C11 Sex Slave

What did she say?

“You have small dick, Mr. Chauncey,” she said.

She couldn’t have said that. A slave? A Joe China slave with six weeks of Berlitz training? No, she never said that.

“You big man, Mr. Chauncey—how come you have small dick?”

She never said that either. She couldn’t have said that. He would have killed her. He would have gone to the gun in the drawer of the table in the foyer of the immense Renaissance mansion he had paid forty-five million for. He would have put a bullet through her head.

But she belonged to Joe China. Joe China wanted her back in a week. Joe China knew every gangster in the city. No, he would never have put a bullet in her head. But where was she now? Where was the gun?

The Berreta was gone. China Doll was gone.

Where was she? Did she jump out of the car? Did she slip off into the night when he passed out? Did they ever make it home?

Chauncey was in a dither as he continued down the highway toward the gathering at Nora Evan’s family home. Nora had called. He couldn’t remember when. He couldn’t remember what they said. He dozed off on the shower floor. He managed to shave while sitting on the floor. He got in the car and headed for Hillsborough. He let the data pilot take over the driving.

His head was slumped on the wheel. His hands were hanging down to his feet. He tried to breathe. All he could hear was a wheeze. The sweat pouring out of him was noxious. It dripped on his shiny

shoes. He couldn’t smell how bad he smelled. A tune on the radio kept telling him this love was real, this love was forever. He looked at the clock. It was one-twenty in the afternoon. Dinner was at two. He was already late for the greetings and drinks and polite conversation that would precede it.

“We go to your big house?” China Doll had asked him at some point.

Moments of the night flew by him in fragments. He couldn’t hold onto to them long enough to connect them.

“You live here alone?” she had asked at another point.

Had he already reached up her cute yellow skirt to find the surprise he had found there? Was that before, or after, she mentioned his dick.

“What small dick?” he had asked her. No woman had ever men- tioned it to him. He was used to women who were too in awe of his wealth to worry about his dick.

Did he have a small dick? He pulled down his zipper, his head still slumped on the wheel. His eyes were glued closed. He forced them open with a finger. He took another look at it. How many times had he looked at it again in the last few hours? He kept pulling it out, and then put it away, only to pull it out a few minutes later to make another assessment.

“You fucking slave!” he had said to her. “Who taught you to say that?”

“I learn in Berlitz class,” she said. “Me study English!”

He was pouring drinks in the living room. They were sitting on the couch making lines of coke disappear. The opium was sleepy, dreamlike. All was pleasurable. The coke was speedy. The coke was working against the opium, grating on his dream state. A demon crashing his bliss.

He lay back on the couch. He told her to unzip his flies. She unzipped his flies. She took out his dick. He told her to suck it.

“You have big dick,” she said to him then. He was sure of it. She was lying. She had been taught to lie.

“Did they teach you how to suck dick at the Berlitz School?” he asked.

“Oh no, not me,” she said. “I like my teacher too much.” “Your teacher no like blowjobs?” he asked her.

“Teacher like blowjobs with boys,” she replied.