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Ji Fu was sleeping. Sleep was easy now that he was working twelve hour days. Dreams floated through his mind during the all too short respite of his bedroll. He was free to dream about the better days back in Anhui province. Before the Taiping Lords rebelled against the Qing the noble family of Fu was trusted to keep records. Tax records, grain, births and deaths, all manner of events would be recorded and carefully filed. The Confucian education Fu had completed was worth nothing now. He was a world away, out of his depth, overworked, underpaid, and disrespected. The Central Pacific Line needed to be built.
Too young to work the line, Ji’s son Ling arose to prepare the coffee for the white workers. It would take at least an hour to prepare breakfast and there were always consequences should any part food or drink not be up to standard. At 15, Ling was old enough to remember the fields of Eastern China. The raucous bellowing of the hawkers on the main street. The smells of lively commerce of all types from bread to duck blood sloshing down the gutter. America had cities too, but they were very different. Hostile faces and unfamiliar language made Ling feel small. At 5’4” he was, in fact, small. But his lithe body was constantly in motion. Dexterity on display this morning stoking the fire, filling the coffee tin, and watching after the biscuits as they rose to a golden brown. The camp was mostly quiet as only a few were up preparing for the day. The main workforce would be asleep for another half hour. With the light of the stars and a low fire Ling worked. He enjoyed this time. Before the white men were up to bark orders. Before the explosions on the mountain as the crews burrowed through.
With everything set, Ling stepped away from the light of the fire. Outside the ring of tents the crisp air of Northern Nevada made bumps of his skin. He had about ten minutes to himself before his father and the other workers would wake. Hiding behind the hitching area he started feeling himself under his jacket. He wasn’t fed well enough to develop any fat. Muscles were just beginning to grow from carrying water up the mountain to the job-site. His belly firm and flat. The muscles below covered only ankara masaj yapan escort with his lightly tinted skin. Ling had a habit now of sneaking back here in the mornings. He didn’t yet understand it, but his mind went places and created a great need within him. His mind wandered to the white workers. Sometimes he had seem them bathing. Their cocks swinging between their legs. The white men had enough skin to swing around as they washed themselves. Ling’s penis was shorter. Its stubby length obscured by foreskin. Ling had yet to develop hair like the white men. He wondered what it would feel like to have a big cock like them. His own length hardened as he held the foreman’s cock in his mind. If anyone was around they could now see his four inches. The flesh of his foreskin pulled back, unable to contain the head any longer. A small drop of clear liquid appeared as he thought about what it would be like to touch the large foreman. Shameful thoughts made his heart beat faster. What would it be like to taste it? His tongue sampled the inside of his cheek. The flesh there smooth and familiar. Would the foreman’s cock be smooth like that in his mouth? His hand moving now over his length. The liquid from the tip had spread around creating a smooth sensation. He had to hold back a moan as his heart beat faster. The foreman was a stern man. What if he forced me to…. His muscles tensed. The pleasure had reached its peak. Legs, abs, and ass contracted. He could feel his little sphincter close tightly as he shot his cum out into the night.
There were sounds of life coming from the camp. Ling hurriedly covered himself again and returned to continue his duties. He would fill cups, clean plates, and then attend to the foreman. Ji emerged from the tent. His body was growing older every day. The long hours and grueling conditions of laying rail had aged him beyond the natural passage of time. He could see his son attending to the white workers at the far end of the camp. He was not allowed to eat with them. He washed quickly in a pale of water and moved to the chow line. It was cold now, but it would be a hot day again. Later he would feel the oppressive walls of the tunnel as they completed more blasting. Hauling dynamite and attaching the fuses was work most of the white men didn’t want. In order to get his pay he was not in a position to refuse any order. He had to keep what was left of his family alive.
Blasting through a mountain is nasty business. mecidiyeköy escort First the rock must be drilled. Clouds of rock dust are inescapable in the tunnel. Ventilation is non-existent. The dim light of a carbide lamp is all you have to work with. Ji was part of a Chinese team carrying dynamite up the path to the tunnel. The heat of the late afternoon sun meant that the dynamite was starting to “sweat.” Nitroglycerin would form on the outside of the sticks. Ji followed another Chinese up the rocky path with his box of dynamite strapped to his back. He had only rudimentary shoes, and the sun beat down on him as he climbed. There were shouts from above. A cart of rock being hauled out had become loose from the horse team and was careening down the path with only physics in control. The narrow section allowed no room to maneuver. Ji pressed his body against the mountainside and hoped for the best. Unfortunately, his partner in the climb panicked. He dropped the ropes holding the box. Ji had just enough time to register panic as the box fell into the path. The shock of the drop passed through the nitro causing a small explosion. Milliseconds later the sticks of dynamite went up. Other workers scrambled down the path to find Ji’s body. The other Chinese was little more than red paste and sinew. The blast had travelled through Ji, his internal organs hemorrhaged causing internal bleeding. He had only a few agonizing moments before his heart was overwhelmed by the hypovolemia.
The foreman stood over the body. “Get another chink up here to finish carrying this load.” Blasting had been set back half a day due to the mishap. Not to mention the loss of the carriage carrying the rock, which was blown into pieces by the blast. Dynamite wasn’t cheap. Good thing the little chinks were.
Back at camp, Ling heard yet another blast. This one sounded different. It didn’t sound as hollow as they usually do. He wondered about it briefly before continuing to brush one of the horses. The day had been progressing normally. It was now a familiar routine. He was rarely scolded by the railroad officials anymore. He could be counted on to see to the meals and take care of duties as assigned.
There was a commotion in the camp as the foreman returned. His horse trailed him at a walking pace. A burlap bag was slung over the saddle. Stains of red were unmistakable at either end. The body was removed and stacked near the refuse pile. The mersin escort other chinks could bury him on their own time.
Word soon passed around the camp in rapid Mandarin. A hole needed to be dug for Ji. Poor Ming wasn’t in any pieces large enough to bury. Ling was carrying hot coffee to the foreman when he heard some elderly Chinese women talking. He stopped, mind scrambling. “That must have been the blast earlier. The one that sounded different.” Tears welled in his eyes. A sense of panic overwhelmed him. The coffee spilled onto the ground as he held his legs close to his chest. His mother was lost during pregnancy, taking what would have been his sister with her. Ji was all he had in the whole world. He couldn’t slow down the thoughts.
“What will happen now?”
“Where will I go?”
“What will I do?”
“I don’t have enough money to go anywhere and the foreman won’t allow me to work on the rail line.”
The sense of desperation and loss was interrupted by the foreman. “You, boy!” The foreman had never learned his name. He was taken by his arm into the foreman’s tent. Ling sat on a stool in front of the desk. The piercing eyes of the foreman gave him a once-over before he began paperwork. Ling couldn’t read English, so there was little for him to do but wait while the foreman scribbled away.
“$13 for half the month of work your daddy did,” the foreman said in a matter of fact tone. “Now, you’ll need to move your things from the tent. Tents are for workers.” Ling understood only a small fraction of the words, but he knew what was coming. He had seen others removed from their lodging unceremoniously. “Until the supply run gets here to take you back to town you will need to find somewhere to sleep.” Ling considered his options. With little money, he had few to choose from. Maybe he could find other Chinese in town and find work to… “Why don’t you stay here with me until you can find somewhere to go?” Ling’s thoughts were interrupted suddenly by this new development. Before he could stop himself his mind wandered to the memory of the foreman’s large penis. Soapy water flowed down over his portly belly. The foreman had a strong chest, but too much drinking had given him a round belly that looked so strange to Ling. Very few Chinese ever looked like that. These waiguoren were so strange. Big and hairy and brash. He started to think about the belly. Wondering what it would feel like to touch it. Would it be soft?
“That’s settled, then.” The foreman stated. “Get your things and come back here. I’ve got work to do” The chair creaked as he rose to his feet. Coming around the desk he looked at Ling intently. A smile crept to his mouth as he stared down at the small boy. The smile never reached his eyes. He left the tent, reminding himself to focus on work before play.