Acclaimed writer and lecturer on a wide range of sexual topics, Midori has a degree in Psychology from the University of California, Berkeley. She previously wrote an advice column for Men’s Health and has appeared on HBO and BBC, and has been featured in Vogue, Playboy, Der Spiegel, Cosmo and more. Multifaceted, she is a skilled photographer, artist in Japanese rope, presenting to art institutions such as Tanzquartier, Vienna and Das Arts in Amsterdam. She’s the author of bestselling nonfiction books “The Seductive Art of Japanese Bondage” and “Wild Side Sex” Learn more about her projects at https://www.PlanetMidori.com.
In her profession, she has honed her storytelling skills, using her voice and her imagination to excite her students and fans, transporting them to other worlds, and encouraging them to explore their wildest fantasies. In Master Han’s Daughter Midori’s own sharp-edged and haunting visions come to light.
Cyberpunk tends to bristle with pessimism for the human race, but the grim, dehumanizing future in these tales does not dim the passion of the characters, and only serves to sharpen the odd edges of their kinks. Corporate whores, underworld princes, jacked-in losers searching for the perfect high, corrupt government officials looking for that special bribe, they’re all here in NeoTokyo.
Table of Contents:
Master Han’s Daughter: Part One
Kitsune Gumi: A Dance With The Foxes
A Cat Named Miu
Your Documents, Please
Master Han’s Daughter: Part Two
About the author:
Hot excerpt under the cut!
From “Kitsune Gumi: A Dance With The Foxes”
They had all watched him stroll into their dirty little bar in a rough corner of the Meat District like some precious royal prince on a jaunty little foxhunt. Maybe that made the denizens of the bar his downtrodden but loyal and admiring subjects? Aya rolled her eyes and glanced over to Dex sitting alongside her in the booth. Dex just snorted in disgust and tossed back another shot of whisky. They returned to voraciously devouring each other’s tongues. Hands disappeared under the greasy table.
“I see that we’re being graced with the presence of Mr. Handsome tonight,” said Chin, absentmindedly coiling and uncoiling her steel mesh snake-whip around her gloved hand. Deep red nails from cut-off leatherclad fingers flashed in the smoke-filled half-darkness. The exiled Shaolin shifu, a Kung Fu master, shifted in bored restlessness. Her black titanium-weave chongsam fell away to show a glimpse of pale white legs scarred with angry red sword marks and Tong tattoos.
“He sure is pretty, though. I didn’t figure he’d look so sweet off-line,” said Shell, punctuating the comment with a low wolf whistle at the end, then flicking back her long platinum-bleached tresses to get a better look.
Kenji, the handsome prince in question, took a seat at the bar and chatted up the bartender, flashing his perfect smile. He seemed unaccompanied by the usual cronies, bodyguards or media crew, an unusual night out for this net darling of the moment. Sightings of what he wore, drank, ate, did, fucked, shot up, smoked, and uttered fed shows, blogs and games. The devout techno elite and fandom hackers could always take a ride on his neural net adventure hook up, whether realtime or delayed download. Broadcast depended on the fickle prince’s mood and the power of his sponsors’ almighty yen.
The black rubber and Kevlar body suit clung to his lean frame, accentuating the finely crafted and managed body. A long lion’s mane of multi-colored dreads, sporting wires and jacks of all sorts, trailed down his back, hiding the jack-ports along the base of his skull and upper spine. He turned his smooth-skinned, caramel-colored face to scan the seedy bar. His beauty was incongruous with his bad-boy, arrogant bastard reputation. Japanese eyes and African lips smiled perfectly on a delicately graceful face, vaguely reminiscent of the gods of Syria or Egypt.
The five foxes leaned back in their booth and watched the prince prowl in their neck of the ’hood.
Her cold blue eye obliterated by the slow-rising white smoke of her Cuban cigar, Lady Blue piped in between smooth puffs “Yeah, Shell, he sure is your type. You want him tonight?” Lady Blue, the buxom blueblood with one blue eye, was the raunch-talking renegade daughter to one of the richest and most powerful businessman in Japan. She and her old man never much got along. He didn’t much appreciate walking into his zaibatsu boardroom with biz partners for a big meeting to find the place littered with the bodies and booze from one of her massive orgies. Then there was the time that he tried to keep her from driving anywhere, so she blew up his car with a load of plastique.
Shell’s black eyes narrowed into wicked little slits. “Sure, Lady Blue, how’s about that one for tonight’s ‘featured guest?’”
Kenji had moved down to a table and leaned over a pretty little junkie who was obviously a-twitter with the meaningless attention. He let her fondle his built-up pecs.
“So you think he’s going live tonight, data bagging or just solo and slummin’?” asked Aya. “I don’t mind having him as our little ‘guest du jour’ but I have no desire for any of us to get logged onto his shows and getting our IDs blown around the net.” Aya was always careful about info security of her sister Foxes.
Shell slipped her visorcam on and clicked away in mid-air with chip-imbedded black-lacquered nails. “Aya, he’s not Live now. He may be data-bagging for later air time, but you know, babe, I can jam him as quick as you can cut throat.” Officially Shell was a dead woman. After so many tech convictions and consequent citizenship freezes, Shell simply let her self die of a well-documented suicide on the net and disappeared into ShinEdo. It made it easier for her to do what she did best. Hack for fun and profit. She was the tightest security and best access to info that the Foxes could ever imagine. In turn, the other Foxes took care of her, because she wasn’t always so good at making her way around actual people in a non-virtual city. People didn’t respond like programs and weren’t so easily hacked.
“OK, it’s done,” said Shell, clicking out of her visorcam. “I’ve located his central unit. He’s now fully rebroadcasting his trollopping day in his crib from a couple weeks back. I’ve also located his wheels, parked down the street. The security, recorders and GPS there are scrambled, too. So they’re reading him somewhere outside Nagoya.”
Dex grinned and waved down the half-metallized gendermorph waitron and ordered a round of drinks for her gang-mates. Dirty glasses sloshed onto the table with murky brown liquids in them, and they each raised their glasses in their ritual toast before a Hunt.
“To a fine piece of ass!”
“To our pleasures!”
“To the Hunt!”
“To my sister Foxes!”
Bored with toying with the femme junkie, Kenji glanced toward the burst of hearty female laughter. Unfortunately for him, all he could see was the high back of the old vinyl-covered booth.
Dex checked for her piece in the belly belt holster, gave Aya a quick mauling and slipped out of the booth and disappeared though the back door, unseen by Kenji. Sauntering past the huddled forms of homeless dregs, she soon found Kenji’s wheels parked between a juice joint and an illegal organ bank fronting as a fish shop. The boy had taste for serious retro Euro trash. A gleaming black, fully armored Benz McLaren hid in this ghetto as inconspicuously as a nun in a whorehouse. Dex didn’t bother to scan the streets for witnesses nor the wheels for offensive security. Shell had already turned the alarms off and Dex trusted Shell’s skills for that. Dex didn’t give a damn about witnesses anyway. This was their street and no one would mind her leaving the car accessible for the scavengers and thieves.
The silencer barely muffled Dex’s hand cannon as she pumped round after round of hollow points loaded with fire-gel into the armor-plated tires. Even battle-tech wheels eventually collapsed against a close range assault with a predatory purpose. Dex turned on her heel and coolly strolled away, whistling a cheesy pop tune.
Aya and Chin stuck around the bar and started to give Kenji the mating eyes, sending him cheap drinks and holding his interest just a bit longer. Dex, done with her deed, cruised back into the bar, taking a seat alone in the far corner. At that cue Shell and Lady Blue strolled out of the bar, arm in arm like they didn’t even know the other femmes.
“See you later, hot stuff!” Aya, much to Kenji’s unaccustomed disappointment, blew him a kiss, grabbed her helmet and walked out. Chin shrugged, winked at him and followed Aya out the door. He didn’t hear them laughing just outside the door.
Kenji downed the Kirin, dusted off his ego and paid up at the bar. When he turned the corner toward his car, he gasped and screamed like a pimp-slapped bitch. He wasn’t prepared to find his armored baby cannibalized and made into a hollowed-out bonfire of molten rubber and sparking metal, the gull wings splayed out like a slaughtered bird. He tried to call his sponsors and bodyguards but none of his comm devices worked. He couldn’t even bring up his eye cam to record the smoking mess. It pissed him off even more that he was losing the media op of his own juicy crime scene.
Loud rumbling filled the air and two bikes broke through the wall of black smoke, blinding him with their headlights. He froze for a moment, remembering that he was out of his element, in gang territory. From a crackling speaker of the red Gixxer 1500cc he heard a femme with a heavy Hong Kong accent: “Hey UpTown, got your self some trouble, huh?”
The other rider dismounted her Honda CBR, took off the mirror-visored helmet and shook out her waist-length black hair. Aya smiled sweetly as only a pampered yakuza princess could. “Hey, you’re the one from the bar. Looks like you could use a lift. Hop on.”
Relieved, Kenji hopped on the back of Aya’s steed. Not so secretly he hoped that they might make an adventurous detour to wrap up their earlier cruising and flirting.
He had no idea of the adventure awaiting him…
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Enter a futuristic Tokyo, where sex and desire are as sharp as a knife blade. In a sexual cyberpunk world, love and cruelty make a strange, sadomasochistic mix in these short stories by internationally known sexuality educator Midori.