Grasping the fourteen-year-old White Russian boy’s hips, the Manchurian Master, wrapped in a voluminous scarlet silk robe, sitting cross-legged on the platform bed in his Harbin, China, sleeping pavilion, pulled the naked boy’s buttocks up into his lap. Pyotr’s wrists were tied together by a scarlet scarf and streamed above his head. His legs were bent, his feet flat on the silk quilt on either side of the Chinese warrior lord’s hips. Half drugged, the perfectly formed, white blond, alabaster-skin boy was lethargic in acceptance and resignation. His eyes were slitted, his lips parted, and his tongue flicked against his plump lower lip. The foreign boy, a ripe peach in the floating world of Chinese prostitution, sighed and arched his back as the Manchurian Master’s beefy, calloused hands glided up his torso, paused at the boy’s nipples to stroke them, and then slowly descended, fingers splayed over the supple white body, savoring the supple, yielding flesh of the boy.

The boy’s eyes opened wide and he gave a low groan as the master produced a spiral-ribbed thick white-jade dildo from inside the folds of his robe and started working it into the boy’s channel, stretching and opening him, as he stroked the youth’s pert cock with his other hand.

“Da, da—Shi, shi—Yes, yes,” the boy murmured in both Russian and Mandarin to please the man’s lust. His survival relied on pleasing the men. Pyotr raised his pelvis higher and spread his thighs wider to acknowledge his acceptance of the invading shaft. He worked on shooting his load, which he knew would please the man. He jerked and came and the man sighed in approval. Pyotr controlled it as he could. He knew another coming would be needed from him. The men were most impressed when they and he came close together.

Although a captive, Pyotr was not an unwilling one. The Russian royalists, termed the White Russians, had been flooding into northeast China, coalescing in the city of Harbin, since 1900 in an escape from the ever-successful Bolshevik Revolution of the Red Russians. By 1920 they were a dominating force in Harbin and the Chinese government had responded by disenfranchising them. Pyotr, like all other White Russians in Manchuria, had become a nonperson at fourteen, left to his own devises to survive or not. Already selling himself to men and getting some enjoyment out of doing so, Pyotr had sold himself to a specialized auction house.

The Manchurian Master had won a bid on using the boy for the current week, which was coming to an end, prompting the man to work hard at a satisfying climax.

The master moved the jade phallus faster, deeply, as the boy writhed astride his lap, panting and moaning and using the leverage of his feet pressed into the quilt beside the master’s hips to raise and lower his pelvis, moving with the spiraled phallus. The boy was doing what he could to make himself desired and satisfying to the Chinese lord. His very existence relied on pleasing the men who won his time in the auction.

“Da, Da—Shi, shi!” he exclaimed to the ceiling.

Extracting the dildo, the master brushed aside the folds of his robe at his crotch, mere inches from the boy’s now-gaping hole. An angry-looking, upcurved erection emerged from between the folds of the robe. The master grasped it with one hand, while the other palmed the boy’s tailbone, raising and positioning the boy’s pelvis for penetration. As the boy panted and groaned, the Manchurian lord ran the bulb of the shaft around the rim of the hole, down the boy’s taint, and back up to the hole, making a few feints at penetrating, and when the boy whispered, “Da, da, vstav’—Yes, yes, put it in,” the Manchurian Master did so, with a forceful entry that made Pyotr suck in his breath.

The Russian boy gasped and panted hard as the Manchurian Master grasped his butt cheeks, parting and squeezing them, and forcefully penetrated the boy with his shaft, relentlessly pulled the boy’s pelvis into him, and buried the shaft deep. The lord briefly released the boy’s buttocks to grasp Pyotr’s back and pull the lad’s torso up into this chest, Pyotr’s bound wrists going over the Chinese warrior’s head, resting behind the Manchurian’s thick neck. Pyotr buried his face into the scarlet robing of the Chinese man’s chest, soaking the silk there with his tears, and groaned and panted as, returning his hands to grasping and manipulating the boy’s buttocks, the master, fully saddled, raised and lowered the boy’s channel on the shaft and revolved it back and forward and around until Pyotr was overcome with enough of his own arousal to rise and fall on the cock himself, using the leverage of his feet.

“Túnbù rúcĭ xiázhăi Zěnme chī?—Such narrow hips. How can you take it?” the master murmured. But take it Pyotr did. He had no choice.

With a small, mutually satisfying cry and sigh, the man and boy ejaculated almost in harmony.

They lay entwined and dozing on the platform bed in the sleeping pavilion as twilight set in around them. When darkness had descended, the Manchurian Master became aroused again and felt his member engorging. The boy woke as he was being moved onto his belly and then, with a strong arm encircling his waist and pulling him up to his knees, the boy’s eye’s flashed open, the drugs from earlier having warned off, and yelped, as the magnificently muscled Manchurian warrior mounted the boy’s ass and penetrated him in one long slide.

The boy cried out, his fingers clawing at the red quilting under him as the master planted his feet, crouched over the boy’s back, and thrust, thrust, thrust, seizing full value from the week with the boy the man had won.