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From: "A. P. Damien" <APDamien@mediaone.net>
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 05 Apr 2001 16:30:40 PDT
Subject: {ASSM} ASA Story: The Chinese Watch (F solo, hanging) (REPOST)
Date: Fri,  6 Apr 2001 10:10:02 -0400
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This story was written by Ol' Sarge.  I (Damien) am posting it by
permission of the author.

   Listen up!  Yes, I mean you!

   There's a few things you gotta read before you go on to the story.

   First, there's sexually explicit stuff here.  If you're not old enough
to vote, go on to the next message.  Better yet, unsubscribe to this
discussion group.  Gwan, kid, shoo!  And that goes double if sexually
explicit stories are illegal where you are!

   Second, this is a work of <u>fiction</u>!  No actual people or animals
were harmed in the writing of this story.

   Third, don't try this stuff at home.  You could end up dead!  Over 200
people a year die playing with asphyxia in the USA.  That's not counting
the rest of the world.

   Remember, I didn't *make* you read this story.  If you think it's badly
written, that's one thing.  But if you don't like stories about people
getting strangled while having sex, don't blame anybody but yourself.

   Here's some blank space to give you a chance to skip to the next
message. After that, you're on your own.





















   Summary: This story includes a woman being hanged to entertain a group
of men.  Non-lethal semi-consensual.



   The Chinese Watch

   by Sarge

   anon5ab7@nyx.net

   Ol' Sarge quotes:

   "...and it's not a cheap clip joint for picking up tarts.  That's

   right out...<ring><ring>

   (picks up phone)

   Hello...

   Yes, your watch will be ready at midnight.

   (impatiently) The CHINESE watch!

   Right, bye <click>

   (viscously)Mother"

   Monty Python, the Piranha brothers.

   It is widely know throughout the sea services that the difference
between a Fairy Tale and a Sea Story [which is not to be confused with a
War Story] is this:

   'A Fairy Tale begins "Once upon a time ...", and a Sea Story begins
"This is no shit ...".' (War stories usually begin "There I was ...").

   This is no shit, the first occurance of the Images scenario, or anything
like it, that I saw was in Hong Kong in the autumn of 1966.  I was a young
hard charging Lance Corporal Machine Gunner on R&R from an all expense paid
vacation in the sunny vacation land in SE Asia.  On my second night there I
went out of the hotel and flagged a rickshaw and asked the puller to "Take
me to a place where women get tied up" or words to that effect (can you
tell that I was an MP for a while?).  A friend of mine (a Sargeant born and
raised in Bermuda) had said, "Rickshaw runners in Hong Kong know where
everything is, and can get you there just as quickly and more cheaply than
a Taxi", and that "You can find and purchase almost anything in Hong Kong,
with the possible exception of tactical nuclear weapons".  After some
negotiations, hampered by my nonexistent Chinese and his marginal English
and the fact that after giving up on speaking English to him I was using
Okinawa pidgin, we agreed on a price (there was no problem with the
destination, that he understood instantly), and away we went.

   The trip took about 15 minutes, mostly at a trot and I was somewhat
confused as to where we were after 5 minutes (perhaps the quantity of beer
that I had previously consumed had something to do with it, usually I'm
very difficult to lose).  In any case, we ended up at a multi-story
building somewhere within a 15 minute trot (say 2 miles) of the President
Hotel, Kowloon, Crown Colony of Hong Kong.  There are probably a thousand
or so such buildings, they all look alike, unless you can read the signs on
them in Chinese (Happy Valley House), (Tenement of Joyous Nights Sleeping)
and so forth.  So he drops the poles of the Rickshaw, and says, "You come
with me, please".

   We entered the building, (there is something about Chinese buildings,
they're alive, breathing, with thousands of invisible eyes watching you)
and take a lift to the <mumble> floor (it's been 25 years, I don't have
that good a memory, remember I didn't expect this to be real memorable at
the time).  We walk down the hall and the runner (rickshaw puller is a bit
clumsy, da?) raps on a door (looked like any other door to me, no numbers
(anywhere), no characters (anywhere), a real anonymous floor) and this
youngish Chinese guy answers -I never did get the name, because it was
never offered, let's call him Mr.  Inside.  He and the runner seem to be
real pals, because his face lights up (don't let anyone tell you that
orientals are 'inscrutable', usually they couldn't hide an emotion under a
blanket <except when they are gambling>) and they start rattling away in
Canton (I think, Mandarin sounds different, and Shanghai and Hunan sound a
bit like Vietnamese, and THAT I could spot) and waving hands in my general
direction and towards the door (this was the clue, Canton is, like Italian,
a partially signed language).

   After about 20 seconds the inside guy turns to me and says, in
impeccable British English (sounded like a old Wykehamist), "Welcome to our
humble establishment" ...you could have knocked me over with a feather, a
real live cliche...  and then he gives this big grin and I can tell that
he's having some fun at my expense, but that's OK by me, that's why I'm
here (fun).

   "He", he says, not quite pointing at the runner, "says that you want to
see women, bound?"

   "Yes, exactly".  This English accent stuff is contagious.

   "That is good, you have come to the correct place, please pay him the
agreed amount, I would recommend that you tip him 10 per-cent of the fee
that you will pay here.  That would be twenty dollars, Hong Kong".

   Now in 1966 the Hong Kong dollar was worth about $.35 US, so doing some
quick math, and drawing on my ready supply of beer befuddled wit I said,
"Huh?".  That's damn near 9 bucks for a 15 minute rickshaw ride.

   "Our fee to view the show is two hundred dollars, Hong Kong".  (I swear
the guy talked like that, you could see per-cent not %, and two hundred
dollars, Hong Kong not $HK200).  "We have never had a complaint, and the
performers usually get tips of that amount also".  I'm thinking "Shit, 70
bucks!  for 70 bucks I can get layed what?  5, 6 times easy (at this time
there was little or no amateur sex available for transient personnel in
Hong Kong (meaning the guys coming up from 'Nam trying to unwind, not to
mention when a Carrier Battle group shows up and drops 8 or 9 thousand
horny swabbies all over), and damn little for the troops (The Queen's Own
Buffs, and the 1st Gurkas) stationed there) this had better be
out-fucking-standing".  Honest folks that's the way we talked and thought
then.

   So I took out cash stash number 1 (you don't think that I took ALL my
money with me, hey I got four more days of R&R left), peeled off a 20 for
the runner, plus the 5 that I owed him for the trip (to put prices in
perspective you could, and I did later, eat a sumptuous feast for two for
$HK25 plus tip).  Then I peeled off another $HK200 and handed it to the
other guy and said, "You look like a gent to me, let's get rolling".  He
winced (yeah, well I've never really been able to beat around the bush, and
back then ...) at my lack of couth, and handed me back the money.  "Please,
hold on to it.  You pay when the performance starts.  We have a while to
wait, would you care for a beer?".

   The runner departed, well pleased I'm sure, and we entered the suite (as
it turned out).  There was a living room, unremarkable, with a few sofas
and chairs, 3 Chinese gentlemen were sitting there, talking quietly in
Chinese, a sort of businessmens dinner, sans dinner, they wore expensive
looking western suits.  I had one much like theirs on order ($HK75, ready
in 3 days, you come back day after tomorrow for second fitting, OK?).  The
young man left and returned quickly with a beer, and a glass.

   "Here you go, on the house.  Have a seat, the show starts in about
twenty minutes".

   I sat down in what I hoped was a comfortable chair (it was), not too
close to the the other occupants of the room (I didn't want to cramp their
style, anyway they ignored me beyond a quick, appraising glance), and
picked up a magazine.  Couldn't read a word, Chinese, but the pictures were
interesting, oriental women, mostly Japanese (they were wearing Kimonos,
those that were wearing anything), tied up in various improbable positions.
Some that, before I saw the photos, I would have sworn were impossible.  I
thumbed through that magazine and a couple of others as well.  While I was
reading a steady trickle of Chinese men came in, soon there were about 15
of them, standing around in little groups, drinking beer or tea, nattering
away, just like a cocktail party back in the world.

   As I finished up my beer, the guy came back and said something in
Chinese to the other folks and then to me, "It is time for the performance,
these gentlemen have selected the scene to be played, do you wish me to
tell you, or would you rather watch it as it unfolds?"

   I allowed as how I'd just watch it unfold, and he looked a bit surprised
then smiled a bit and said, "I think that you will be pleased that you made
that choice, the performance is most moving when you don't know what will
happen".

   "Now, I must inform you of the ground rules here.  If they are not
acceptable you must leave and consider the beer as my gift to you, if they
are acceptable you must agree to abide by them".

   I nodded, and said, "That seems reasonable to me, go ahead, shoot".

   I guess that he wasn't used to listening to American idioms, he paused a
second then recovered, "The rules are as follows: First, you must stay
behind the barrier.  Second, you may not touch the women, nor speak to
them, for you this will not be a problem, as none of them speak any
English, and I do not think that you speak any Chinese".  I actually had
the grace and wit to blush a little at that, and nod my head sheepishly. 
He continued, "These women have been doing these scenes for several years,
although you may think that they are in danger, please rest assured that
they have ALL done this many times before with no injuries at all".  He
paused and looked at me for a few seconds, "Do you agree to abide by these
rules?"

   "If you can assure me that no one really gets hurt".

   "I think that I can safely do that".

   "OK, I agree, no touching, no talking, stay behind the barrier".

   He turned around and spoke for several seconds to the other clients,
they all nodded their heads, and each said a single word.  I think that
they were regulars here.  He walked past them and opened a door, bowing
slightly and waving us into the next room.  I followed the rest in. 
Paying, as they did, my fee.

   The room was divided in two sections by a open fence of bamboo that came
about three feet up.  On one side was a brightly lit open space, with a
wooden frame about 4 feet wide, and all the way to the ceiling.  The frame
was made of 6 inch square wooden posts, and was securely attached to the
floor, and it seemed to be very sturdy.  There were eye bolts and pulleys
attached at various places along the inside edge, and on the front surface.
Nuts and washers on the near side implied that the other surface was
equipped in much the same manner.  At one corner of the room was a small
lacquer table, and a bunch of low benches and stools, 4 or 5 all together.

   On our side of the fence it was quite dim, the lights were arranged in a
row above the fence, and all shone into the lit portion.  There were about
20 comfortable chairs in the room, everyone picked one and sat down. 
Almost as if that has been the signal -well it probably was- three Chinese
women entered on the other side.

   They were obviously sisters, and may have been related to Mr.  Inside
(who was standing behind us) but I'm not sure.  The women were not
strikingly beautiful, but that had that wholesome scrubbed look that many
oriental women have.  They wore no makeup that I could see.  This was in
itself sort of strange, those of us that can remember that time will recall
that in 1966 makeup was rather garish, white or at least very pale lips,
long fake eyelashes, heavy eye liner.  Their hair was shoulder length,
glossy and healthy, cut in the 'Dutch' bob that seems to have been invented
in China.  They were all wearing Chinese dresses, they're called
chinongsams.  High collar, very short sleeves, buttons up the side, to the
bottom of the armhole , then diagonally from under the arm to the front of
the neck, buttons are made from knotted cord or fabric rolled into a cord;
each wore a different color (or should I say colour?) one Black with gold
embroidery, one red with gold embroidery, and the final one dark Blue with
silver embroidery.  These were long, down to mid calf, but slit up each
side to mid thigh.  They all wore high heels, nothing extreme, around 4
inches, with ankle straps and hose (this was before panty hose).  Again no
names were mentioned, so lets call them Miss Black, the eldest, Miss Red,
the youngest, and Miss Blue, the best looking.

   They came in and proceeded to ignore us.  First they pulled the table
out from the wall and pulled the stools around it, carefully sure to give
us flashes of leg as they sat.  From a drawer the extracted a small box
with a cup and some dice like objects, -I don't think that they were dice,
but they were used in the same way.  The began to play some sort of game,
gambling away with the chips in front of them.

   Now, I'm sure that some of you are of Chinese extraction so please don't
get upset by the following over generalization.  Nobody in the world seems
to take gambling quite as seriously as the Chinese.  These three girls were
rattling away with the cup and bones(?), smiling when they won, frowning
when they lost, nattering away with their bird-like voices at 12 to the
dozen.  Pretty soon, only Misses Black and Red were smiling Miss Blue was
losing, pretty badly too, she'd win some, then lose it to the others,
finally she was down to her last few chips.  Defiantly she placed them on
the table, grabbed the cup, rattle rattle, BANG, she slammed the cup down,
paused a second and picked it up.  Her face fell, Red grabbed the cup,
swept the bones into in, rattled, and poured the bones in a neat little
pile.  Her face lit up, Blue's fell.  Then Miss Blue stood up, and walked
away from the table, complaining loudly (it sounded like she was bitching
about being cheated but what would I know).

   The two winners went up to the loser and held out their right hands,
palms up, a universal gesture, asking her the question.  She spoke two
words shaking her head.  They crowded up to her, insistent, strident,
waving their hands under her nose.  Miss Red grabbed her and shook her,
they shouted at each other for a few moments, then broke apart, meanwhile
Miss Black slipped out the door, and returned a moment later with a bunch
of thick silken rope (it was nylon I found out later) a short piece of thin
rope, and a mess of leather and buckles that I couldn't make heads or tails
of.  Again they crowded her speaking harshly, and waving the ropes and
leather.  She shook her head, and stepped back.  Red grabbed her again, and
they struggled for a few seconds, then Miss Black dropped all but the short
piece of rope and dove into the fray.  In a few seconds it was all over. 
Blue's hands had been tied behind her with a single loop of the thin rope.
(I remember thinking, "Shit is this all?  this ain't worth 70 bucks").

   They spun her around to the front and spoke more harshly taking her by
the shoulders and shaking her, then pointing up at the beam, again she
shook her head, and whined something.  The spun her away again and grabbed
the leather thing, it a few seconds it was clear what it was, a single
glove.  They pulled her hands away from her body, and slipped the open end
of the glove over them, then transferring their hands to the outside and
held her hands while they wrapped the glove around her arms.  Although she
continued to struggle they soon had all of the buckles fastened, forcing
her fore arms together to the elbows, and squeezing her upper arms in also.
The straps at the mouth of the glove were wrapped around her upper body,
coming up from under her arm, across her chest, and then over her opposite
shoulder and then to the buckle on the top of the gloves.  She was
breathing rapidly now, and kept glancing up at the beam.  Miss Black,
holding her by the glove, her said something, a question.  She shook her
head, and lowered it.  Red said two words.  Miss Black nodded.  Miss Red
brought a stool and a bench under the beam putting the stool right under
the pulley, and the bench in front of it.  Then she bent over and picked up
picked up the coil of rope.

   As Miss Red stepped up onto the bench I realized what was about to
happen, I looked at Mr.  Inside and he nodded, not smiling, and said, "many
times".

   Ever since I saw Yvonne de Carlo try to hang herself in \A Band of

   Angels/ this has turned me on, I was about 9 years old when I saw that

   movie.  Every once in a while it comes on TV, I never miss it, if I

   can catch the first 15 minutes, otherwise it's a poor remake of \Gone

   with the Wind/.

   She reached up and put the end of the rope through a pulley, then fed
part of the rope through it.  Deftly she fashioned a hangmans noose on the
running end, slipped it over the intended victims head, then jumped down.
The two then bodily lifted the bound victim onto the stool.  Then Miss
Black stepped up on the bench in front the stool, and very carefully
adjusted the noose, really taking her time, getting it just right.  Miss
Red took up the slack, then took a turn around a cleat that was
conveniently placed on the side bar.  She nodded to her accomplice who
stepped down, and pulled the bench back.  I was hardly breathing,
shivering. They said something else to the victim, again she shook her
head, tense now.  Miss Black walked around behind the victim, and bent down
to grab the cord that was attached to the leg of the stool.  Miss Red took
another turn around the cleat, a short pause and then the cord was jerked.
The back leg of the stool collapsed, and the stool dropped away from under
her feet.

   The victim gave a little squeak that was chopped off as she hit the end
of the rope.  The gallows creaked just a little.  Her head was tilted to
the side by the knot which was just behind her left ear.  Miss Black moved
to the opposite side of the gallows from her sister, one to each side. 
They watched Miss Blue like a pair of cats watch a mouse, never moving
their eyes from her.

   At first she seemed to be breathing even with the noose tight around her
neck, gurgling and rasping noises came from her, and her breast rose and
fell.  After several seconds of dangling her feet started to reach, first
out, then down, then swinging around.  She began to rotate, slowly at first
and then faster as her feet kicked around, then slower as they kicked the
other way.  As she twisted around her eyes tracked whichever sister was in
front of her, snapping across to the other one as she turned.  Her bound
arms came up on one side of her body, as far as they could (not very) then
swung across her back to the other side and tried again there, back and
forth her arms moved, a constant sound of leather across silk.

   After a minute or so of this she gave a little flutter kick as if she
were swimming, then a stronger one.  When she kicked like that the knot
moved further around her neck towards the back as the noose tightened and
the gurgles and rasps changed tone and volume.  Her face began to darken,
her eyes bulged.  Her feet began to kick faster and more wildly, way out
the the sides in splits, then forward and backwards, her slit skirt didn't
hamper the motion at all but fluttered as if in sympathy.

   Every time she kicked the gurgles and rasps became fainter, after a
while there were only gurgles, the rasping inhalations had stopped.  Her
feet changed motion, began to kick desperately up and down, with every kick
the noose tightened, working its way around behind her neck, her head
bobbing down and back up, the gurgles becoming fainter and fainter.  Soon
the only sound was the creak of the gallows, and the wisp of stockings
against each other and across the silk lining of the dress.  The knot was
directly behind her head, the rope vanished under her chin.  Her face was
now very dark, and the kicking weaker, her arms still, her eyes were still
open but not seeing anything.

   Her sisters gently lowered her to the ground and removed the noose.  As
the rope slackened she began breathing rapidly, panting.  Within seconds
she was conscious, her color normal, and in fact she may never have lost
consciousness.  They unbound her arms and wrists, then offered her a drink
of something from a cup (water?, tea?, whiskey?).  Within a minute she was
talking softly with them as if nothing had happened, her voice a little
hoarse, but otherwise seemingly none the worse for wear.

   This part you can take with however much salt you wish:

   I asked Mr.  Inside how often they did this, he said, " Almost every
night.  It is their most popular act, although they have several others. 
They've been doing it for a year or so now, soon we'll retire and I'll sell
this place to someone else with a different batch of girls".

   He claimed that he was their cousin, and that they (including himself)
were building nest eggs.  He kept three parts of the gate, they split the
other part for spending money, the tips are all theirs, usually a few
hundred each.  His money was going into a fund to buy a farm out in the New
Territories, theirs was mostly going into dowries.

   He claimed that the gambling was real, the loser hangs, the winner gets
her share of the gate, "The girls claim that that makes it interesting for
them".

   The play that was acted out was that the loser had no money to pay her
gambling debts, and was lynched by her companions.

   I left with a wet spot on my trousers and only enough money to pay a
rickshaw back to the hotel.

   The Ol' Sarge

   With fading memories

   of a time when the world

   was young and everything

   vivid and exciting.

   ==========================================================

   Did you like this story?  You can find more at

   http://www.nyx.net/~anon3a9c/fair/entry.ssi

   The author would also like to hear about it.  You can write me and I'll
pass it on to the author.  Remember, feedback from the readers is the only
"payment" the author gets.

   

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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
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