Fiction

Chapter 10 - Mikado

This week had gone so well. It was out shopping on Monday, that she'd seen her chance to move on to the next step in recruiting the new girl, Bianca. Then Bianca had suggested a money-making winner and by a stroke of luck, Wednesday had been the day of the developers' Christmas party, allowing her to make a pre-emptive strike on Mohandas, who'd, deliciously, already turned Bianca's head.  And then the boy had turned out to be so clever and produced her widget after just a few hours in this Aladdin's cave. She'd hit a whole flock of birds with one stone or in this case, the purchase of one pair of knickers. The only small hitch was Bianca's surprising resistance to being enchanted.

After contemplating the options over her leisurely Saturday breakfast, her Balthus is now hanging in her guest room, where it won't constantly stir up memories. Yet she can visit it whenever she wants to reminisce. The Fragonard is next on her take home list.

But first she plans to have the painting help with the next step Mohandas is about to take with Kat into the central panel of The Garden of Earthly Delights.

On Saturday morning most Grads would be out in gym clothes or old casual cloths and soft shoes. Not Margery. She's dressed Kat in her signature garter belt, nylons and shoes, with the day's training in mind and has checked in her mirror-wall that all is in order. But it's the weekend so she'll be going: sans la lingerie, tout naturel. Bare down there.

***

As usual Mohandas was delighted to see her. Thanks to her little present, and his Vidicube, he was becoming addicted. So, after removing his shirt for aesthetic reasons and an initial kiss and hug, Kat rejected any further advances - he was primed already.

"No stop that. It's Saturday morning. And it's been over two days since you promised and you still haven't accepted my coding challenge. Today's the day Übermensch."

So, they went to Mohandas' workroom where Kat again drifted about, as she had each visit, touching walls and other surfaces while she introduced his coding challenge. Mohandas smiled at her attempted subterfuge. He was not about to be fooled. He'd 'bagged' one yesterday and had already reverse engineered it, 'borrowing' some of the ideas for future use. So, he knew very well what she was up to as she nonchalantly placed her almost invisible cameras. But he didn't mind. After he'd received a copy of her first production as a gift, he realised that she made them for their mutual enjoyment. Another one, as a companion for the first, would be beyond great. Would he ever sleep again?

Apparently, her challenge was to create a game that Kat called Mikado. She began to explain that The Mikado was an operetta by the satirist WS Gilbert, who wrote the songs, to the music of Sir Arthur Sullivan and that it is set on Japan in a fictional town called Titi-poo. She had intended to have him watch it on his screen from one of the many versions in The Cloud but he was already familiar with it. More good luck, it saved a couple of hours of cuddling up to him.

In the game he was to write, the goal is to quickly match suddenly appearing creatures called 'Titis' with objects called 'Poos'. Poos are real places and can be almost anywhere. But because they may be in strange spots, and are not always available, they can be difficult for Titis to find. A mapping feature would show both Titi creatures and the relative location of Poo objects appearing and disappearing as a match is made. As a Titi is matched with a Poo both would disappear and a golden token would be collected by Mikado from the Titi. Mikado would then pass a brown token, that is some fraction of the golden token, to the Poo object yet to be determined.

With a pre-schooler's enthusiasm, Mohandas was delighted with the reference to Titi-poo. Kat, as he knew Margery, was floating about his workroom, surreptitiously placing her little cameras, as she explained in more detail; while he swivelled and scooted about on his office chair like a young smartarse, because he knew about her cameras and was delighted that she didn't know he knew.

Like most healthy young men, loss of ego, and a painting, last night had been short-lived Margery noted. Yet, like its bed-mate pride, ego comes before a fall.

Mohandas was watching Kat with delight, no doubt anticipating a more intimate performance for the cameras, when he made the mistake of saying:  "So, I suppose that's Kat as in Katisha?" forgetting that Katisha was a frighteningly ugly old maiden in the operetta.

"That's not at all nice," Kat shouted angrily, her hand reaching out at his bare arm, as fast as a cobra's strike.

Mohandas found himself flat on his back on his workroom floor staring up at her. Catching him off balance she'd pulled him off his unstable chair, sending it skidding away on its side.

He was lying there appalled at his stupid gaff. By asking if Kat was Katisha he hadn't meant to imply that she was old; and certainly not ugly. She is older than he is, maybe ten years?  But that's marvellous, it gives her confidence and maturity that a younger woman can't match. And she's by far the most beautiful woman he's ever been intimate with.

He'd tried to get up but she immediately pushed him back firmly with the tiny point of her stiletto heeled shoe.

"Put your hands in your trouser pockets. And don't you dare take them out," she demanded, smiling as he instantly obeyed her, watching her with wide eyes and cowering like a naughty puppy.

Sensing the occasion Kat began stalking back and forth across his workroom, parading for him like a model on the catwalk: 'Today Kat is wearing a revealing loose silk blouse; full, charcoal silk skirt and dark stockings above her black patent leather shoes with their pointed toes with tall metal stiletto heels.'

"So, this is what you consider old and ugly?" she asked as she turned theatrically at the end of her imaginary catwalk.

Like a film director watching her own performance from across the room, Margery imagined the cameras'-eye-view and adjusted Kat's movements and expressions accordingly. Mohandas was to be a new more polished work in her performance-art collection. Not like that quick and nasty one last night. With his hands effectively immobilised, Kat was able to arrange Mohandas, just so, on his glossy floor; walking away to look appreciatively at the result before coming back, using her pointed toe to make another adjustment.

This was her overture to a new game of Kat and mouse. But it would be more than that, it would be a medical process too in which his various hormones would be players in his young body so that with sufficient repetition addiction to her charms would inevitably follow.

***

Kat dragged his chair and righted it. Then steadying herself with a hand on its back, as a ballerina might on the bar, she placed her left foot next to Mohandas' head; raised her right leg over him; and touched her toe to her left knee.  

"This is what you like isn't it?  The up-skirt view. Or am I too old and ugly for you?  Yes or no," she asked as she allowed him an unrestricted view up her flowing skirt.

Below her, Mohandas was spellbound as he gazed up at the sexuality that had haunted him since their first night and that nest of soft dark hair that had so enthralled him.  He didn't know what to answer. "Yes, I mean No..."  he mumbled as Kat grimaced down at him angrily. She was suddenly both sexy and scary at the same time.

At his inadequate answer she raised her knee and swung her leg wide, straightening her leg, pausing again before bringing her foot down quickly towards his face. As promised, he caught a longer glimpse of that forbidden view.

He was transfixed. Like a magpie defending her nest, Kat's shoe, with its long, sharp, glistening, stiletto heel, swooped down, in flashes of black and silver, at his face, her heel scratching the bridge of his nose. With his hands helplessly in his pockets Mohandas turned his head too late and flinched to protect his eyes.

The magpie returned to its perch to evaluate its attack, before swooping back, this time missing by a centimetre. His head reflexively snapped over with it.  

"Look at how hard you are you pervert!  Why do you find looking up women's skirts so sexy?  You weren't this hard at the sight of my body last night," she'd told him.

Kat's accusation that he was hard surprised him. It was true. He hadn't realised that he was so visibly responding, perhaps it's the terror, like a man being hanged. His overwhelming experience was of fear, interspersed with relief as she missed him yet again.

Again and again, the heel swooped at him, until he learned that it was not within his control to stop it and he just lay still, trusting in her skill. His head froze his eyes no longer flinching, staring upwards in awe, waiting. Like the fellow beneath the swing in the Fragonard, at each swoop he caught another voluptuous glimpse of that forbidden view.

Margery was delighted at her alter-ego's progress. Her witchcraft teacher, Morag, would have been proud.

As Morag had taught way back then the victim man's nor-epinephrine should be stimulated by anticipated bouts of fear, as on a roller-coaster. Mohandas was now a rider on just such a frightening, yet simultaneously arousing roller-coaster. Everything had fled from his awareness except that shoe flashing past and Kat's increasingly captivating sexuality. Each time the shoe reached the top of its arc and paused he held his breath until it, terrifyingly, plummeted down once more, swooping across his face with a rush of air and a whoosh of sound.

Margery was fascinated too. Kat was controlling his breathing. She began to experiment; changing its rhythm. Pausing longer then speeding up, short whooshes across his face. She had just invented a new technique. Perhaps in time Kat could make a man hyperventilate; or stop him breathing altogether? But that would have to wait. There was a lot more training to get through.

Abruptly Kat stopped and stared down at him: "You have a wet patch on your pants pervert!  So, you've decided that I'm not so ugly?

Or would looking up any woman's skirt make you do that?" she demanded.

"No! I mean you're not...," he managed to stammer.

Kat was now smiling smugly at his confusion. She was a prosecutor who has just won her case: quod erat demonstrandum.

Yet perhaps she was satisfied with this proof; because now she was unhooking and unzipping the waist fastening of her skirt.

It dropped to the floor and she stepped out. With a flick of her toe it flew away, sliding to a halt across the polished wooden floor. Now she was unbuttoning her blouse. It joined her skirt across the room. Her perfect, and expensive, breasts now displayed for his continued arousal.

She stood before him naked except for her stockings, suspenders and high heels - like the flesh and blood personification of a Playboy Centrefold from his antique erotica collection.   He was finding her unimaginably sexy. It was time for the show.

"Push those soiled pants down to your ankles," she told him. "Leave your shoes on."

"This is amazing," he thought, "I'm about to have sex with my fantasy Playboy Bunny. And she's filming it so we can relive it in virtual reality."

This was how Kat had begun their first night's athletic adventure. The moment the hotel door had shut, she'd undone his belt and lowered his pants to his ankles. With his ankles effectively shackled she'd pushed him stumbling back to a chair before pulling him to the floor by his feet. Then she'd mounted him with her tight dress hitched up to her waist. Another benefit, she'd said, of going knicker-less.

As Morag had taught relief after fear releases a man's serotonin. Now it was flooding his system.

Kat was watching the process smiling, as he fumbled to free his hands from his pockets and then, more urgently struggled with his belt and fly and underpants. She was amused at his haste to get ready for what he imagined was to come next. She pulled his pants down to his ankles.

"Arms behind your back. Forearms together, higher up," she demanded, standing above him.

Lying on his arms with his pants around his ankles, caught above his shoes, he was again helpless. For Kat it was very exciting.

Yet this time she didn't lower herself onto him as she had last night.

Mohandas felt a hard shoe forced down between his thighs and her pointed toe pushing firmly towards his balls. Without her demanding it, his feet drew back and his knees came up and spread wide to allow her more access. He was now totally compliant.

"It's time to prove you like me. Show me you didn't mean to say I was ugly. Or do you really think I am old and ugly?  Come on show me!" she commanded as her toe prodded his scrotum.

Her prodding shoe was not at all gentle but his excitement grew steadily with each little thrust of her toe.

Dopamine again.

But then, before he could reach that climax that he now so desperately desired, her toe was gone. Kat had stepped around the other way to show him her bare bottom and to renew her mock interrogation.

"What about my arse? Take a good look and tell me," she demanded; spreading herself with her hands; turning her upper body to smile at him seductively over her shoulder.

"No. It's beautiful. Everything about you is beautiful," he managed to stammer disjointedly.

As a reward for the right answer, her heel began bumping back between his legs, rhythmically. The metal was getting warmer. His view was wonderful. He could smell her sexuality. He was very close.

"Toes and heels, pleasure and pain," she sang, as his long-awaited climax neared, but he didn't understand until the sharp point of her heel came down, almost piercing his scrotum, then again right on top of his right testicle.

A searing, numbing, pain shot through his lower torso then intensified as she applied increasing pressure.

This was the time for the adrenaline fix Morag had taught her to administer. Terror swept over him, Kat was about to semi-castrate him.

"If you want to insult me by calling me Katisha," she growled, "the ugly old maiden who is 'just a little teeny weeny wee bit bloodthirsty', remember she's the one who says: 'My wrongs with vengeance shall be crowned'."

Mohandas screamed louder, like a steer branded. Then he was silent.