munchausen
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Jul 5, 2001
- Messages
- 453
- Points
- 16
The Voyage Out: Interlude (F/M)
Abe Michaelman cursed his middle-aged gut as he sprinted down the deserted office corridor. He paused to hurl his highball glass at his pursuer, who sidestepped easily and gave a maddening giggle. Darting into a private office, he bolted the door behind him and hid on all fours behind the desk. Cold sweat beaded his balding brow as he panted in the 3 a.m. hush. Whoever this crazy bitch was, she must have come from the corporation. Their patience with him, it seemed, had finally run out.
Abe had been skimming for the past month or so--only a little here and there, withholding a small percentage off the top of the revenue his branch generated in a little personal slush fund. He had been confident that no-one would notice throughout the endeavor, and even bragged a little at the club about how he was screwing old man MacArthur out of some filthy lucre. Now, this wacko chick shows up, floating in the air, throwing laser beams around, and giggling like some prize airhead. Abe wondered what she planned to do to him. Corporate lore told of an embezzler Mr. MacArthur had caught when he was somewhat younger. The old man had supposedly had the thief tied down, then hit a dozen golf balls using his crotch as the tee. His swing, it was said, had been less than exact. When MacArthur sent a message, he liked it to stick. Abe shuddered and pinched his thighs shut.
The door fell off its hinges with a whistle and thud, and the woman came in. She walked now, rather than floated; peering around the edge of the desk at her form, silhouetted in the dim light coming in from the hall, Abe noticed that she was actually short, though stacked like a wet dream. She wore a short blue dress with high-heeled white boots; her ripe breasts threatened to spill out over the low neckline. Her curly blonde hair fell in shiny ringlets around her pink shoulders, and a short white cape trailed behind her. Who the hell was this chick?
She snapped her fingers and the lights came on--suddenly, Abe was staring straight into her face from his futile hiding place. Her face was a study in sexy innocence--cherubic lines, but lips with a certain humorous pout, and eyes so big and blue that their naivete had to be a ruse. She smiled at him, flashing even white teeth, then made a pouty face and wagged a finger at him.
“Uh, uh, uh, Mistow Abe,” she scolded, as one might scold a baby. “Don’t you run away from Miss Kimmie. She has something very important to tell you.”
Abe crawled out from under the desk and rose, haltingly, to his feet. “D-don’t hurt me, lady. Who sent you? Was it Mr. MacArthur? He has to know how sorry I am...”
She put a finger to her full lips and blew a delicate “shhhhhh.” “I’m not from Mr. MacArthur. And he doesn’t have to know anything. Not if you’ll cooperate with my employer.” Her voice was smoky and little-girly at the same time, tinged with a sultry southern accent. If Abe weren’t so scared, she’d have given him a hard-on.
“What do you want? I’ll do anything. Just don’t kill me.”
“Now, you know we sorceresses can’t do an awful thing like that. Not with magic, anyway. Not directly. But I’ll tell you what, Abe. My employer’s interests are somewhat distant from Mr. MacArthur’s, and we need someone in your position whose loyalty is questionable. We simply need information.”
Abe breathed a sigh of relief. “Anything, baby, anything. Ask and you shall receive. Oh, thank god.” Abe felt on firmer ground now--he was a businessman, and this could be negotiated.
“Excellent, sweetie. But we need one more thing, to seal our agreement. Proof of good faith, you see.”
Abe looked at her uncertainly. She smiled and winked. “Have a seat, sugar,” she purred, nodding toward the desk chair. He did so. She slinked over to him, mussed his scant hair, loosened his tie. Abe felt an erection growing in his lap. She glanced down at it--her eyes widened and her lips made a teasing silent ‘O.’ Abe reddened slightly.
The sorceress tilted his chair back and lifted Abe’s feet onto the desk. Humming softly, she untied his polished black wingtips and eased off his shoes, then rolled off his black dress socks. She stepped back and regarded his large, somewhat ungainly bare feet as he sat bemusedly as she had positioned him. “My. Abe, what big feet you have. You know what they say about that,” she said huskily. Abe’s hard-on leapt. He hoped she would finish the job of undressing him, then hoped he wouldn’t go off in his pants before she could.
His fears in that direction proved unfounded, as she snapped her fingers and two shiny metal cuffs appeared, pinning his ankles to the desk. “What’s the idea?” he stammered, struggling vainly against them.
“Not to worry, my poor sweetie. My employer simply demands her due of all new operatives.” She produced an energy storage crystal, something that Abe had only seen in history books. “You’re gonna have to fill her up, sugar pie. But don’t worry--Kimmie’s here to help.”
With that, she began to flutter her silver-painted nails across the bottoms of the barefoot executive’s helpless feet. Abe jerked and jounced, mind and body processing the unfamiliar sensation of being tickled--then, his harried face cracked in a broad, humorless grin, and hysterical laughter began to pour from his throat as the whiskey-voiced belle tickled his bare soles with merciless expertise. Kimmie giggled along with him, coaxing him on with “coochie coochie” and “tiggle tiggle” sounds as she tickled his wiggling toes and struggling soles. His erection a memory, Abe heaved and battled helplessly against his absurd tortures, sweat starting from his crimson forehead and soaking his ill-fitting dress shirt. He tried to speak, to beg her to stop, but could not form words in the midst of his hissing, spluttering laughter. Now and then she would slow down, cooing gently, and just trace one nail lightly over the bottoms of his feet, making his teeth and toes clench and his entire body tremble as little keening, shivery moans came from his mouth. Then, after widening her long-lashed eyes and making a little surprised “O” with her mouth, she would attack with full force again, driving him into violent hilarity. He felt sanity leaving him, tears starting in his eyes.
At last, the crystal flashed bright and emitted a ringing tone. Kimmie looked a little pouty, and tweaked Abe’s big toes, then put the crystal in her bag and blew the trembling wreck of a businessman a kiss. “All right, sugar. You’re done for tonight. We’ve sealed the deal, so to speak. Now, here’s how this is going to work. On the 21st of every month, you’ll send an update of the Kandaele Corporation’s affairs—specifically with regard to the Northern dealings, and I think you know what I mean—to this e-mail address.” She slipped a card into his breast pocket. “And watch your secret account—you know the one. We don’t expect you to work for free. And if you betray us—well, you saw how easily I did this to you.” She blew him another kiss, then blinked out of sight. Abe, ankles suddenly free of the cuffs, sank to the floor.
On the roof of the building, Kimmie took a small cell phone out of her bag and pressed one number. “He’s on board. I don’t anticipate any problems.” The southern accent was still there, but much less theatrical now.
Yelena Kant’s low, smooth voice came over the line. “Excellent. Now, Kimberly, I have need of your and your sisters’ talents for a slightly more challenging job. The pay will be commensurate. Are you interested?”
“Absolutely,” Kimmie said, with enthusiasm. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Abe Michaelman cursed his middle-aged gut as he sprinted down the deserted office corridor. He paused to hurl his highball glass at his pursuer, who sidestepped easily and gave a maddening giggle. Darting into a private office, he bolted the door behind him and hid on all fours behind the desk. Cold sweat beaded his balding brow as he panted in the 3 a.m. hush. Whoever this crazy bitch was, she must have come from the corporation. Their patience with him, it seemed, had finally run out.
Abe had been skimming for the past month or so--only a little here and there, withholding a small percentage off the top of the revenue his branch generated in a little personal slush fund. He had been confident that no-one would notice throughout the endeavor, and even bragged a little at the club about how he was screwing old man MacArthur out of some filthy lucre. Now, this wacko chick shows up, floating in the air, throwing laser beams around, and giggling like some prize airhead. Abe wondered what she planned to do to him. Corporate lore told of an embezzler Mr. MacArthur had caught when he was somewhat younger. The old man had supposedly had the thief tied down, then hit a dozen golf balls using his crotch as the tee. His swing, it was said, had been less than exact. When MacArthur sent a message, he liked it to stick. Abe shuddered and pinched his thighs shut.
The door fell off its hinges with a whistle and thud, and the woman came in. She walked now, rather than floated; peering around the edge of the desk at her form, silhouetted in the dim light coming in from the hall, Abe noticed that she was actually short, though stacked like a wet dream. She wore a short blue dress with high-heeled white boots; her ripe breasts threatened to spill out over the low neckline. Her curly blonde hair fell in shiny ringlets around her pink shoulders, and a short white cape trailed behind her. Who the hell was this chick?
She snapped her fingers and the lights came on--suddenly, Abe was staring straight into her face from his futile hiding place. Her face was a study in sexy innocence--cherubic lines, but lips with a certain humorous pout, and eyes so big and blue that their naivete had to be a ruse. She smiled at him, flashing even white teeth, then made a pouty face and wagged a finger at him.
“Uh, uh, uh, Mistow Abe,” she scolded, as one might scold a baby. “Don’t you run away from Miss Kimmie. She has something very important to tell you.”
Abe crawled out from under the desk and rose, haltingly, to his feet. “D-don’t hurt me, lady. Who sent you? Was it Mr. MacArthur? He has to know how sorry I am...”
She put a finger to her full lips and blew a delicate “shhhhhh.” “I’m not from Mr. MacArthur. And he doesn’t have to know anything. Not if you’ll cooperate with my employer.” Her voice was smoky and little-girly at the same time, tinged with a sultry southern accent. If Abe weren’t so scared, she’d have given him a hard-on.
“What do you want? I’ll do anything. Just don’t kill me.”
“Now, you know we sorceresses can’t do an awful thing like that. Not with magic, anyway. Not directly. But I’ll tell you what, Abe. My employer’s interests are somewhat distant from Mr. MacArthur’s, and we need someone in your position whose loyalty is questionable. We simply need information.”
Abe breathed a sigh of relief. “Anything, baby, anything. Ask and you shall receive. Oh, thank god.” Abe felt on firmer ground now--he was a businessman, and this could be negotiated.
“Excellent, sweetie. But we need one more thing, to seal our agreement. Proof of good faith, you see.”
Abe looked at her uncertainly. She smiled and winked. “Have a seat, sugar,” she purred, nodding toward the desk chair. He did so. She slinked over to him, mussed his scant hair, loosened his tie. Abe felt an erection growing in his lap. She glanced down at it--her eyes widened and her lips made a teasing silent ‘O.’ Abe reddened slightly.
The sorceress tilted his chair back and lifted Abe’s feet onto the desk. Humming softly, she untied his polished black wingtips and eased off his shoes, then rolled off his black dress socks. She stepped back and regarded his large, somewhat ungainly bare feet as he sat bemusedly as she had positioned him. “My. Abe, what big feet you have. You know what they say about that,” she said huskily. Abe’s hard-on leapt. He hoped she would finish the job of undressing him, then hoped he wouldn’t go off in his pants before she could.
His fears in that direction proved unfounded, as she snapped her fingers and two shiny metal cuffs appeared, pinning his ankles to the desk. “What’s the idea?” he stammered, struggling vainly against them.
“Not to worry, my poor sweetie. My employer simply demands her due of all new operatives.” She produced an energy storage crystal, something that Abe had only seen in history books. “You’re gonna have to fill her up, sugar pie. But don’t worry--Kimmie’s here to help.”
With that, she began to flutter her silver-painted nails across the bottoms of the barefoot executive’s helpless feet. Abe jerked and jounced, mind and body processing the unfamiliar sensation of being tickled--then, his harried face cracked in a broad, humorless grin, and hysterical laughter began to pour from his throat as the whiskey-voiced belle tickled his bare soles with merciless expertise. Kimmie giggled along with him, coaxing him on with “coochie coochie” and “tiggle tiggle” sounds as she tickled his wiggling toes and struggling soles. His erection a memory, Abe heaved and battled helplessly against his absurd tortures, sweat starting from his crimson forehead and soaking his ill-fitting dress shirt. He tried to speak, to beg her to stop, but could not form words in the midst of his hissing, spluttering laughter. Now and then she would slow down, cooing gently, and just trace one nail lightly over the bottoms of his feet, making his teeth and toes clench and his entire body tremble as little keening, shivery moans came from his mouth. Then, after widening her long-lashed eyes and making a little surprised “O” with her mouth, she would attack with full force again, driving him into violent hilarity. He felt sanity leaving him, tears starting in his eyes.
At last, the crystal flashed bright and emitted a ringing tone. Kimmie looked a little pouty, and tweaked Abe’s big toes, then put the crystal in her bag and blew the trembling wreck of a businessman a kiss. “All right, sugar. You’re done for tonight. We’ve sealed the deal, so to speak. Now, here’s how this is going to work. On the 21st of every month, you’ll send an update of the Kandaele Corporation’s affairs—specifically with regard to the Northern dealings, and I think you know what I mean—to this e-mail address.” She slipped a card into his breast pocket. “And watch your secret account—you know the one. We don’t expect you to work for free. And if you betray us—well, you saw how easily I did this to you.” She blew him another kiss, then blinked out of sight. Abe, ankles suddenly free of the cuffs, sank to the floor.
On the roof of the building, Kimmie took a small cell phone out of her bag and pressed one number. “He’s on board. I don’t anticipate any problems.” The southern accent was still there, but much less theatrical now.
Yelena Kant’s low, smooth voice came over the line. “Excellent. Now, Kimberly, I have need of your and your sisters’ talents for a slightly more challenging job. The pay will be commensurate. Are you interested?”
“Absolutely,” Kimmie said, with enthusiasm. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
