A Nasty Little Tidbit


"You are such a loudmouth," Mirage smirks, massaging her smart, smooth legs with sandalwood oil, raising up one perfect leg, and then the other, her black bathrobe clingy to her possessively.

Syndrome turns to look at her, turns from the three-way mirror that now showcases his backside, his broad shoulders and tight back, ridiculously small hips that don't even seem to be part of the same form, freckles scattered all over, clean, white. He's in black slacks only, his toes bare. "Oh, yeah, but you love it, you know you do, why would you stand behind me all the time, giggling into your damn espresso if you didn't love it?" he challenges, always up for an argument.

Yet, as always, she is complacent. "Mmhm, okay," is all she says, and slides back onto the bed, the watery mattress jiggling blissfully, lazily beneath her. She likes to have sex in this room because this room is the most important of all. Modern, silky, sophisticated.

"You don't even know how hot you are," Syndrome says casually, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Tell me about it."

"Ha ha, very humble of you," he grins, and turns back to the mirror, where he's working on his ever-vexing hair-do, even though it's nearly time to be asleep, at least that's what non-insomniacs would say.

"That isn't what I meant," she tells him crisply, and cracks her back. "I mean tell me about it. Not the expression. Just talk to me. Talk to me about us."

Syndrome makes a face. "Oh. So it's gonna be like that tonight?"

"What, would you rather it be all grunting and groaning?"

"No, but—"

"You talk everything else to death. Why not excite me with a--" Mirage flexes her shoulders, her perky breasts rising and then dropping," a nasty little tidbit."

Syndrome knows he's been defeated. "All right, I see your direction. I—I think—" he looks very inspired for a moment, and then looks totally furious. "I'm not going to make some happy, flowery poem!" he declares. "I would be goin' on nothin', that just doesn't fly with me!"

"Are you stupid? I don't want a poem. Honestly, Syndrome, don't make me use the Omni against you! We're always creative, so why not use your overly loud mouth and your affection for monologues for me?"

His mouth is twitching into a smile. "Low-self esteem lately?"

"Not at all," is her firm answer. "Convince me I'm hot."

"You have to inspire me more than that," he says cheekily.

Mirage sighs. "It always has to be a step further, doesn't it?"

"Wait, just hear me out!" he demands, becoming animated. "Let's say you're a very submissive Super who has wandered onto the Island unknowingly, and I'm waiting—"

"To ravish me before killing me?" Mirage looks bored. "Done it."

Syndrome pouts. "I know, but I liked how I got to use my zero-point to stabilize you—"

"Take advantage of my innocence, you mean. My god, I felt so sorry for my character!" Mirage declares. "She was such an asset to the civilian world and then Syndrome raped and killed her in five seconds—I don't think that's fair! You weren't being very nice that night, I remember, don't think I forgot!"

"I was in a mood. I felt destructive. I'm sorry," he shrugs casually.

"It's all right."

"Okay, okay. What about--- you're this unassuming millionaire's daughter, and I'm your stepbrother who has just moved into the mansion, and you're a daddy's girl who's never been sexually awakened—"

"Incest!" snorts Mirage. "You're in rare form tonight! Besides, I'm tired of being coy and virginal!"

"Aw, but I like when you get all sentimental and talk about how your parents will kill me if they find out!"

Mirage crosses her arms. "I'm not going to be submissive. I've been Little Miss Priss for too long, Syndrome, and I'm getting tired of it!"

"All right!" he snaps. "Have it your way!" He ponders for a moment, stroking his chin. "Got it!"

Mirage smiles, intrigued.

"Let's say I'm this sexy biology teacher, and you're a slutty student who—"

"Nope," Mirage retorts. "No, no and no. I'm not the student."

"Aw—"

Mirage suddenly perks up, and flips her white tresses back. "You're an eighth grade boy who always does his homework," she says quickly," and you don't know what sex is, and you come in after class to ask for help, and I'm your health teacher, and you need to learn the ropes, so you ask me, and I totally screw you up for life."

"Wow, this is sorta familiar," Syndrome chuckles.

"You're the student," Mirage affirms.

"Fine. I'm the student."


Syndrome is wincing because Mirage made him put on a white shirt and a tie. "I feel like Buddy," he whines, and she laughs mercilessly, wearing a dress of metal and black leather.

"Good, "she says. "Buddy, from what you've told me, had shame. I like shame."

"You devil-woman, you!" Syndrome cackles deliciously.

"Be quiet!" snaps Mirage, slapping him across the shoulder with a hard, wooden ruler. "Read chapter twenty-eight, and don't annoy me, or I'll hold you in for lunch!"

"Detention? Ooh, never been there before, I like this," Syndrome grins, but his face immediately goes stony at Mirage's furious, smoldering gaze.


"Any questions?" asks Mrs. Haffton, who, they've concluded, just got out of a very nasty divorce with a man who she tortured horribly. He fled the country to get away from her wrath.

Buddy looks up at her adoringly.

"Yes, Mr. Pine?"

"I—uh—I don't quite get the female anatomy." He looks pathetic, ashamed. "I mean…" He swallows hard. "It's so complicated…" He trails off. Syndrome whispers in a sing-song voice: "Mir-aage, I don't know if I can dumb myself down enough for this—"

"What was that?" she shouts. "Speak up, Mr. Pine, I can't understand you when you mutter." Her eyes darken and she whispers back: "How do you think it would be for me, playing a Virgin stepsister for God's sake!"

"Sorry, Mrs. Haffton, I guess—I guess I'm just not old enough to understand. I'll never have a girlfriend, I mean, I'm a nerd. I only understand computer language, I can't understand human wants or needs—" He stands up, he's running away with his role now. "I wish, I wish an experienced woman could help me!"

"Mr. Pine, if you wouldn't mind, could you please go over there and shut the door?"

Buddy looks at her wide-eyed. "You mean—"

"Do what I say, you little freak!" screams Miss Haffton, and whaps Buddy again with the ruler.

"Shit," Syndrome says. "That hurt!"

"Sorry."


Minutes later, Buddy's saying," Help me, I don't know, I'm not sure," and Miss Haffton shoves him up against the wall.

"I'm going to make you wish you'd never selected Health 101 for your elective," she spits in his face.

He laughs adoringly.

"You're going to respond to my every command," she states angrily. "You're going to start down, and work your way up."

Buddy willingly complies, getting on his knees and pushing her tight dress upward, the leather squeaking against his sweating fingers.

"Now make me forget Dave," commands Miss Haffton, arching her back against the wall.

Syndrome stops, his finger frozen in mid-air. "Wait—who is Dave?"

"My husband, you idiot!"

"Oh, okay. Dave. Sounds like a real keeper."

"Shut up."


"Miss Haffton was too mean," Syndrome complains.

Mirage is wiggling out of her bondage dress and sighing. "You have a tragic problem with female authority, and it's not her fault."

"But come on, that foreplay was pretty decent!"

"I guess," she sighs, "but honestly, you hardly made me tense up, you were too gentle!"

"Hey! You told me to be innocent! You told me I was sexually unprepared! He wouldn'tve just known how to grope her—it was his first time!"

"Yes, but we didn't even get past that—"

"You know what this means," Syndrome shrugs.

"Oh no. What?"

He crosses the room, and switches on the huge stereo system. A familiar beat to the both of them plays, a sultry rap starts and Syndrome begins to do the robot while sliding across the floor.

"You're stuck with me tonight," he tells her with a wink.

She sighs. "There are worse things," she says with a smile, and, only clad in her black lace bra and panties she proceeds to the middle of the room where they both get down with their bad selves.

In seconds, Syndrome's back down to only pants.

Mirage grinds up his leg and bites his ear affectionately. He runs his tongue up her cheek and then down her throat, and they collapse on the waterbed.

"Back, front, down or up?" Mirage asks.

"All of the above?" is Syndrome's answer.

"I think you just earned an A plus."