Today In China Daily Erotic Panda Fiction: The Biwalker
For the first installment of Global Times Erotic Panda Fiction, see here.
Global Times China Daily, partially: It took at least two hours for our all-terrain vehicle to bump along the rugged mountain road from Dujiangyan, a city near Chengdu in Sichuan province, to the Wolong National Nature Reserve. Devastated by the 2008 Wenchuan earthquake and subsequent mudslides, the dangerous state of the road means that very few tourists ever visit Wolong.
Tao Tao, a male panda cub aged almost 2 years, lives with his mother, Cao Cao in this isolated place that boasts scenery reminiscent of the elf kingdom in Lord of the Rings, and has seen few human visitors in the last four years.
My companions were Geoffrey Sawyer and Hector Madagew, good, reliable men. Well… reliable, anyway. Geoffrey was presented to me by his blacksmith father when he was just a lad as an unspoken (and unspeakable) payment for a mountainous debt; he is our driver, and insane (a bad combination). Compared to Hector, however, we would call him modest; Madagew is a man of the highlands, a ruthless bloke with more conquests than all of us combined. But I do not want to imply that we are different, for above all else, we are bonded by this fact: we are the last of our kind, “biwalkers,” as the animals call us when they’re being polite; “savages,” they say in private. I prefer that appellation. Savage men deserve to be called what they are. And in that vein, we shall call them what they are, too: medicine. “Elixir,” for those who prefer to dress up crudeness in the hope of evading reality’s monstrous truths. They relieve us of our malformed rapacity, our harpy lust.
When we pulled into the compound, I realized everything we had been told was correct. Cao Cao and Tao Tao were sharing a moment; more does not need to be said. She looked up lazily, her eyes shimmering in a personal milky way of pleasure. “I’ve been expecting you,” she cooed with a vibrato of content.
My men, on either side of me, were expressionless, but I felt no need to maintain pretenses. I smiled. Tao Tao squealed just then. “The little one,” I began.
“Yes, he’s a voracious nugget, isn’t he?”
Tao Tao glanced up, then buried his nose in his black paws.
“Go run and play with your toys, sweetie,” Cao Cao said. The young one did as told, his fat flank swaying to and fro.
Without getting up, Cao Cao turned her attention to us, all of us, and only us. “Here is what we’ll do, boys. I’ll get straight to the point, because I know how men of your… stature… tend to behave in places like this.”
“Like this? Eden, you mean?” I said.
“I’m touched by your attempt at flattery, however jejune and unnecessary. Tell me, Mister… Eaves, is it? When was the last time you’ve had a hunt?”
Before I could answer, Geoffrey, to my left, grunted, “A hunt?”
Cao Cao’s eyes darted to him before returning to me. “A hunt, Mr. Eaves. You keep…”
“…what you catch,” I interrupted, “and have it, too.”
“Precisely. Would you like to have it, Mr. Eaves?”
I felt Hector turn toward me with a smile.
“I see your men are eager to get started. It’s true what they say about you biwalkers. Your lust is as imponderable as the jungle.”
“Is that what they say about us?”
“That and much, much more,” she smiled.
“It’ll be a pleasure to show you.”
“On that, I have no doubt. Now if you’ll excuse me” — she pushed herself onto all fours — “I have a naughty boy to entertain” — and sauntered off, her great butt soft and furry like a dark moon, sumptuous, ten thousand miles from here to nowhere.
I know all about you: you who retain, in your immaculate marrow and God- or death-fearing bosom, traces of humanity. But imagine, for a moment, your heart not as an 11-ounce pump of life and blood but a caged imp, or goblin (or whatever mythical creature of your preference in this elven forest, man’s device for confronting his subliminal and pathetic fears), choked by a death vise. And the only way to relieve the pressure is to pursue, to the end of precipices and edge of time, to pursue, pursue, pursue. For otherwise you choke. You drown in your own gurgling shame. You lose the last vestiges.
Ah, the hunt.
“Put out that cigarette, Geoffrey,” I snapped, glaring in the dark at the flicker of red which shone like the eye of Cyclops.
“I’m only copying you, boss.”
“I quit smoking years ago, you know that.”
Oh yes, the pursuit.
“Will you ninnies shut up.” The deep voice of Hector. It seemed far away. I could not see him. I could barely see three steps ahead, feeling instead, with my oversized paws, for the branches and the tickling bamboo leaves. “I think I feel it.”
We hardly breathed. In our panda suits — it is customary to wear the disguise of our prey; we did not use to, but discovered about two years ago that it sets the animals at ease, and is more pleasing to them — we tiptoed to a stop.
“Ah-ha!” Hector shouted, his voice like a pistol shot. We saw his light switch on. We aimed our lights at him, but he was gone — sprinting toward the dark. The next five minutes were a mad scramble, in which I was assaulted by scents, scurrying feet, showers of twigs and leaves. I got turned around, lost. And just as quickly as it started, it stopped — with Hector’s voice, again. “I got you now, ha ha!” And then commenced a deep, beastly grunt, the sound of punching or pounding, a bout of rustling, a squeal, and then Hector again — “OW! ha ha!” — before he and his prey — lord help that panda — found their rhythm.
It was then that my ardor found expression, a flame matured into a conflagration. I shined my light in all directions, less methodically than usual, which is unlike me. Tonight, however, luck was on my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. Cao Cao, her muzzle wet, her fur dirty. I dropped my light and leapt at her neck. She resisted perfunctorily, oddly silent. I dragged her to the base of a massive tree on an incline and bent her across the big bough. “You like it dirty, I hope,” I goaded. And then it began.
What has become of me? What transformation? Is it possible, I wonder, to become what you so desperately seek? I am a panda, I said. I am a panda. And I like it.
Three hours or so later, we were done.
“That was quite the tussle, mate.”
The silence lasted for what must have been forever. I don’t know when, but the sound of breath eventually broke the distance between imagination and reality.
There was an exhale. Those pains in my chest… due to not breathing.
“But…” I began.
I did not know what it meant, even when I did.
Squinting, I rubbernecked forward, muzzle twitching like a dog’s, and in that antic dark which concealed everything, even desire, one shadow of moonlight swept across like revelation over a hairless surface, copper, peach, lustrous like saliva, or the calk of plastic bamboo, his dermis glabrous and sickly like that of a… biwalker. The smell infested my nostrils before I could see: cigarette smoke; an aslant, grotesque grin.