A visit to Hong Kong
No‰l Burch (nburch@wanadoo.fr) 
Where a viragophile's dream comes true. or does it?


"Oh yes, Mr. Burch, we have had this sort of request often. especially from the 
English," said Run Run Shaw, seated quietly behind his mahogany desk." Yes, 
many Englishmen wish to meet our beautiful actresses for a personal 
demonstration of their Kung Fu skills."

My lifelong dream, I felt, was about to come true; at last I was to meet one of 
those Asiatic beauties who had been gracing the screens of  Europe and America 
for several years, who had been trained since infancy in the martial arts and who, 
in those days at least, made their Hollywood sisters look like the  rank amateurs 
most of them were.

I was about to meet, I began to suppose, a beautiful woman whose very corporal 
presence would constitute a danger for most men, whose hands could maim or 
kill, whose dainty feet could strike unerringly at the vital spot's of a man's 
anatomy, who could not be disarmed because their very bodies were deadly 
weapons.

"You are highly recommended to us by our Mr. Tac in Paris, but. But I'm afraid 
we cannot prevail upon our girls to give you special consideration and I must 
warn you that their prices are very high."

My heart began to sink: "H. how much," I stammered. "At least two thousand 
dollars for the evening. For all night, it is much more," said the Chinaman with 
a faint smile. I was a bit taken aback, but figured I could manage: "You mean 
Hong Kong dollars, of course?"

"I'm afraid not," the film magnate answered.

My face must have fallen quite visibly, for he went on. "There is, however, one 
exception to the rule."

"Really," I said, perking up a little but half-suspecting a con-game.

""Yes, her name is Shang-Kang Ling-Fu. Here is her photo." He opened a drawer 
and took out a large-sized publicity still of a young actress whose skills I had 
often had an opportunity of admiring on several occasions in the Chinese film 
societies of London and specialized cinemas of Paris and New York.

"Miss Ling-Feng velly good at wushu," Shaw said to me with a strange smile, 
lapsing inexplicably into a grotesque accent. I looked at him sharply. Was he 
putting me on?

"Yes, I saw her recently in "Ghostly Face", I believe it was called."

"Yes, yes, velly big box office film." Was I mistaken or was he becoming nervous 
himself. "Miss Ling-Feng velly famous now, velly rich, she." he made an effort 
to improve his English, "she does not need money so much."

I began to have a glimmer of hope. "How much does she ask?" I said trying to 
sound like a man of the world.

"She free" said Run Run Shaw.

I almost laughed at him. What kind of a come-on was this?

"I don't understand. Why?"

Without a word, he stood up, reached out, took the pic lying in front of me on the 
table and turned it over so I could see the other side. On it were five lines of print 
and beneath them a dotted line:

I, THE UNDERSIGNED HEREBY AGREE TO REFRAIN FROM ANY 
LEGAL PROCEEDINGS AGAINST MISS SHANG-KANG LING-FEN 
PURSUANT TO ANY INJURY WHATSOEVER SUSTAINED DURING THE 
NIGHT OF . WHICH I SPENT IN HER COMPANY AT MY OWN REQUEST 
AND WITH FULL KNOWLEDGE OF THE POSSIBLE CONSEQUENCES.

			(signed)................ 

I read it again. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was something out of a B&D 
mag fantasy. Yet here it was, right in the office of the most powerful producer in 
Hong Kong.

"Miss Ling-Feng ... she like to hurt men," said Run Run Shaw, almost 
apologetically.

I didn't say a word. The fact is that I had never been terribly enamoured of  this 
actress, she was a little short and tom-boyish for my taste. And yet here I learned 
that she actually enjoying kicking men's asses, doing to men what I, within limits 
I wasn't really sure about yet, wanted done to me.

This was it. This was really it. I had to put up or shut up. I couldn't afford the 
others, the ones who would take it easy, the way paid women always do. This was 
to be the real MacCoy. I was feeling a bit queasy in the pit of my stomach. 
Something in me wanted to give the photo back, thank the man and leave. Instead, 
I took out my pen and, without a word, signed on the dotted line.

Run Run Shaw smiled at me with undisguised irony, now. His English was 
suddenly impeccable again. "You are a very brave man, Mr. Burch. or else very 
sick. Maybe you had better think it over, Shang-Kang can be very cruel." This 
was the first time he had used her first name alone and there was a shade of 
respect, almost of fear in the way he pronounced it. He waited a few seconds 
more, but I remained silent. He shrugged his shoulders, picked up the phone, 
dialed a number, spoke briefly in Chinese, listened for a second and then hung up.

"Your appointment is for nine o'clock this evening. Give me the name of your 
hotel, I will have a car drive you to Shang-Kang's house. It is quite far from the 
center of Hong Kong. and quite isolated.

...........................  

As the car sped along the coastal highway, the lights of central Hong Kong faded 
into the distance and I began to wonder whether I hadn't been a fool. What would 
I do if she really injured me? How would I get medical help in this strange city 
where I knew no one. except Run Run Shaw, and I didn't expect he would be 
very anxious to help. Or rather, I caught myself, I would feel too embarrassed to 
turn to him.

The car drew up in front of a long, low modern bungalow. I got out. and the car 
drove away! How, I wondered, was I to get back to town. Then as I walked up the 
path to the front door, I realized I could simply call a taxi. With all the money I 
was saving.

I rang. As I stood waiting for the door to open, I took to wondering how my 
nemesis would be dressed. I had never seen her on the screen in anything but 
historical fantasy costume; perhaps she would be wearing one of those silk 
pajama-like suits which were not unattractive but did not appeal to my fetish 
tastes. The door opened and I was taken aback: the woman who stood there was 
indeed wearing the traditional dress, but she was very old. I shook myself 
mentally: a rich movie star would naturally have servants and my fantasy of her 
opening the door herself was foolish.

The woman ushered me into a very plush lounge and bade me be seated. The 
room was quite bare, more in the Japanese than the Chinese tradition. The most 
striking decoration was a large blow-up of a film still, taken from "Ghostly Face" 
and showing a booted Shang-Kang leaping into the air to escape the ropes that a 
dozen opponents had thrown over her. I remembered it as an impressive bit of 
acrobatics.

"Good evening."

I hadn't noticed her arrival while I was looking at the still. I was so startled I only 
just managed to keep from whirling about. She stood in the doorway. 
unforgettable. She seemed much sexier in reality than on the screen. She was not 
very tall but her compact body was well-built and clearly very strong. Her long, 
jet black hair hung about her shoulders in splendid waves. But of course it was her 
costume that hit me: Hong Kong was still a British colony and the woman was 
obviously tuned into the "kinky" scene: skin-tight pants and a long-sleeved 
jumper made of dull, soft black leather, studded leather bracelets around her 
wrists. She wore boots as well, but these were more practical than the vulgar high 
heels that handicapped the movements of the traditional dominatrix. They were 
soft, pull-on booties which came up over the slender, muscular calves, hugging 
the foot and leg like a dancer's gaiters.

This woman was ready for action.

I glanced at her hands and saw the slightly deformed knuckles which are the sign 
of the authentic martial artist behind this "feminine softness". Unsmiling, she 
stood there letting me look her over. Then, when she thought I'd been doing that 
long enough, she spoke again. and no sentence she spoke that night was ever to 
be as long. "Take off your jacket, lay it on the floor and come over here."

I did as I was told. The authority in her voice thrilled me to the bone. When I was 
still about ten feet away from her, she suddenly leapt into the air and came flying 
towards me. I ducked instinctively but her leather-clad foot only just missed my 
throat, brushing past my shoulder. Suddenly, I was terrified. She had missed me 
on purpose. My reflexes were infinitely slower than hers, if she had wanted to she 
cold have landed that blow in my throat or anywhere else she wanted. I could be 
lying on that plush carpet spitting blood now. She had executed a perfect 
somersault and was standing again, gliding at me from a different angle, her 
face still impassive, her hands weaving hypnotically. Again, my instinct made me 
back away: there was death in this woman's eye. I remembered the curious title she 
had had in her role in "Ghostly Face": "Fighteress Hu" And a true fighteress she 
obviously was. 

She was now less than three feet away. What next? There was another blur of 
movement and her stiffened fingers were resting lightly on my sternum: this time 
I hadn't had time to react at all! She burst out in a lilting laugh and withdrew her 
slender, deadly hand. She was teasing me. But for how long?.

"You come with me," she said and laid her hand gently on my arm. I felt hesitant 
and I must have hesitated a shade too long. or was she looking for a pretext to 
begin?  Because that was when she first hurt me. In a way I didn't expect and 
couldn't even understand. Her hand, as I say was resting on my upper arm. Gently 
it slid down to my elbow while she gripped my wrist oh so gently. and then 
wham! She dug her thumb into the soft under-arm, the hollow of the elbow. 
Electricity shot through my whole body. I tried to scream but I couldn't breathe 
and I thought I was dying, I suddenly found myself on the floor and lay there 
barely conscious. "You are not liking .? " it was something like "keen now". 
some Chinese word I couldn't understand. There was another one, too, something 
like "she say" : ". very sensitive cavity, stops breathing. forever, if I want."

I was fully conscious again but trembling from the shock. This wasn't any of that 
harmless movie high-kicking, this was something else. I smelled leather and 
opened my eyes to see those boots standing close by. The tips of the soles were 
not soft, but made of hard rubber and they were quite pointed. I looked up at the 
woman who had laid me low so mysteriously. She was looking down at me, hands 
on hips, her face inscrutable.

"When I say, you do. or more "keen now". You understand?"

"Yes, yes, I understand," I mumbled climbing to my feet. What had I gotten 
myself into here? I knew this was just the beginning. And I didn't know how I 
could stand pain worse than she had just inflicted on me. And yet I knew there 
was no turning back.

She led me into a huge empty room. except for a bed at the far end Her first 
spinning kick knocked me halfway there..

The details of that night are lost in a blur of pain, terrifying techniques that 
defeated and hurt me at every turn. Those pointed boots drove into every sensitive 
spot on my body. She knew ways of torturing every nerve and muscle with feet, 
hands, fingers,  every inch of her body was a weapon. She threw me several times, 
I fainted several more, I was soon bleeding from the nose and mouth. 
Occasionally she would let me rest while she performed handsome acrobatic 
training movements then without warning would come at me again. Sometimes 
she would fake several attacks before the real one came hard to stop my breath or 
throw me to the floor. 

It was almost dawn I believe when she flipped me across her hip and onto the bed, 
tore down my trousers and with some fast manipulations somehow managed to 
make my penis erect. After that, I can only say that she raped me, quickly, 
savagely, all the time playfully but painfully slapping me on the ears, until she 
came with wild, screaming contortions. I tried to get into the spirit of the thing, 
but I was too battered.

She fell back and lay on my legs for a moment, then sat up, patted my cheek and 
left the room without a word.

The old servant tended my cuts and bruises with great efficiency and put me in a 
taxi.

My left hand has never completely recovered from one of her terrifying "qi na" 
nerve-grips. But will it surprise the reader to know that I treasure that slight 
handicap much as the romantic lover treasures a lock of hair?

The End