the bar on the excitement stakes with this game.” His eyes blaze, and wild anticipation emanates form him.”

“I’m quite fast, you know.” She tries for nonchalance.

“So am I.”

He’s stalking her in his own kitchen.

“Are you going to come quietly?” He asks.

“Do I ever?”

“What do you mean, you little chink?” He smirks. “It’ll be worse for you if I have to come and get you.”

“That’s only if you catch me, my White God. And right now, I have no intention of letting you catch me.”

“Chink, you may fall and hurt yourself. Which will put you in direction contravention of rule number seven, now six.”

“I have been in danger since I met you, my White God, rules or no rules.”

“Yes, you have,” he pauses, and his brow furrows.

Suddenly, he lunges for her, making her squeal and run for the dining room table. She manages to escape, putting the table in between. Her heart is pounding and adrenaline has spiked through her body.

Boy that is thrilling. I’m a child again, though that’s not right.

She watches him carefully as he paces delibeartely toward her. She inches away.

“You certainly know how to distract.”

“I aim to please. Distract you from what?”

“Life. The universe.” He waves one of his hands vaguely.

“You did seem very preoccupied as you were playing.”

He stops and folds his arms, his expression amused.

“We can do this all day, hink, but I will get you, and it will just be worse for you when I do.”

“No, you won’t.”

I must not be overconfident.

She repeats this as a mantra.

“Anyone would think you didn’t want me to catch you.”

“I don’t. That’s the point. I feel about punishment the way you feel about my touching you.”

His entire demeanor changes in a second. Gone is playful White God, and he stands staring at her as if she has slapped him. He’s ashen.

“That’s how you feel?” He whispers.

Those four words, and the way he utters them, speak volumes.

Oh no.

They tell her so much more about him and how he feels. They tell her about his fear and loathing. She frowns.

No, I don’t feel that bad. No way. Do I?

“No, it doesn’t affect me quiet as much as that, but it gives you an idea,” I murmur, staring anxiously at him.

“Oh,” he says.

Crap. He looks completely and utterly lost, like I’ve pull the rug from under his feet.

Taking a deep breathe, she moves around the table until she is standing in front of him, gazing into his apprehensive eyes.

“You hate it that much?” He breathes, his eyes filled with horror.

“Well … no,” she assures him.

Jeez—that’s how he feels about people touching him?

“No, I feel ambivalent about it. I don’t like it, but I don’t hate it.”

“But last night, in the playroom, you …”

“I do it for you, my White God, because you need it. I don’t. You didn’t hurt me last night. That was in a different context, and I can rationalize that internally, and I trust you. But when you want to punish me, I worry that you’ll hurt me.”

His eyes darken like a turbulent storm. Time moves and expands and slips away before he answers softly.

“But I want to hurt you.”

Fuck!

“Why?’

He runs his hand through his hair and shrugs.

“I just need it.” He pauses, gazing at her with anguish, and he closes his eyes and shakes his head. I can’t tell you,” he whispers.

“Can’t or won’t.”

“Won’t.”

“So you know why.”

“Yes.”

“But you won’t tell me.”

“If I do, you will run screaming from this room, and you’ll never want to return.” He stares at her warily. “I can’t risk that.”

“You want me to stay.”

“More than you know.”

Oh my.

He gazes down at her, and suddenly, he pulls her into his arms and he’s kissing her, kissing her passionately. It takes her completely by surprise and she senses his panic and desperate need in his kiss.

“You said you wouldn’t leave me, and you begged me not to leave you, in your sleep,” he murmurs against her lips.

Oh … my nocturnal confessions.

“I don’t want to go.” And her heart clenches, turning itself inside out.

He is in need. His fear is naked and obvious, but he’s lost … somewhere in his darkness. His eyes are wide and bleak and tortured. The chink can soothe him, join him in the darkness and brings him into the light.

“Show me,” she whispers.

“Show you?”

“Show me how much it can hurt.”

“What?”

“Punish me. I want to know how bad it can get.”

“You would try.”

“Yes. I said I would.”

“You are so confusing.”

“I’m confused too. I’m trying to work this out. And you and I will know, once and for all, if I can do this. If I can handle this, then maybe you—“ Her words fail, and his eyes widen. He knows what she is referring to. For a moment, he looks torn, but then a steely resolve settles on his features and he narrows his eyes, gazing at her speculatively as if weighing up alternatives.

Abruptly, he clasps her arms in a firm grip and turns, leading her out of the great room, up the stairs, and to the playroom. Pleasure and pain, reward and punishment—his words from so long ago echo through her mind.

“I will show you how bad it can be, and you can make your own mind up.” He pauses by the door. “Are you ready, you fucking chink?”

She nods, her mind made up, and she’s vaguely lightheaded, faint as all the blood leaves her face.

He opens the door and still grasping her arms, grabs what looks like a belt from the rack beside the door, then leads her over to the red leather bench in the far corner of the room.

“Bend over the bench,” he murmurs softly.

Okay. I can do this.

She bends over the smooth soft leather. He’s left her bathrobe on. In a quiet part of her brain, she’s vaguely surprised that he hasn’t made her take if off.

Holy fuck, this is going to hurt … I know.

“We are here because you said yes, and you ran from me. I’m going to to hit you six times, and you will count with me.”

Why the hell doesn’t he just get on with it? He always makes such a meal of punishing me. I roll my eyes, knowing full well he can’t see me.

He lifts the hem of her bathrobe, and for some reason, this feels more intimate than being naked. He caresses her behind, running his warm hand all over both cheeks and down to the tops of her thighs.

“I’m doing this so that you remember not to run from me, and as exciting as it is, I never want you to run from me,” he whispers.

And the irony is not lost. She was running to avoid this. If he’d opened his arms, she’d run to him not away from him.

“And you rolled your eyes at me. You know how I feel about that.” Suddenly, it’s gone—that nervous edgy fear in his voice. He’s back from wherever he’s been. She hears it in his tone, in the way he places his fingers on her back, holding her—and the atmosphere in the room changes.

She closes her yes, bracing herself for the blow. It comes hard, snapping across her backside, and the bite of the belt is everything she feared. She cries out involuntarily and takes a huge gulp of air.

“Count, chink!” He commands.

“One!” She shouts at him, and it sounds like an expletive.

He hits her again, and the pain pulses and echoes along the line of the blet.

Holy shit … that smarts.

“Two!” The chink screams.

It feels so good to scream.

His breathing is ragged and harsh, whereas hers is almost nonexistent as she desperately scrabbles around her psyche looking for some internal strength. The belt cuts into her flesh again.

“Three!” Tears spring unwelcome into her eyes.

Jeez—this is harder than I thought—so much harder than the spanking. He’s not holding anything back.

“Four!” The chink yells as the belt bites her again, and now the tears are streaming down her face.

I don’t want to cry. It angers me that I am crying.

He hits the chink again.

“Five.” Her voice is more a choked, strangled sob, and in this moment the chink thinks she hates him.

One more, I can do one more.

Her backside feels as if it’s on fire.

“Six,” she whispers as the blistering pain cuts across her again, and she hears him drop the belt behind her, and he’s pulling her into his arms, all breathless and compassionate

And I want none of him.

“Let go …. no …” And she finds herself struggling out of his grasp, pushing him away. Fighting him.

“Don’t touch me!” She hisses. She straightens and stares at him and he’s watching her as if she might bolt, eyes wide, bemused. She dashes the tears angrily out of her eyes with the backs of her hands, glaring at him.

“This is what you really? Me, like this?” She uses the sleeve of the bathrobe to wipe her nose.

He gazes at her warily.

“Well, you are one fucked up son of a bitch.”

“Chink,” he pleads, shocked.

“Don’t you chink me! You need to sort your shit out. White God.” And with that, she turns stiffly, and walks out of the playroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

Sex-starved Shanghai slut begs a white man to fuck her.

She was expecting a delivery from Amazon today and, due to the gradual up-tick in poverty and crime as a result of the coronavirus pandemic, stealing has been a huge problem and so she was following the driver’s progress on her phone. She would see that he was now … seven stops away … four stops away … one stop away … and she now saw him pull up to the side road near her house.

I couldn’t possibly have planned this; not in a million years, she swore to herself. The delivery man was a young Caucasian man in his mid-twenties, handsome—beautiful, with steely long legs, strawberry blond hair, and deep-blue eyes. She couldn’t resit. It has been months.

Her body screamed: “I need a cock. A white cock. This delivery man’s cock. I need his cock like I need my next breathe.”

She opened that door as the handsome young white man set down the parcel. She could tell something startled him. It was my ferocious look, she thought, my cock-starved stare. Unable to believe herself even, she blurted out: “Hi, Sir! Wanna … fuck me?”

She would never be able to forget the next thing that happened for the rest of her life.

He lifted his left hand, looked at the wrist watch, then lifted his eyes and made a face as if he was thinking: Hmm, I don’t know if I have the time; and in stead of saying what he was thinking, he merely said, “Really?’

“Yes!” She said. She—similarly confused, exasperated, frustrated, and desperate—pulled down her own blouse like a bitch in heat, popping out to the cold December air her round, perky breasts, and to which he replied: “Ok, but it has to be quick.”

A man telling me in advance he was going to be quick, she thought to herself, in horror, no man has ever said that to me. But she was unable to think. She shut the door behind him and got on her knees to pull his cock out and started sucking on it. As soon as the cock was hard, she pulled down her jeans to her knees and got on all fours in front of him. She was rubbing her clit as fast as she could. I can try to cum while he’s fucking me, she thought to herself. His steely white meat was pumping into her yellow flesh raw, then—

Then his phone rang. Oh my god, you are answering it, she thought to herself again, as her eyebrows furrowed, while you are ball-deep inside me—bareback! This is the first time it has ever happened to me!

He hung up and said: “I really can’t stay much longer.” He resumed pounding her and she managed to cum a split second before he finished. He started pulling out before he even stopped cumming, so a lot of his semen spilled on her clothing and her carpet. Then he zipped himself up and ran out of the door.

And then, there was her: on the floor on all fours, with a stranger’s cum running down her legs and soaking into her carpet. She felt like such a piece of yellow trash for needing to be fucked so badly that she would give herself to the first white guy she saw and letting him use her on the floor of her own house and leave without even saying—“thank you …”

She started to cry, and said to herself, “And yet I loved it!”

She stayed on the carpet, still, on all fours and made herself cum a few more times fantasizing about other white guys coming in through her unlocked front door and just helping themselves to the pathetic chink slut inside. Nobody ever did, but she would have been very welcoming if they had.

Dumplings made of human flesh

“… one lives a super-normal life, like the Chinese. That is to say, one is unnaturally gay, unnaturally healthy, unnaturally indifferent. The tragic sense is gone; one lives like a flower, a rock, a tree, one with Nature and against Nature at the same time. If your best friend dies you don’t even bother to go to the funeral; if a man is run down by a street car right before your eyes you keep on walking just as though nothing had happened; if a war breaks out you let your friends go to the front but you yourself take no interest in the slaughter. So on and so on.”

~ Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

It is said that there is something inherent in the nature of the Chinese, the cold, pathological indifference to the suffering of their fellow human beings, their own compatriots, even their own neighbors as long as whatever is happening does not concern themselves or their immediate family members. Western observers only get glimpses of it and mention it in passing, sporadically in their writings, but it is the Chinese themselves who are the most virulent critics of their own salient national trait. Xu Lun, the leading figure of modern Chinese thought, famously described this sociopathic apathy of the Chinese as the tradition of cannibalism, a result of rigid, deep-rooted and cannibalistic Confucianism.

Whatever the merits of Xu Lun’s remark might be, there are indeed many instances of cannibalism throughout Chinese history, and many on such large scale that it’s difficult for a westerner to fathom its scale.

During the period of five dynasties and ten nations (五代十国), it is said that one particular nation state in north-east China captured 10,000 concubines from the Sima royalty’s palace to be sold as sex slaves, and as the victorious army marched back to its northern capital, food shortage became a serious problem, and the soldiers began eating those concubines. Once the army had returned to its capital, only 5,000 concubines were still alive. The rest were all eaten by soldiers.

In north-western region of China during the same period, a nation state famously kept “two-legged sheep” for its army. “Two-legged sheep” were human females captured during war. When there was no battle to be fought, the soldiers ravished those females for pleasure to boost their morale, and when they became hungry, they cooked them for food.

During the interregnum between Ming and Qing dynasty, several warlords ruled China, and one particular man, by the name of Zhang Xianzhong, was legendary for his level of cruelty, even by Chinese standards. He kept thousands of concubines in his palace. They were not allowed to wear anything to cover their genitals and walked around in his palace half-naked, with beautiful clothing on the upper half of their bodies, and completely naked below the waist. This was to ensure that whenever Zhang was in the mood, he would have unimpeded access to their vagina. After he had sex with one of his many concubines, he sliced off her breasts and vagina, cooked and ate them.

As I lay on my bed and listened to countless stories of cruelty beyond the limits of human imagination narrated coldly, objectively by historians, I felt my limbs numb and I was unable to move, partially paralyzed by fear, partially stunned by those incredulous historical records. Surely, even if those things were made up, who would have the imagination to make those stuffs up? So they must have been real!

There were many, many more: such as how, after capturing a city, Zhang would gather all the females in the city, cut off their breasts, vagina, and feet, and pile them into different piles, so there would be several small mounds made of human parts. Then he would bring his favorite concubine over and let her observe with him. When she said, “it was so pretty, specially those women’s dainty feet.” Zhang said, “but your feet are the prettiest,” and proceeded to cut off her own feet and placed them on top of the mound made of human feet. Those human parts all became Zhang’s troops’ food ration.

Speaking of cannibalism, one cannot possibly omit the story from Chinese classic literature Outlaws of the Marsh, a story known to all ethnic Chinese, in China, within the greater China region, and in overseas Chinese communities. A restaurant hotel uses human flesh to make dumplings for travelers. Wusong, the main protagonist of the story, finds a human nail inside the dumpling.

As always, fiction is merely an imitation of real life. There has been at least ten reported cases of restaurants using human flesh in modern China since 1960. The problem is, CCP (the Chinese Communist Party) refuses to release details on any of the cases, so what we are left with are merely urban legends, rumors, hearsays, and no real accountable sources to back up any of the stories.

One account of cannibalism verified and reported in the western hemisphere that I know of is by Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times. According to a Japanese soldier stationed in Manchuria during World War II, there was a Chinese street peddler who sold human flesh as pork. “I brought some pork from this Chinese street peddler and ate it. Then someone told me it was actually human flesh. I vomited nonstop for an entire day,” according to Nicholas Kristof’s recount of the Japanese soldier’s recount of the event.

For what is worth, according to stories posted on the internet, allegedly a dumpling restaurant in Beijing served human flesh in 1982.

The story goes as follows:

A customer has an argument with the restaurant owner. The owner accidentally kills the man. Without any place to hide the corpse, the owner decides to butcher the remains, slices all the flesh off its bones, mixes them in with pork to use as fillings for his dumplings. The taste of human flesh turns out to be so delicious that the restaurant business is booming. Many customers especially likes the taste of those fresh, sweet-tasting meat inside the dumplings. “Not as greasy as the other pork.” “More tender than regular pork.” “I don’t know what kind of meat you are putting in those dumplings, but it’s so damn good!” The customers allegedly tells the restaurant owner. Because the taste of human flesh is apparently so delicious the owner of the restaurant goes on to kill several more people to make his human-fleshed dumplings, including a husband and wife from Xian, and a factory worker from the outskirt of Beijing. Eventually a medically doctor eats his dumplings and felt something odd. “Why does it smell like dead people?” The medical doctor allegedly says to a neighbor. According to the story, because the doctor deals with corpses all the time, he is able to detect the distinct smell of human corpse that no other people is able to detect. The doctor calls the police, and the police raids the restaurants and finds a human leg in the freezer.

Another restaurant that used human flesh for dumpling fillings allegedly took place in Chifeng, inner Mongolia, 1988. A couple’s daughter died and was about to be cremated. Before cremation, the mother accidentally touched her daughter’s remains inside the body bag, and felt it was empty. She felt weird and asked the staff to open the bag for her to see her daughter’s remains one more time and was shocked to find out that someone had sawed off her daughter’s legs. She called the police. After investigation, the police discovered that the staff in the funeral home had sold her daughter’s legs to a local restaurant. The restaurant, one of the oldest and most well-known in all of Chifeng, coincidentally, also sells dumplings, and was famous especially for its dumplings. Further investigation revealed that the restaurant owner had been buying human flesh from the staff of the funeral home and using them as dumpling fillings for over seven years.

1960, Tianjin: A local restaurant was famous for its dumplings. The owner was Mr. Wang, a middle-aged bachelor. A perpetual loner, he came to Tianjin and lived in a single apartment by myself, without any relatives in the city. According to Mr. Wang, he had a wife before but his wife ran off with another man but “I feel content living by myself now.”

Everyday he started to made dumplings at four in the morning, begun to sell his dumplings by six, and by eight o’clock, all his dumplings would be sold out. People would fight over one another to buy his dumplings. Everyday he only made 500 dumplings, never hired any helper, and never had any apprentice. People thought his secret recipe was handed to him by his ancestors and he had no intention to let anyone else outside to know.

One day a woman came to the police station, complaining that after eating Mr. Wang’s dumplings, her son nearly choked to death with a small fragment of a bone inside the dumplings. The police dismissed the woman, merely said that the staff from the sanitation department would give Mr. Wang a warning. An elderly police officer took over the bone and said the bone looked weird. “It doesn’t look like an animal bone.” At his insistence, the bone was taken for forensic examination and when the result came back, the whole police department dropped its jaw to the flower.

The bone turned out to be the fragment of a human toe bone.

At Mr. Wang’s place, the police unearthed a basement filled with the remains belonging to seven different people. According to confession, Mr. Wang killed beggars who came to his house begging for food, then dismembered their bodies and used their flesh to make dumplings. He said he has also eaten his own dumplings made of human flesh, and he didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary. “Besides, nobody ever got sick from eating my dumplings, and I’ve been using human flesh to make my dumplings for over two years.”