Inspired Planeswalking (Worm/Multicross): Chapter 16 Lewd: Kathryn 1 (fix: v1)

After leaving the mansion with Kathryn — who had insisted on walking me to the car 'because she wanted to look at it' — we took a few dozen steps to my car, got in, and drove off. Perhaps to 'test-drive it,' or something like that.

"Are we going to your place?" Kathryn asked in a sultry voice.

I stayed silent.

"Oh, suspense! How exciting!" she said at the same time with great enthusiasm and sarcasm. But then she decided to show her own usefulness and began analyzing the ideas behind Elis and Half. Sometimes praising them, sometimes offering rather shrewd criticism.

Soon, I interrupted her.

"Listen very carefully and try to remember what I'm about to say.

First. Because pregnancy carries enormous risks and costs, women's natural attraction to men is tied to men's protective qualities and their reliability. In my case, some of my protective qualities are close to the theoretical maximum, while my reliability is close to the theoretical minimum. Therefore, 'soon' you will have a lot of subconscious urges to 'fix' my reliability.

Second. For men, a significant part of romantic interest comes from the process of romantic conquest. The same thing that is completely absent in our relationship. That 'soon' will also create subconscious urges to make artificial obstacles 'to keep my interest alive.'

Third. Because of how unusual I am, 'soon' you will have subconscious urges also about this, too. With attempts to provoke emotional reactions from me and, already through them, decode information about me.

Now, I'm NOT suggesting that you should suppress all such urges, more so emotions. Bitches, crazy, independent, strict prudes, and so on, I love this and find it the most interesting.

What I want from you is to understand that, instead of counterproductively risking annoying me, you could get my attention and interest simply by trying to do what I want from you and when."

"And what do you want?" she asked seriously.

"Right now, I want you to understand what I'm saying.

As you know perfectly well, from a sexual perspective, men are fairly simple creatures.

Their primary motivation for pursuing relationships with women is a periodic sexual need created by spermatogenesis. Not much different from hunger, and somewhat similar to the female need for socialization and fear of loneliness. At least as extreme generalization.

Sometimes a man's basic physiological sexual need becomes something greater - via infatuation.

But — because of hormonal mental hyperbolization — not so much via infatuation with a real woman as with her potential and common future. In the same way as women become infatuated with men's protective and reliable qualities.

Here are the most widespread forms of potential and how they form attachments.

Genetic potential. Creates attachment through sexual attraction and satisfaction. Its weakness: men get bored quickly.

Adaptive potential. Creates attachment through submissiveness, predictability, and stability. Weakness: men get bored quickly.

Practical potential. Creates attachment through convenience and benefits. Weakness: men get bored quickly.

Cognitive potential. Creates attachment through understanding and efficient cooperation. Weakness: overcontrol of man can undermine his strengths, drive him out.

Emotional potential. Creates attachment through interesting emotional engagement and creation of very emotional, and therefore strong, memories. Weakness: excessive emotional manipulations and provocation can also undermine a man's strengths or drive him out, and in some cases, out of mind.

In other words, at first, men want sex. Thereafter, they want a woman's potential... which women used to build up a man's attachment. Does that make sense?"

"Yes... Though it sounds... reductive."

"It's supposed to be reductive because we're talking about the basic biological framework.

Yes, there are a lot of shiny things built on top of that foundation, but even the most perfect romantic relationships would never work without the main supporting structure they hang from."

"Okay, so skyscrapers have steel beams. And why is it important to know?"

"Okay, so diseases related to some germs. And why is it important to know?" I parodied her as I started looking around. "Here. Look over there, you see that old couple?" I said, pointing at two elderly people walking down the street.

"And?"

"They look happy. Suppose they had 40 years of a successful marriage full of love. If so, how do you think they could teach their grandchildren a lot about love, or not?"

"I'm not a romantic person, but I'm not sure who could if not them."

"'If you can't explain it to a six-year-old, you don't understand it yourself.'

If the pair can't explain to a six-year-old every detail of how their, or others', love was created and functions, they don't know a shit about love. And therefore, by their own sentimental ramblings, would do to their own grandchildren only a great disservice."

Kathryn frowned. "I don't follow, how? As I know, love is a very rare and typically perishable commodity. So, how normal absence of knowledge about it, could be 'Great Disservice'?"

I sighed at her naivety. Indeed, the 1990s were to the 2030s what the 1950s were to the 1990s.

"I didn't want to take some part of your worldview virginity today, more so in the car, but alas," I said, and she tensed up. "Sexual attraction, stability, convenience, understanding, and emotional engagement. Five forms of potential that could create related attachments.

Doesn't that remind you of anything?"

For a few seconds, Kathryn intensely worked through the puzzle. Then her face suddenly twisted into an ugly expression, and she said with a hint of horror, "Marketing..."

"Yep. If that couple thinks they understand love but doesn't know its detailed mechanics, then their 'love advices' to their grandchildren would essentially prepare them only to be fucked by anyone who DOES understand those mechanics.

This was about the overall importance of such knowledge. Reductive and oversimplified versions of it. But we have strayed too far from the main topic.

Now. You want my attention and reliability. Therefore, your subconscious will try to tie me down by your own sexual attraction, submissiveness, convenience, understanding, and emotional engagement.

Especially by the last one, so I won't get bored with you and be carried away by the Coolidge effect.

And given everything I said at the very beginning, that means..."

In the glass's reflection, I saw her concentrating. After a dozen seconds of rumination, she began to speak, "First. I will also use emotional engagement to 'fix' your unreliability.

Second, to create artificial emotional obstacles.

And third, to understand you better through emotional provocations.

Right? It's... like some sort of romantic mathematics," Kathryn said with a nervous laugh.

"Good. As I said, you can try whatever you want. But because I'm the foremost expert on my own interest and attachment, for you it would be more efficient to simply do things my way from the very beginning."

"Why?" she asked incredulously. "I mean... you could have ANY women from ANY universe, so why would you help ME create your own attachment to ME?" she asked, clearly not fully believing what she was asking.

"Because I lost my memories, and right now have no close relationships. And you have the best mind of all the candidates available to me so far, therefore, a head start over the theoretical competition.

Also, just because men want fuck different women doesn't mean that at the same time they don't also want things that are possible to receive only by a long relationship. Or that imprintings on the first or suitable personalities are weak. Naturally, men are collectors, and collectors really love the best pieces of their collections."

"Oh, sorry," she said apologetically, "I forgot for a minute about your memories. So... what exactly does mean your 'do things your way?'"

"Very simple.

You should control your emotional manipulation.

I wasn't against things like sudden mood changes, exaggerated emotional reactions, love bombing, and many things that are used in a playful manner, like dishonesty.

But nagging, blame, guilt-tripping, faux resentment, destructive criticism, frequent appeals to social norms, constant repetition, and so on? No, thanks, at least somewhat often and uncontrollable.

Also, you're beautiful and smart, so soon you'll use everything you can.

And because you will anyway use sexual attraction, submissiveness, convenience, understanding, and emotional engagement... why not, from the start, unite them in balanced synergy?

You want my attention and attachment so I don't get bored?

Then don't leave that task to the monkey in your head, that will just throw things at the wall to see what sticks.

Instead, through good understanding; complex controllable rules with unpredictable outcomes; sincere emotional improvisation, you, we, could create situations that would be interesting and emotional for both of us."

Kathryn laughed. "Situations... I think I know some of them... It's rich, certainly the best heard by me argument of why a man should fuck other women."

I also laughed. "How reductive. But you aren't wrong. Let's fully set aside my abnormal potential and everything about it.

You are, as I already said, smart. Smart women shouldn't fight things they could use. Especially the main part of men's nature.

AND own nature that gave women 'Straight women are like spaghetti; they are straight only until they get wet' characteristic not without SIGNIFICANT reasons.

Take control away from your head monkey and use all of this.

Or it would be used by smarter women.

You got about other things?"

"Yes. Instead of my accidental mind-fucking of you, you want me to mind-fuck you according to rules we both find interesting... and through my improvisation... like with Elis's role-playing!" she excitedly exclaimed.

"Good try. But too much excitement. Don't worry, though, we'll fix that with practice."

"Smartass. But there is one thing I don't get. Don't I already do things as you stated?"

"Good question. No. What you do is typical Machiavellian or Carnegie shit. That works only on people who don't know and don't use the same manipulative shit.

What I'm advocating for is also about openness about such manipulation.

For example...

You know, it's funny...

Women often say, 'Communication is so important,' 'Why don't you want to communicate?'

Ok, I want to communicate. Tomorrow we both list all types of emotional manipulations we used during today's interaction and honestly discuss them and the risks of their misuse."

Kathryn's face became tight.

Soon she counterattacked. "If safe sex requires blunt confirmation of consent, why not emotional influence, too..." she innocently mutters under her breath.

I chuckled at her obvious reference to my arguments to Sebastian, "It's not good to eavesdrop on other people... but you're not wrong. Context of consent indeed cannot be a one-way street.

If men's problems with nonconsensual aggressiveness should be reproachable, then women's problems with nonconsensual emotional manipulativeness should be too.

But reproachable and repressed only to some extent. Because the full absence of such characteristics would also mean the absence of sexual interest."

"For the sake of gender equality, of course," she sarcastically said.

"More for the sake of humanity's sanity," I answered with a sigh.

"For the sake of humanity... as always in such cases... isn't it?"

"No. Not really. I don't talk only about theoretical ideological abstractions.

Inborn inclinations are real. The same as their study, detrimental and beneficial use.

Women want equality? Then they should start from full disclosure and analysis of inborn femininity.

Humanity wanted to survive a volatile mixing of inborn mental bugs and increasingly more dangerous technological advances? Then it should start from full disclosure and analysis of inborn humanity.

No excuses about 'Greater Good.' Just the next step in education," I said, nearing the destination point.

"Education that is mostly about women, not men, and which is more important than — seems everything else in the future — but I'm sure that it's just a coincidence and misunderstanding," stated Kathryn.

"Kathryn, I'm really tired of repeating the same things.

Yes. Women.

And yes, it's more important than almost everything else.

Full stop.

Education, learning ability, cognitive abilities, risk analysis, social cohesion, culture, economics, politics — EVERYTHING — depends most on the median age of the social group and the share of young; the most adaptive and motivated people.

The parameter that women in my and your universes controlled the most; not only for obvious reasons, but also through experiments on gender relationship norms.

A parameter that, during my time, started to become shit. And with it, became shit almost everything else.

Including feminism, that SOMEHOW created a reality where conservative women became happier, mentally healthier than feminists, not to mention the quantity of children; you know, a main prerequisite for feminists.

You want to know how things outside the gender topic will be in the future?

Just imagine rich old people who use the best technologies and "Bread and Circuses" to return things to the way they were during their youth. But return mainly contradictions and feudalism.

That's it.

Almost everything important is like right now, but with even more problems caused by a lack of learnability, shortsightedness, and attempts to solve new problems with old — or even worse; new, but used as old — tools.

So, please, if you don't have better ideas on how to combine women's rights and a high fertility rate, just shut up your ad hominem innuendo and don't disturb my trying to save your universe from anti-human-rights rot," I irritably said, cursing my perfectionism for an absurd situation where, instead of the fast money and leaving some anonymous information to the CIA, I SOMEHOW voluntarily decided to fix the biggest and most complex problem I theoretically could.

'Mistakes also have some success in them,' I thought. Being grateful to the Cruel Intentions universe for a valuable practical lesson about the finiteness of my energy and attention.

Soon, I pulled into the parking lot, got out of the car, and started walking toward a sex shop.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

"Now," I said as Kathryn walked beside me, "a quick run-through about BDSM.

At its core, BDSM is about the following:

For the dominant - about a sense of control achieved by controlling someone inferior. Just for reference, the dominant is the one who invests less effort for the sake of the other partner. In relationships with people who have to be cajoled, or who initiate reactions the most often, usually they are the ones who are true dominants.'

For the submissive - about a sense of control achieved by being under the control of one's own superior. Not dissimilar to what an intern assistant might want from a famous experienced surgeon." I said and let out a weak sigh. I was fully straight and almost fully dom. Which didn’t stop me from admiring how absurdly useful bisexual switchness would be in combination with Gate superpower; unfairly so.

"For both - about consent based on trust and nothing else. Almost all complex rules are tools — that should be used sparingly — or subcultural trinkets.

And, of course, BDSM is about play. Because of the already mentioned problem: the greater the dominant's control over the submissive - the less interest he has in what is already his, leading to boredom and regrets. Hence the need for novelty or complexity," I said, opening the door to the shop.

As expected for the late 1990s, the inventory consisted less of "a thousand and one vibrators" and more of expensive American-made lingerie and costumes.

"Am I supposed to pick something?" Kathryn asked.

"No," I said, examining the wigs displayed on one wall.

"Can I help you?" one of the two saleswomen asked.

"Do you have a fitting room?"

"Yes, although it's only available for a very limited selection of items. Wigs are included."

"Thanks," I said, and began looking at the other merchandise.

Only after paying for a few shopping bags of goods did I return to the wigs — and trying to ignore the obvious implications of the sequence of events for both the saleswomen and Kathryn — ask to try on three blonde wigs.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

The fitting room turned out to be a typical small room with nothing more than a mirror and two chairs, where I placed the shopping bags.

Giving the bags a suspicious glance, Kathryn flashed me a playful, naughty smile. But after I shook my head in disappointment, her expression instantly shifted to cautious neutrality.

"Show me your dominant fist, Kat," I said, studying her face.

For a fleeting instant, her eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly in surprise. Then her eyes narrowed again, her lips tightened, and — more disoriented by clearly unfamiliar territory than frightened — she slowly showed me her right fist.

"Now wave it up and down in front of you. As fast as you can."

She narrowed her eyes even further and began pumping her fist up and down.

"Faster.

Faster."

As expected, she misunderstood what I was asking for.

"Stop.

Kat. Listen very carefully.

I don't need Kathryn Merteuil's control over fast fist movement; I need just very fast fist movements. Again." She pouted slightly before trying once more.

"You're still controlling it too much. Don't think. Just do it.

Better. But still not quite. Just reflexes.

Like after a burn or during swatting a mosquito.

Don't stop.

Remember this speed. Whenever I say the word 'fast,' this is the speed I expect from you. Understood?"

"Yes," she replied and stopped moving her hand.

"I didn't tell you to stop," I said, and waited.

A few moments later, she resumed jerking her hand.

"I didn't tell you to start moving it again, either. Minus second brownie points," I stated, carefully watching her reaction.

Just as I'd expected, her irritation briefly flared into anger. Much hotter and colder than Madison's one, but she quickly masked it with another pout, and then again by a neutral expression.

Too slow, noticeably, sharply for someone with her manipulativeness and ambitions.

'Crippled by emotional sensitivity, a narcissistic social climber. And crippled by sexuality and empathy, overthinking perfectionist. A match made in heaven,' I thought.

Not that her emotionality — one of the main reasons I chose the Cruel Intentions universe — was a shocking surprise. Villains similar to Kathryn are the bread and butter of fiction.

But smart villains that, before every action, essentially shout out the names of their moves? Oh, it was so rare that it was perfect in its own imperfection.

"What exactly am I supposed to do?" she composedly asked.

"Quickly. Show me your clitoris."

Judging by her face, her brain short-circuited. Even in the 2030s, skipping so many stages of courtship in one leap would have been quite shocking. Let alone in the comparatively innocent 1990s.

She stared at me blankly for several seconds. Then, with a sudden, somewhat angry motion, she slipped both hands beneath her dress and pushed her panties down to her knees.

Then her left hand lifted the hem, revealing a neat vulva framed by a small, carefully trimmed triangle of hair.

Her right hand landed on her pubis, and after a brief pause, two fingers spread her labia apart. Exposing soft pink flesh glistening with moisture, along with the clitoral hood and the tip of the peeking clitoris.

"That’s not what I asked for. Minus third brownie point," I said sternly.

Kathryn narrowed her eyes even further, looking increasingly like a cat about to pounce. Without breaking eye contact, she pulled back the clitoral hood with her thumb, exposing the entire glossy glans.

To coax a little more of the real Kathryn Merteuil into the open, I decided to add rocket fuel to the fire. I gave a slow nod and said, "Adequate compensation for saggy breasts."

Kat recoiled as if slapped, and reflexively lowered the hem of her dress. I had no idea how many hours of cunnilingus she'd imagined receiving from me, but such brazenness clearly was completely new to her.

"My breasts aren't saggy!" she shot back, genuinely hurt and angry. "The fact that you're saying that only proves you've never seen them. But, thanks for confirming that my actress wasn't a slut, Max," she slowly said, glaring at me without blinking.

"Well... let's see," I said, curious how she'd interpret such an ambiguous request.

"You want me to show you my breasts?" she asked in a more neutral and somehow accommodating tone. Perhaps, at least a little, defensively imagine herself in a hired servant place, or such.

"If you needed to ask about your breasts," I replied, "why didn't you ask about lifting your skirt?"

Kat immediately lowered her gaze.

I was about to mention a fourth lost brownie point, but her remarkable brain was ahead of my mouth.

"Sorry," she said in a quiet, innocent voice. "What am I supposed to do with the skirt... and my breasts?"

Instead of answering, I stepped toward her, slid my right hand beneath her skirt, found her steaming entrance, and slipped a finger inside.

Finding enough space, after the first immediately followed the second, almost fully filling a remarkably accommodating vagina. Unlike Madison's, eagerly welcoming my fingers with noticeable shifting and contractions.

Kathryn partly lost control of her composure. Her body shuddered, and a long moan escaped her kissable lips.

"So rush," she said in a weak, pretentiously dissatisfied voice.

"If I didn't want to be so rushed, I wouldn't be so rushed," I stated as a matter of fact, and pressed my fingers up, receiving a promising groan.

"Quickly. Show me your breasts," I said.

To her credit, Kat reacted instantly. Her hands flew to the straps of her dress, slipping them off her shoulders and lowering the top, revealing a thin lilac bra. Which she quickly tugged up, freeing her breasts.

Yes, they were low-set, yet undeniably beautiful. Good balance between teardrop and round shapes, and crowned by equally beautiful, prominent areolae and nipples.

"Don't worry," I said conversationally. "People with beautiful faces rarely end up with everything else equally beautiful. Genetics typically doesn't work like that."

"I have beautiful breasts, and we both know it," she confidently declared.

"Okay. If you think so, I won't suggest improving them in the future," I relented.

"I didn't say th—nhaaHAaa—" She tried to answer, but I gave a sudden shake with my right hand, and her words dissolved into a helpless moan accompanied by the clenching of her insides.

Just to make absolutely certain none of it was an act, I slid my left hand behind her neck, firmly cupped her nape, and pulled her head toward my shoulder. Receiving another cascade of groans, shivers, and trembling breaths.

Her body pressed against mine. Her hands wrapped tightly around my torso, while her hips began gently rocking against my hand, pleading for attention.

"Freeze your body. Now and in similar situations, you still could speak." I said.

Unlike Madison, Kat was far more sensual and sexual. More responsive to physical sensation and greedier for it, too. So, when she indeed determinedly tried to take control, her shivering body essentially rebelled against her conscious wishes.

"Fucker. Do you even realize what you're doing to me?" she whispered in a voice that carried equal parts anger and defeat.

My left hand left her goosebump-covered neck and slipped into her hair, drawing another wave of shivers from her.

"Of course. Passion stems from desire.

And people most desire the inaccessible.

For example, the movement of my fingers inside you..."

Kat let out a heavy breath before almost inaudibly whispering, "This is so strange. Being on the other side. To lose so completely."

"In one game," I corrected.

"In the game I was best at," she said wistfully. "The one I'd never lost."

"So much 'lost completely' that attracted the attention of an interdimensional traveler whom, right now, you're trying to force into consoling you. Considering your unreprimanded embrace and awful freeze, not without success," I said with a chuckle, and she couldn't help but chuckle as well.

I pressed her face to my collarbone and combed my fingers through her hair, coaxing another tremor from her.

"The body and the mind rarely work in sync, either," I murmured. "Nature doesn't hand out chances to be perfect Cruella de Vils to anyone," I consoled her.

"You said it as if such a discrepancy isn't why you chose me," she huffed and deliberately tightened the muscles around my fingers, the terrible Sub she was.

Don't want to open too many cards, I answered by withdrawing my fingers. And under her frustrated groan wiped them over her dress.

Releasing her, I walked over to a chair and started unpacking one of the toys I'd bought: a rubber ball with a thread tail.

Taking it out of the package, I returned to Kat and began pushing it into her vagina. Already well-lubricated by glands and vaginal sweating.

"You... couldn't have picked something smaller?" she complained, once again habitually expecting at least some reassurance.

Alas, it wasn't my fault that, over hundreds of thousands of years, women who instinctively sought in men mainly reassurances and respect left far fewer descendants than those who wanted what Kat and other women wanted for real.

I suddenly stopped pushing, still pressing the ball firmly against the wet entrance. "Oh, sorry," I said in a faux voice resembling hers. "Are you alright? If you want, we could do something less challenging. Are you okay with this?"

"No-no, go on, it was, as you said before... manipulation things," she quickly tried to fix the obvious mistake of complaining too early.

"But are you sure? What if you're indeed hurt?!" I asked with a quickening pace and a crescendo of mock panic.

"Just shove it already," she whined, and subconsciously rubbed her pussy against the ball, but I pulled it back a little.

"But if you said something isn't right, then something really isn't right. So let's be responsible people and determine what exactly." I stated in an authoritative tone, feeling with part of my palm her pussy's throbbing.

She sighed. "Alright, alright, you won. I'm sorry. Not the put fucking things insauuuch—" she said and then cried when I suddenly slid the ball and one of my fingers inside.

After making sure the ball had settled closer to the middle of the vagina, I gave her shapely ass a light smack and said, "Quickly, get yourself in order."

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

A little later, we left the changing room. I paid for the three wigs, and we headed back to the car.

In Kat's case, with a different gait than on the way in.

Originally, I'd planned for our first outing to involve her great emotional intelligence and, therefore, take place in public. With her flirting and picking up other women; using local stores for compromising restyling; public orgasms, and so on.

But we were both mentally exhausted, and my backpack contained sci-fi electronics. So instead, I just drove home.

"Am I allowed... to play with myself? Or with you?" she asked huskily, looking at her invitingly spread legs after spending more than a minute intently staring at my hands on the steering wheel.

"Yes," I said. "Play with this. From this moment on, you are Annette Hargrove, the woman whose technical virginity I just took with a toy. Since we left the mansion, everything else, aside from insignificant details, has been the same."

This time, Kat adapted even faster than before. Almost immediately, she pouted and, in a disappointed moralizing voice, said, "Why did you do that? Why did you deliberately ruin our first time?"

I cut off her attempt to, at the same time, gain a very convenient leverage and shift the blame onto a competitor. "I'll explain later. For now, tell me the chronology of your sexual experience. At first briefly, then in detail."

Kat-Annette paused for a few seconds, then began inventing a surprisingly believable story. At least at the beginning; rather quickly got carried away by Annette's defamation as a glorified cocksucker. Not plausible, but from what I'd seen in the movie, still potentially possible.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

When we reached my apartment, I undressed, lay down on the bed, and started flipping through television channels.

After Kat returned from the bathroom wearing a French maid outfit and a blond wig, I spent some time enjoying the sight of her fit figure, remedying even very cheap props, and said, "Annette. Lift your skirt, show me entrance and very slowly pull the toy out."

As she obeyed, parting her lips and slowly stretching her vulva around the toy, I continued. "Since you are so much love suck cocks... once you take the ball out, every five minutes you'll mount my cock.

Just one fast push, then ten seconds of sitting still on me and counting.

After that, you should start giving me a slow, gentle blowjob. If I tell you 'stop,' you're free to just watch TV before the next cycle. Of course, you're forbidden from any sexual stimulation, and must warn me if you feel nearing orgasm.

Punishment for disobedience - your trip home. Is that clear?"

"Yes," she said in a shaky voice, recovering from the sharp spat out of the ball.

For the next 40 minutes, I, with genuine fascination, flipped through the TV channels, watching such historical relics as MTV, commercials of small local businesses, and parts of old TV series. At the same time, receiving inexperienced Kat's blowjobs.

Still, during about eight cycles, before the main event, allowing myself a few orgasms, and satisfied some of my curiosity by exploring her surprisingly athletic body.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

"Answer as Kathryn, then continue the game. How many people have you fucked, and with how many have you 'fooled around' with?" I asked.

"Th—ee a-n fi—fe," she mumbled through a mouthful.

On average, an American has around eleven sexual partners over a lifetime. So, while Kathryn indeed had an active start, she still was just an eighteen-year-old girl under the constant surveillance of her parents and acquaintances.

Therefore still at a vanilla stage.

Taking into account her egocentric nature — along with the feather teaser in the hand of her lover in the movie — at best, venturing into things like, "I'm ordering you to be more dominant and worship me... before spanking and pulling my hair!"

Not that she really needed much over such experiences.

When in the movie Kathryn Merteuil said that she loved sex, she was heavily understating it.

She loved not so much sex as being touched.

Her hair. Her collarbones. Her back. Her arms. Her hips and legs. Practically every inch of her was sensitive, and erogenous zones were oversensitive.

"That's enough. Stand beside the bed, spread your legs wide, and don't move," I said.

"Please... I can't wait any longer. I don't remember the last time I wanted something this much," she whined as she did exactly as instructed.

I looked her over.

After roughly forty minutes of edging, her entire body had flushed pink. Lubrication trickled down beneath her skirt and dampened her legs; while saliva had glistened her neck, already for so long that it had begun to irritate her skin.

"Tell me why your breasts are better than that slut Kathryn's," I said, looking into her brilliantly shining catlike green eyes.

"Isn't it obvious? Didn't you see how much my melons stretched my sweater in the movie? So full... so lush. Firm enough that I didn't even need a proper bra, showing my nipples to millions of people!" she excitedly began, long since slipping away from Annette's characteristics into a more comfortable blend of both personalities.

"Once or twice?" I asked.

"Once. At the end of the movie," she immediately answered.

'Never underestimate a woman defending her own child... AND scheming against her rival,' I thought, reflecting on one of the main reasons I'd chosen this whole 'sisterhood' scenario.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course!" she replied, sounding genuinely offended. "How could I possibly forget how many times my nipples were shown in American movie theaters?" Kat said as if under a trance. That was exactly what I wanted from her right now.

News at 11, during flirting, women often wanted men to keep pursuing them despite their playful refusals.

Yes, partly because of a subconscious desire to assess a man's testosterone levels, emotional control, and intelligence.

But also because every playful woman's refusal forces a man to slightly adjust his strategy, revealing a little more of his own thought patterns, and giving women more information about the potential father of her children. Very often, with powerful emotional and hormonal reinforcement from this.

Why do women love romantics so much? They don't love romantics per se; they love and get aroused by partners' situational and emotional variety, especially sincere ones.

Words, intonations, gestures, facial expressions, delays, chronology, and even temperature.

Because women's behavioral analysis and women's sexuality were intertwined, the oversaturation of Madison and Kat by behavioral and social information and its unpredictability was the cornerstone of my strategies about them.

Judging by Kat's trembling body, weak legs, slightly rocking pelvis, and sheen of sweat covering her skin, a strategy that, at least in her case, led to very strong hormonal reactions and sexual arousal.

I looked into Kat's brilliantly shining eyes — more watching inside than outside — and decided it was time.

"The bed. Lie on your stomach."

Her gaze instantly snapped into razor-sharp focus.

She practically jumped onto the mattress, lifted her rear, desperately rocked it from side to side, and begged, "Please! I can't stand it anymore! Fuck me! Fuck my defiled viginal cunt!"

I pulled off her skirt, exposing her beautifully rounded ass. Spreading her legs apart with my legs, I lined up my dick with the large cluster of white foam, and in one thrust, hilted in.

Kat let out a delighted squeal and began frantically bucking her wet hips. Moaning obscenities and pleas.

The first thrust was followed by a second, then a third, settling into a powerful, relentless rhythm that pounded both her insides and outsides.

Like every other part of her body, her soaked cunt was exemplary responsive. Eagerly welcoming me in and greedily clenching my shaft with every withdrawal. Neither too tight nor too loose.

After a few thrusts, her moans became inarticulate shouts and cries. And her body movements become increasingly more frantic.

After nearly an hour of orgasm denial, she didn't last long before beginning to convulsively milk my shaft.

Since I was already half spent, I had no trouble continuing to fuck her through climax, something that was clearly new to her.

Her screams intensified even more, enough that I started to worry about the neighbors.

Her earlier elevated pelvis pressed tightly into the bed. To maintain the angle, I also lowered myself over her body, pressing my head to her sweet-smelling hair.

According to her trashing, even since somewhat 10 seconds after the start of orgasm, still fucking her over it.

Out of curiosity, I slid my right arm beneath her, firmly squeezed her left breast, and pressed my thumb into her nipple.

That turned out to be way too much for her body.

Every muscle in her body jerked as though struck by electricity. Then, with a long, drawn-out moan, she suddenly went limp.

I froze as well, listening to her deep breathing, accompanied only by faint tremors and the occasional flutter of her insides.

Just in case I had witnessed a once-in-a-lifetime acting performance, I looked closely at her radiant face and carefully brushed a finger across her eyelid.

But no. She had genuinely passed out.

With complicated emotions, I withdrew my finger, relocated my body to the side, and started waiting, gently stroking her thigh.

'In hindsight, it was obvious.

She obviously has a very sensitive body. A sensitive body means oversaturation of erogenous zones by blood. Hence, excessive dilation of blood vessels and lowering of blood pressure.

In combination with mental exhaustion, over-worry from new stressors, and perhaps low sugar if she hadn't eaten before my arrival... yeah, fainting.'

Such faintings almost never last long. And soon Kat indeed stirred and, after a groan, sleepily and incredulously asked, "What? Did I... pass out?"

I relocated myself a little higher, hugged her with one hand, kissed her on the crown of the head, whispered, "Rest," and closed my eyes.