body was so different: smooth, firm, small.
She lay down on the bed, one leg stretched out, the other drawn up. 'You would rather have a girl with lily feet?' She asked.
'No.' He was pushing at his shirt buttons, forcing them through the holes. Lily feet. He hadn't seen bound feet uncovered, but the sight of rich Chinese ladies shuffling along on them, supported by an amah at each side, had made him imagine they would look like deformed hooves.
She lifted her leg and turned the ankle, pointing her toes. 'I was not born to be a lady. None of my sisters' feet were bound either.' She looked down at her turning foot with a smile, as if she liked what she saw nevertheless, then lay back again, spreading her hair out on the pillow like a black shiny fan. One arm lay carelessly out-stretched on the bed, where he would have to lie, the other across her body, her hand just over her groin as though she were modestly covering herself. He'd got his shirt off now and her eyes surveyed his chest between half-closed lids. Shy and uncertain of himself, he turned his back to pull off the rest of his clothes, tugging fiercely at his shoelaces, which he'd stupidly pulled into a knot. He heard her giggle behind him and blushed, imagining he must seem as repulsive to her as his mother's body had to him. When at last he turned round, she had rolled onto her face. Was that the right way? He didn't know. He lay down beside her. She didn't move. But she wasn't laughing at him now, her eyes, between the long dark strands of hair, looked serious - grave, even. The firecrackers and street noises seemed louder again, each one sharp and distinct. What should he do? He noticed detachedly the soft gleam of the brass bedrail. Perhaps if he kissed her again, it would all happen, somehow. But instead of kissing her, he found that his hand was on her buttock, shaping itself round the cold smooth mound and slowly stroking it. Now I've started, he thought with that same detachment with which he'd just now noticed the gleam of the bedrail, as if his body were going of its own accord and he were merely a passenger in it. Now I've started. I can't go back. Her eyes were watching him still, there seemed to be the shadow of a smile about her lips. Should his hand move up or down now? He felt her leg move slightly under his palm, like a cat arching its back against your hand when you stroked it. He felt himself stirring too. He leant over to kiss her back and his hand slid down her thigh as he did so. Her skin was smooth and cold on his lips. But what next? It was between the legs, he knew, but where exactly, and how? In his demon dreams he'd sometimes imagined himself lying on top of a woman kissing her mouth, her breasts. But she was upside down for that. All the time he was wondering what to do, he was kissing and licking her back, his hand was caressing her legs with rising pleasure and desire, as if his body knew perfectly well what his mind did not. He pressed her side gently and she rolled over onto her back, flicking the hair out of her face and closing her eyes. He leant over to kiss her and as he did so his hand covered her breast. Another mound, smooth and swelling. He heard her draw in her breath as he pressed against the hardness of her nipple and her excitement roused him still further. Her lips opened for his. They seemed to grow warmer and moister the more he pressed against her, the more he brushed his palm across her nipple. Suddenly her tongue slipped between his teeth, withdrew, then slipped in again. He lay on top of her now, his stalk digging into her belly. She laid her arms lightly round his back. Her fingertips brushed delicately along his skin, up and down his flanks. That was as far as his imaginings had ever brought him. For a brief moment he paused, uncertain how to go on. Again that detached sense of being a spectator of his own body came over him. He seemed for a second to be seeing himself from above - he had a definite image of his own back as he sprawled on top of her - and he wondered remotely how such grappling could be important or exciting, and then, as she pressed up against him with her hips, he succumbed again. His lips found her breasts now, the hard little nipples were urging themselves between his teeth and he felt his stalk lunging at her thighs, blindly and wildly. But her legs were tight together and he couldn't get in. Was it the wrong place? he wondered uneasily.
But now she was moving beneath him, gently easing him over onto his back. She knelt over him while his straying hands stroked her head, her cheeks, her shoulders. Her hand was on his stalk, her hair brushing his chest as she kissed his throat, his nipples, his belly. Her hand was playing with the tip of his stalk, pressing and squeezing it, sliding her fingers softly up and down. Slowly he let go, surrendered, abandoned himself to this delicious sensation that seemed to be melting his body with pleasure. His eyes were closed, his fingers were tangled in her hair, she had her lips over his stalk, she was kissing it, licking it, moving down to the root and up again to the very, exquisitely thrilling, tip. Her lips were closing over the tip, were sliding slowly down it once more, further and further down till he could feel the back of her throat like a warm velvet cushion against the tip of his stalk. And all he'd known, the thought drifted like a wisp of cloud across his mind, was that you kissed in bed!
He felt his stalk thickening and trembling, the sap throbbing up, but then, as if she too had felt it with her agile lips, she slipped away and rolled over onto her back, pulling him close on top of her. Her legs were spread wide apart now, and his stalk was between them, probing and thrusting assuredly now, as if he'd known all along where the place was. He felt her take him between her finger and thumb and guide him into the warm, ready, moistness of her body while the other hand, behind his neck, pulled his mouth down onto hers.
Desire suddenly flowered in every fibre of his body. She led him on, rocked him, teased him, charmed him with her licking of his throat, his ears, with caressing movements of her legs, with the lift and surge of her whole body as he plunged wildly into her. At last, with a long moan, he spent himself in violent shuddering spasms that were echoed in her, quivering through them both again and again until, finally exhausted, his head on her shoulder, he felt his mind sliding away into a vast, empty calm.
The loud bursting of firecrackers and the strident angry yell of a woman in the street outside penetrated the heavy layers of his sleep. His eyes opened slowly. His mouth was half-open on her round smooth shoulder still, as though he'd fallen asleep in the act of biting it. The room seemed darker now, the street, after the outburst that had woken him, quieter. He wondered how late it was. He stirred luxuriously against her body and raised his head.
She was gazing up at the ceiling, her face still and reflective. He kissed her throat, sniffing the faint, unnameable scent of her skin, and looked into her eyes again. The dim light in her dark pupils changed as she pulled back from her faraway thoughts, whatever they were, to look up at him. She smiled slowly, her lips just moving at the corners, a lazy, dreamy satisfied smile. He let his fingers trail gently over her lips, her chin, her cheekbones.
'How old are you?' he asked.
'Sixteen Chinese style. Fifteen western style. Chinese children are one year old when they are born.'
He nodded.
'I would like to have a house with gas lamps like this one day,' she murmured thoughtfully. Was that where her thoughts had been? Her eyes slipped back to him questioningly. 'Do you want more?'
'More?'
'Me? If you pay, I will.'
A cold wave of disenchantment broke over him and he shook his head.
She seemed to sense his changed mood. She got out of bed with a little shrug and gathered her clothes together. He would not look at her. He lay with his head turned away, gazing at the bare wall. He heard her washing herself in the bathroom.
'Can you give me fifty cents?' her voice asked, small and clear by his head.
'Fifty cents?'
She was dressed, looking down at him, her hands deftly pinning her hair behind her head. 'For Ah Koo,' she said. 'Otherwise he will not let me in next time. I must give him something.'
He couldn't reach his jacket. She held it out for him. He pulled out a dollar and gave it to her.
She was ready to leave. He watched her dispiritedly.
She walked to the door, then turned and raised her hand to wave, with a childlike flutter of her fingers. 'Shall I come again?' she asked, almost shyly. 'Did you like me?'
He hesitated. 'I will see you at the restaurant,' he answered evasively. 'I will tell you then.'
When the door had closed, he listened for the sound of her footsteps,