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“So. What exactly are your terms and conditions for remote viewing the LC?” Mondo asks, playfully.
Lunchtime. They’re sitting at their usual table by the front window of their favorite Starbucks, a popular watering hole for cops. Sipping their favorite custom brews.
“What says that we do [remote view the LC]?” Frau Schmidt responds, even more playfully.
“Your comment about the pure theater of Councilwoman Elster spitting on my corpse in the LC. It wasn’t from the perspective of someone who’d read about it from a brief. You were either physically or metaphysically there when it happened. Knowing you, I assumed you were metaphysically present.”
“As you would expect, they [the terms and conditions] are very stringent. I’m not at liberty to say more.” Frau Schmidt smiles, broadly. Then she continues. “You guessed, correctly. I was present virtually.”
“Was that [remote viewing of me at the LC] a conference call?”
“Was military intelligence on the line?”
“Of course. They always are for such matters.”
It’s been two weeks. Fourteen days as partners on Mars. And, Frau Schmidt has learned to grow wary of the girl. Upon disassembly/reassembly in her central alcove, Mondo’s hair no longer turns geriatric, nor does her Parts fuse to her nethers, nor does she become a Seven who is amnesiatic of her Mondo. Although they still fuck hard and rough on a nightly basis, Mondo no longer gets high or drunk—i.e., complete sobriety—a total lack of interest in getting high or drunk. In response, Frau Schmidt has wisely stopped experimenting upon the Vampire. Somethings haven’t changed, though. For example. The girl still gorges herself on Frau Schmidt’s blood.
Mondo no longer wears prudz. But. She still wears gloves to placate Frau Schmidt’s and her own glove fetish. An unintended side effect is that her conciliation prize stokes the fires of hers and Frau Schmidt’s perversion to a fever pitch.
Seven days ago, she traded in her prudz for cuffed black latex opera gloves, her foreskinz. And. She doesn’t mundanely glove herself with her foreskinz. They slither out of her purse and glove her. From fingertips to armpits. A second skin fit. Extending themselves underneath the sleeves of her coat. The gloves encase her upper limbs, in effect, rendering them prosthetic. These days she craves wearing these Borg abominations.
This switch by Mondo [from prudz to foreskinz] pleases Frau Schmidt to no end. The first time that she saw the foreskinz glove Mondo, it sent her over the edge, which was apparent by the Parts bulge in skirt which she quickly suppressed.
Mondo’s foreskinz look different. They’re more elaborate than you’d expect of gloves of the Borg persuasion. More runes, profane ones; profane runes have overwritten some of the original Borg runes. They’re creepy looking. Hideous. Disfigurement. They’re obscene!
Pitch black and covered in Borg runes. Form fitting. Assimilative. Cast with fingernails and varicose veins. They look like creepy, shoulder-high, black rubber opera gloves. They look like ornate, creepy skinz; ornamented and creepied-out by the Borg Queen herself. They are, in fact, skinz.
Gloves that feel like flesh. Gloves with that second skin fit. Gloves that are, in fact, rubber. Living rubber gloves that look like rubber and feel like flesh: Borg body armor. Borg technology!
These skintight gloves are obscene; even the sleaziest pornographer would feel dirty while gazing upon them, let alone touching them. They’re the ultimate masturbator, bar none.
Longitudinal and latitudinal suture “scars” are molded into each glove. The scars would look right at home on Dr. Frankenstein’s Monster. Shades of lipstik, that jagged scarification that is goddess Kali’s trademark script.
These raised, crosshatched scars give the illusion that the gloves have been pieced together just like The Monster. Shades of the crudely stitched together cannibal skins that are worn by Kali’s Belongings. The gloves are in fact one piece!
But. With all this exacting detail. There’s glaring omission, too. No Singha’s Talons. No razor claws, whatsoever. A pair of razor claws is not retracted into each glove.
There are other changes to the girl’s attire.
In place of her flesh-colored, French-cut [i.e., cleavage baring], pointy, torpedo bra circa 1950’s, is a contemporary black, lacy, French-cut [i.e., cleavage baring], underwired, Victoria’s Secret pushup bra with concealed front and rear hook-and-eye closure. Her double-D’s bulge in the brasserie’s modern rounded cups, the bra emulating the look of being one cup size too small for her tits, as it torques, contains, and compresses those very same twin peaks of hers. A post-modern brasserie that’s paradoxically a quintessential expression of the Victorian Era’s in-your-face “plump tits served up on the half shelf”—i.e., her bosom bulges her suitcoat, because her tits are being shoved together, up, and straight out by the underwired grip of a very “stiff” bra. The twin, mouthwatering, rounded bulges of her bosom when she’s wearing said bra resolves into mesmerizing bulges when clothes are worn over the brasserie. In other words, it’s the look and the effect of wearing a torpedo bra, minus the points of pointy bra cups, because in this case the bra’s cups are rounded. Modern versus retro expressions of what it is to be top heavy, and advertising it in spades.
In detail. So. It should come as no surprise. That the bra is a Lane Bryant, “Black Dahlia 3-Part Cup Bra with Stays 5851 from the Elizabeth Short Collection”—a post-modern version of this symbol of old-fashioned luxury and VDR. This ultra-supportive full-figure bra features 3-part cups with non-stretch lace upper cup and opaque lower cups with simplex lining for extra support. Multi-part, lined, underwire cups, with angled and vertical center seams, these cups shape and support without bulk. Vertical stays in the cups give added sturdy support. Wings are powernet to smooth the wearer’s back. Boning at the sides gives added anchorage. Wide-set straps. Sheer, embroidered tulle along top half of cups adds a sexy touch. Cups are lined at bottom for extra support. Center panel – arched for high tummy comfort, with satin bow. Sides and back are made of powermesh for a secure fit, and have elastic along edges. Seamless sides for a smooth look under clothes. Plush-backed straps, underwire casings, and hook-and-eye closure provide comfort. Wide-set elastic straps fully adjust in the back with coated metal hardware. Leotard back. This bra gives ideal support and coverage without sacrificing style. And. Contemporary references aside, this bra accurately reflects a very Victorian obsession with breasts—i.e., the Victorian Era breast fetish taken to the nth degree.
And. As a post script. With the cut of her bra and the cut of her suitcoat. A lot of cleavage is bared in this presentation of her breasts by said bra whether she’s wearing a suitcoat or not, and whether the suitcoat is buttoned or not.
VDR is Victorian dominatrix, of course. A look which screams: “I’m sexually repressed, and I want to hurt you!!!” which is the tease with sufficient sizzle, of course.
In deviation from their express agreement. In place of her Parts, she’s wearing her flesh-colored thong panties again. But. When she and Frau Schmidt fuck, she wears her Parts. And. She still wears her Parts when she’s stored in the central alcove. Additionally, she now also wears her foreskinz when she fucks Frau Schmidt and when she’s stored in the central alcove. The Parts still fuse seamlessly to her nethers and her foreskinz likewise fuse seamlessly to her upper limbs when she’s stored in the central alcove, and they cease to be fused to her body when she reverts back to being Mondo after emerging from the central alcove as Seven.
“Wisely. You’ve stopped experimenting on me, because of my sobriety.”
Frau Schmidt doesn’t waste time denying her unsolicited coercion of the girl—i.e., she doesn’t bother denying wacking the girl without prior consent, let alone for nefarious reasons.
“Yes. I have.”
“I think that you should unwisely decide to resume wacking me.”
“Figure it out, yourself, oh greatest detective of Mars.”
“Give me a clue. Just one.”
“These days when I emerge from the central alcove after reassembly, I am no longer the mindless drone with geriatric hair. Maybe. Just maybe. I should be forced by you to be that mindless drone again with geriatric hair, Borg designation Seven, who is the doppelganger of that mindless Section 9 Kum portrayed by Anne Hathaway in Ghost in the Shell.”
“You feed on me. Then, you store yourself in the central alcove.”
“Go on. You’re almost there.
“I’d exploit your wearing of the Parts and the foreskinz while you’re stored in the central alcove?”
“I knew you had it in you.”
“That idea is crackers.”
“Just saying. But. It is your call.”
After a long pause, Frau Schmidt asks: “Maybe it would end your sobriety?”
“Maybe. Or. Maybe I’m just being a sick prick tease who gets her rocks off by getting shitfaced and really fucked up.”
That’s when Frau Schmidt realizes just how far Mondo craves to take this.
“You want me to break you?”
“I’d be wack for sure, then.”
“Wack, my ass. You’d be a ghost in the machine.”
That’s when Frau Schmidt realizes just how wack this girl already is. And. The very notion of it, this glimpse at the girl’s near-bottomless depravity. Makes Frau Schmidt literally wet. Hidden by the table, her Parts bulge her skirt as she has an erection. Unable to suppress her own public depravity, she cums and she jisms. Her skirt pushes itself to clean her up in a timely fashion.
Presented with Mondo as a broken Seven to degrade and subjugate. A robot who would have a bottomless depravity. Frau Schmidt is beside herself. And. When that broken girl reverts to Mondo, that robot girl would again be pressed to abide by their original agreement and wear Parts for the duration.